Thanksgiven

     If I weren't laying in my bed right now, with the lights out and getting ready to go to bed, I would be able to see my breath.  As you might not be aware (as I was not), almost no homes in Fez have central heating.  As you might not be aware (although I was), it does actually get cold here in the winter, and my computer claims it's a tropical 48 degrees Fahrenheit.  Yeah, right.

     But in the spirit of Thankgiving, I'm taking comfort in knowing that I have two of the thickest blankets man has ever made, that my host family actually has a house to speak of, and that my house in the States has heating.  Those three things alone are more than some people in this world can say.

     That's not all there is to be thankful for.  

     For the past two months I've been trying to fulfill all of the requirements for getting a carte de sejour (residency card), so that I can stay here in Morocco past my 90-day visitor visa.  Among the things necessary are $2000 in a Moroccan bank, bank statements that attest to that amount, statements from my school declaring how long I will be studying here, notarized and non-notarized copies of my passport and the page with my date-of-entry stamp, notarized copies of a sheet providing my address of residence, 9 smaller-than-passport-sized photos (which are conveniently sold in sets of 8), and three copies of a basic personal information form.  

     No one gets their carte de sejour in fewer than three trips to the local police station, which is where you have to submit this stuff.  And when I say that there is a visa bureau in this police station, please don't assume it's actually a bureau of any sort.  It's a guy behind a desk (who is quite grumpy), and behind him is an 8'' x 11'' sign that looks like it was laminated back in the 1970s, and the last time it was cleaned was before Windex was invented.  So this is where I'm supposed to become official here.

     Two-month-long story short, I made 5 trips, needed more copies of more things ALIF didn't tell me about, and was told I could pick up the receipt for it on none other than November 27, otherwise known as my birthday and Thanksgiving.  I'm not superstitious, but when you go through as much as I did to get this residency card, you don't want to test your luck by writing a blog and saying you're getting your residency card until you do. 

     I did get it, and as they say here:  al-hamdu lil'lah (praise be to God).  

     

     

Mysterious brown powder

     When I talk about Morocco being a little boring at times, I never mean that it has managed to lose its unexpectedness.  Of course, the little red taxis zipping around town are now a normality, and referring to yogurt as Danoon (instead of the brandname Dannon) is nothing new.

     But you can't always keep your guard up against crazy things happening.  Yesterday I was sitting on the couch, half-spaced-out after eating two dinners (yeah, that happens sometimes).  We were at the sister's house, there was soccer on TV, and I was almost ready to fall asleep.

     In usual fashion, somewhat large and older Moroccan women in the extended family shouted out a conversation around the table in the living room, and I was in the middle of the ruckus, sitting rather obliviously to what they were talking about.  There is never an "inside voice."  They are either shouting at each other, or almost completely quiet.  I think the volume is part of the accent.

     Anyway, the conversation got quiet and I got the feeling someone was looking at me.  I glanced to my left and not only is there a large Moroccan woman, wrapped from almost head to toe in a light shade of blue cloth, glaring at me, but she is also holding a lightly gripped fist out to me, almost as if she wants to do the Obama fist bump. 

     Surprised as I was to see this, I still managed to glance down at her hand to see why she was holding it out.  I had trouble seeing what it was she wanted to show me on her hand--at first it looked like a small brown moth or a leaf. 

     But then as I got a closer look, I saw it was a very tiny pile of brown powder, almost like the chocolate powder used to make chocolate milk.  And then she slightly flicked her hand up as if I should smell it, so I could figure out what it was.

     Now this is where, in normal human interaction, I would usually say something.  Maybe a "what the hell are you doing?" or even a simple, "what is that?" would suffice.  But no.  Because no matter how prepared you are for a new culture, why would you expect to be put into this situation?  Every word you've learned in class flees you.

     And now not only are you in this awkward position, but you can't say anything about it.  So what do you do?  Well, there's really only one thing to do.  I leaned over and smelled the powder.

     I couldn't smell anything.  But I'd bought myself a couple seconds, and managed to cobble together enough Arabic words to ask what it was.  Then these women just giggled at me, looked at each other, and then the one to my left lifted her hand to her nose, and snorted half of this powder into each nostril.

     And if I'd thought I was at a loss for words before, then I really had nothing.  How do you deal with something like this?  Did this woman just snort chocolate cocaine?  Did I just honestly watch a 60-year-old woman do a line right there in the living room?  Moreover, did she just proposition me to do the same?  And, of course, they look at you to see your reaction afterward.  If I couldn't tell them in Arabic I thought they were crazy, I'm not sure I was able to keep the look off my face. 

Go Vote

     There is an election tomorrow, and I've already cast my ballot by mail.  If you haven't, then you should go vote tomorrow.  

     And speaking of the election, if there has been one topic I've been actually able to follow on Al-Jazeera with any sort of success, it has been the election.  Baby steps.

     Anyway, go vote. 

     And go Obama.

Cold, rainy days

     Generally speaking, the past few weeks since my trip to the Sahara have been pretty bland.

     Get up in the morning.  Go to class. Use the internet.  Go to class again.  Hang out at the ALIF Villa.  Go home to the family's house.  Eat dinner.  Do homework.  Go to bed.  Repeat.

     Our second six-week block of classes just started last week.  The last block ended really well and I've made pretty big strides with the Arabic, but not nearly as much as I'd like to know.  That's what this six-weeks is for.  During the break between the two, I studied quite a bit and have gotten off to a pretty good start.  One of our teachers last quarter is teaching us once again, and he was somewhat impressed with how much I'd practiced in the five-day break.  

     Even so, the weather has gotten cold and rainy here, so going to the medina can be a wet, miserable experience.  I've been staying in Ville Nouvelle, trying to find out where I can buy packs of regular athletic socks, since I seem to have a less than sufficient number of them, considering how long it can take to do laundry.  From most of the stores in Ville Nouvelle, one would think people only wore dress socks, but there is a rumor that regular socks can be found in the medina.  

     This routine is accentuated by some of the broader difficulties a couple of us are having.  We're trying to apply for residency cards (required for anyone staying longer than 90 days), and there are quite a few administrative obstacles to overcome.  We also have a lot of classwork, and between that, the weather, and some peoples' living arrangements (not mine), it can be difficult to break out and feel like you're really experiencing Moroccan culture.  

     I have a hunch, though, that a hint of the boredom I'm feeling with Moroccan culture is not so much because I'm not experiencing it, but more because I'm getting used to experiencing it.  Meals will occasionally catch me off guard, but fewer and fewer things seem foreign, and really only a complicated Moroccan dialect of Arabic stands between me and really getting to know this place for sure.  And that is just going to take time and patience.

Pant Shopping

     So a couple weeks ago I decided that I didn't have enough pants here in Morocco.  After a couple good wearings you feel like they should probably be washed, but you know that laundry can take so long that you decide to wear them twice as many times as that. 

     So yesterday rolled around and, to my extreme surprise, Ahmed actually followed through with doing something on schedule.  We went shopping for jeans, and he took me to some neighborhood in Fez I've never been to before, and he found a shop that sold "medium quality" jeans, and he told me they'd be 250 dh tops ($30), which was pretty okay because I knew they'd be Levis and I'd probably be happy with them.

     So we get there and this place is tiny, like all shops in Fez.  So tiny, in fact, that when I went to try on jeans, I found there was no dressing room.  Instead, the store owner hauls out this bi-fold wooden curtain behind which you undress and try things on.  They fit, and life was good.

     So then Ahmed starts bargaining with the guy, and and the store owner starts off with a price of 210 dh--better than I'd expected.  But Ahmed has a little surprise in store, because a few days ago he'd bought jeans from this guy, but this guy didn't remember who he was.  So Ahmed busts out with the info that these jeans actually sell for 160 dh ($20).  The guy realizes who he is, and all of a sudden, I've just paid $40 for two pairs of jeans.  Sweet deal.

     So this morning when I go to put a pair of them on, I have trouble buttoning them up.  That's because in Morocco, somehow, we sell Levi jeans whose button holes haven't been cut through yet.  They've got the stitches in so you know where the holes are supposed to be, but you have to cut them through yourself.

     Just more of the typical services offered by Morocco's House of Random, Unexpectable Surprises. 

The Desert, Epilogue

     In order to add a sense of humanity to the past few blog posts, and to keep the people contained within them from sounding like more than characters in a dramatized story, I thought I'd update the blog with just a few words about how things have turned out.

     First off, Deborah seems to be doing fine.  No one that I know of has seen the letter that supposedly exists, but this was the third seizure she has apparently had.  She missed class on Monday, I think, but has been back at class since.  She was pretty tired for a couple days, but seems to be doing better.  I think it would be interesting to find out how this has all impacted her relationship with Martina, but that's between them.  

     For the rest of us, I think there is a consensus that it was a trip in which everything went wrong at almost all the right times.  Only as many bad things happened could happen, and it still be possible for us to have a great time.  For me, I feel no further need to visit a desert or ride a camel--although I do recommend visiting the desert at least once.  It is beautiful.  After that, it's just a bunch of sand to me. 

The Desert, Part 5: An anxious tension

     If Deborah's seizure seemed to last an eternity, the half-hour spent afterwards felt almost just as long.  A hospital could be found in a nearby town along our route, but sharp curves on steep cliffs slowed our travel.  Once the decision was made to go there, few people spoke but in hushed voices, in anxious tension that another seizure might occur. 

     Still Deborah and Martina were obstinate in that we shouldn't visit a doctor.  Deborah's parents were called and they confirmed their daughter's assertion that a doctor not be seen, and that she certainly not be treated by one.  Around the bus, quiet conversations persisted about whether it was the right thing to do.

     Her parents said we shouldn't go, and we should respect that, some said.

     Taking only her vital signs couldn't her hurt, other said.

     Maybe the doctor would find something worse than we knew, and could do something about it, still others said.

     Along the way, Deborah requested that we stop so she could use the bathroom.   All we could find was a should on the side of the road with a big gravel mound separating the road from an open field.  It was all we could find and it had to do.  Later, an abandoned gas station would have to fulfill the same purpose.

     The hospital was a small building off the main road in a fairly uninteresting town, but the doctor was waiting outside and approached the vehicle as we arrived.  He was immediately ushered to away to a safe distance by someone from our group, but from the back I couldn't tell how much or even if he got close enough to take vitals.  When I spoke to him myself after about 20 minutes, he told me her situation was serious and he didn't seem altogether pleased with the lack of contact he'd been allowed to have.  

     We left without much resolution to either the cause of Deborah's seizure, her current condition, or the prospect of an impending attack.  But we left anyway--with at least the consolation that she had refused treatment--and started what we hoped would only be a 4 hour trek back to Fez.  

     As planned, we stopped briefly for lunch along the way and continued home.  In some of the best luck we'd had that weekend, the rain had stopped and roads were dry, leaving only the terrain and distance as obstacles to our arrival.  We finally rounded a corner on a fairly steep cliff and saw the lights in Fez.  

     We slugged off the bus--tired, but relieved--some of us joking, many of us complaining, but all of us with a deeper recognition not only of the dangers present in the travel itself, but also of the fragility of good circumstances.  Consciousness of that fragility is something that wore off, at least for me, a couple weeks after my arrival in Fez.

     After setting a few bags down Sunday evening, a friend and I took a short walk to McDonalds--if for nothing else than to restore a little normalcy to an otherwise extraordinary weekend.