| Haha |
| On my way home today I saw a woman wearing, straight up, MC Hammer pants. It was a tourist, most likely French. The pants were grey...sagging below here knees in the middle and generally horific. I wish I had taken a picture...but I was too busy laughing. Hehehe |
||
|
||
|
| A place of my very own... |
After 17 nights in the Hotel Kenza I was glad to be told the school had an apartment for me! Finally! It had certainly been a lot of confusion and stress leading up this point. I'd been shown a few places...sometimes just the outside of buildings, not actual apartments, which I found strange, but just had to deal with. One apartment I'd seen, near the lovely Marjorelle Gardens was a complete cave: dark, worn-out, ill-equipped and easy to break into from outside. Not good. One place I saw was LOVELY...absolutely gorgeous, new construction, well furnished, sunny....and a 30 minute walk from the bus to school in the morning. Ugh. so close... The apartment I ended up getting was one I'd only seen from the outside. After more than two weeks in the hotel I went against my real estate instincts and said, "Yes, it seems like a nice new building. I'm sure it will be great." -ie...please, please, please get me out of the hotel!! They also told me the rent, which was higher than the specified price range for school apartments, and I decided that it was time to have faith and move ahead. I was taken into the apartment after the lease was signed and the day before I could move in. It's spacious, with a huge living room, and modern. It's a one-bedroom with kitchen, bath and terrace. There's a full sized fridge, which is not very common here. I've also got a washing machine (installed yesterday, about a week after moving in.) Unfortunately, whoever furnished it does not share my sense of agreeable color palette. The apartment walls are all peach tadelak, a slick Moroccan plaster style which is usually carved with bands geometric or floral patterns. The couch...which forms a huge U around the 3 walls of the living room, is maroon and beige...kind of zebra print. Eek! Add a pink and cream carpet and a gold (shiny) and maroon table cloth and we've stepped into my version of color hell. Perhaps a picture of my place in New York will better illustrate my point. I like bold saturated colors.  So...this living room, in Marrakech, is quite different. (for a lot of reasons.)  Don't get me wrong...its great to have my own apartment. Especially because its new construction with proper plumbing and windows/doors, etc. This is purely a commentary on color. I'm trying to figure out the most economic way to cover the couch in a more agreeable fabric. But with seating for about 20...its not going to be cheap any which way I figure it. But...the kitchen makes me pretty happy. Nicely equipped and far more modern than most, i.e. I have a proper stove and not a sort of glorified camp burner on the counter. And an oven!! This is almost unheard of!  There still a few glitches being worked through, but progress is being made. I've had a curtain rod hung in the bath, which actually required a handyman with a drill because Morocco doesn't have expandable ones like the States. Also, they've installed a bar in my closet. This is great considering I've got a ton of closet space (three doors across), but didn't have a rod to hang clothes or a single shelf. I'm still trying to figure out the shelf. I'm still waiting on light fixtures for the kitchen and bath, which now just have bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Might take myself to the souk to look for something cool...then try to convince the school to pay for it. One weird, comical thing about the apartment. They installed the washer on Friday, as I previously mentioned. They put it in the bathroom. To do so they took out the bidet. This had led to two weird things. One: The washer is almost on top of the toilet. Two: They put the removed (new) bidet on my terrace and I think they want me to leave it there (or they would have to pay to replace it.) So...I'm feeling a little white trash with a bidet sitting on my terrace. I was thinking of turning it into a comical planter...but I don't think the school would be happy. I'm open to more suggestions...anyone? |
||
|
||
|
| It wasn't supposed to happen but... |
| ...I met someone. After the rather dramatic crash and burn of my last relationship, with a Moroccan, I had difficulty deciding if I was going to renege on the job offer here in Marrakech. August was a rough month. I didn't tell the story to everyone and I'll only sum-up here: My three year relationship and engagement to Z ended in a strange series of events. Namely: seeing each other in Morocco, breaking up and him getting married...all in less than a month's time. It was...stressful. But, amazingly, I got some much needed perspective and bounced back in record time. Still, those closest to me insisted that, if I was to take the job and go to Marrakech, I should NOT get involved with another Moroccan man. I agreed...half-heartedly. There's a ridiculous amount of male attention here, and no shortage of cute guys, and I figured if I was living here dates would most likely take place. Dates yes...I had no intention of a relationship. Then I get here and everything is messed up. Living in a hotel for over two weeks forced me to have all my meals out. During Ramadan this meant after 8pm, when there are no longer women in the cafes...never mind solo women. But I had little choice in the matter and had to eat. There's a cafe by the hotel that's cheap, tasty and pleasant. I ended up coming back repeatedly to Cafe Gomassine for these reasons. Then, one night, a guy who qualifies as tall, dark and handsome struck up a conversation with me. He apparently had been trying for days. He assumed I'd speak French as most tourists here do, but was undeterred by the fact that I didn't...and we didn't truly share a common language. He was sweet and I was patient with the conversation that unfolded in English, French, Italian, Spanish and Arabic. Five languages all mixed together and somehow we understood each other pretty much perfectly. We talked about living alone in a foreign country, the stars in the desert night sky, the friendliness (or lack thereof) of camels, the fact that terrorists don't make it to heaven no matter the intention or delusion and the prettiest places Morocco has to offer. The next time I went to the cafe he was there. He came to my table and gave me a small wooden box from Essouira with a gorgeous Berber style red beaded necklace, complete with a silver star, because he saw I liked stars. It was completely endearing. The next time I was in the cafe he made me close my eyes and but a tiger's eye bracelet, again with silver stars, on my wrist. I conceded, at this point, to go on a date with him...his sweetness and thoughtful presents had won me over. The date was fantastic, just a really wonderful night. He picked me up at my hotel in an old white Renault and took me for dinner near Djemma al Fna. We listened to story-tellers and musicians in the square and chatted. It was simple, but perfect. Since then we've be seeing each other on a regular basis. I've had iftar with his family a few times and they are lovely. We have an excellent time each time we're together and it's all a bit of a mystery to me how any of this is possible. The language barrier is, incredibly, not really an obstacle. We understand each other easily, with a strange mixed language vocabulary. Occasionally things need to be rehashed to translate properly. My French comprehension is shooting upwards and my Darija is coming along as well. He's bought an English book and studies a little everyday. It may sound strange, but I even think the language complication is a good thing. It forces us to listen carefully to what the other is saying...a simple but not entirely common thing. We chose our words carefully and put thought into every sentence. Thus...we have not had even the smallest of disagreements or arguments. We also laugh a lot. So...there it is. I've admitted it. Despite the threats from people at home to come smack some sense into me if I get involved with a Moroccan...I've gone and done just that. Oops. Now...before you go sending me hostile comments or saying I've lost it...just know that he's a nice guy who treats me impeccably. Cute too... Fahd on a quick break during a long drive, near Agadir.  |
||
|
||
|
| The roads of Marrakech |
| I am always shocked by the chaotic movement of people in Marrakech. They are everywhere on mopeds and bikes, on foot, in cars, in donkey and mule drawn carts, in horse-drawn carriages, on buses. But it is never more staggering than the hour before Iftar (the meal that breaks the fast) during Ramadan when the streets are abuzz in every possible criss-crossing direction, like a chaotic ant colony, as people rush to buy last minute items or fly home eager to break the fast. (Subsequently, when the cannon fires, signaling the day's fast over the streets are as barren as a empty movie set. It's unreal.) Traffic in Marrakech swirls, it turns, shuffles and merges in some incomprehensible dance, forever weaving in a dangerous and amazing fashion. Centimeters are considered adequate passing space. U-turns across four lanes of busy traffic are standard practice. Its a mind-boggling ballet which takes some time to become accustomed to...and then there are still moments that warrant a sharp intake of breath. Taxis in particular, like taxis everywhere to a certain extent, seem to defy what is possible. They speed down incredibly badly paved streets nearly taking flight on the potholes, they make screeching turns, they cut off other cars and stop on a dime. Taxi rides in Marrakech are a leap of faith. Moped drivers, too, are daredevils. They are fearless. They seem always to be a mere hairsbreadth from much larger, sturdier vehicles, often talking on mobile phones, listening to headphones or holding hands with bicycle riders, in effect towing them. Making the whole seething throng of traffic even more interesting is the true love of horn use here. Horns are used for warning, hellos, to get attention of cars and pedestrians and sometimes, it seems, just for fun. Instead of cat calls, there are horn honks....plenty of them. Someone recently said to me the true definition of a nano-second is the time it takes a Moroccan to honk when the light turns green. It has been suggested to me that I endeavor to drive here, rent or buy a car, for short and long trips. I vehemently protest this idea and know it will never happen. Its taken three years of visits to become a comfortable passenger. It would probably take ten more to consider getting behind the wheel. Typical Marrakech traffic. I love the mule. I love that the bus is pink!  Finally figured it out!!! Marrakech traffic. This was taken on a Tuesday night around 11:30pm. It's way crazier during the day time. |
||
|
||
|
| So sweet... |
| In the cyber cafe a little boy, of about seven, takes the computer next to me and excitedly pokes me in the arm, firing off rapid Darija and drawing my attention to a flash game website he's opened. I look at the screen, mime some excitement and go back to my email. Every time he feels my attention waning the little boy pokes me again and shows me a new game, pointing excitedly and babbling on and on in Arabic. A waiter laughs and sits next to him, explaining, "The lady doesn't understand Arabic" (a sentence I'm happy to find I DO understand.) The boy prattles on, too excited to care. The waiter removes the little guy's headphones and explains again that I don't speak Arabic. With this, the little boy turns to me, smiles...and chatters at me again. The waiter and I both laugh and let him continue. A few minutes later a man comes to get the boy, telling him, "Enough, time to go." (I understand this sentence too...my studying is paying off!) The boy protests a bit but conceeds, stopping to locate his flip flop which has gone awol from his foot. The man turns to me and fires off rapid French and this time I can explain for myself that I don't speak the language. In English he says, "I am his father, but I don't know these machines." He feins typing. I understand his amazement: his young son is a little computer wiz. Just as they reach the door and are about to leave the little boy runs back, smiles and plants a big lip-smaking kiss on my check and, with it, gives me a smile that lasts the rest of the day. Mint tea in a personal size pot.  |
||
|
||
|
| Simple Night Out |
| Drinks out with the boys, Ryan, Sean and Mouad, means back to the familiar Chesterfield Pub, where I know the bouncer and bartender's names (from watching Euro 2008.) There's not exactly a myriad of options for somewhat reasonably priced drinks in Marrakech... Ryan and Mouad come get me and the Kenza and we head out. We have some difficulty finding Sean's place and decide to call him. He comes down to the street to claim us then gives us a fast tour of the apartment where he is currently crashing with Jason. (He's been promised his own place, as per his contract, but it's been slow to happen.) On the way out we see one of the most distressing things of my lifetime: a cat in a dumpster eatting another cat! Sean spots it and calls our attention to it, almost accidentally because of his shock. I wonder how the dead cat got there, hung over the edge of the dumpster. I try to convince myself I didn't really see it. Mouad proclaims it a Moroccan chicken, of the hairy variety, but my stomach heaves and my head swims with the lingering image. Ryan is simillarly struck. At the bar we order a round. The waiter brings our glasses to the table and spots Mouad. He asks me if Moad is Moroccan and I answer, knee-jerk, in the affirmative. The waiter denies Mouad his drink, this being Ramadan. I feel bad for ratting Mouad out as a national and re-christen him Nico from Italy for the next bar. We head to Kechmara but it's closed and eventually wander to Cafe Post, a swanky place with excellent wine. Moad continues his Darija lessons with me, on request, teaching me candle (shemaa), spoon (me'lka') and plate (tabsel). It takes me days to remember spoon though... The boys walk me back to the hotel, home away from home, and we chat on the deserted streets. When we make it to the Kenza I wait for the guys to catch a taxi and head inside to have a chat with the hotel's nightstaff (my new friends) and head to bed. Nightlife here is far different then New York, but I'm digging it. Most nights mean coffee, sometimes the occassional drink (though it usually comes at a price.) I did say before leaving that I invisioned myself in cafes drinking coffee (cafe creme) and writing. So far...true, true. Full moon night from a terrace cafe near Djemma al Fna  |
||
|
||
|
| Welcome to Crazy Town |
| Doors and windows are escape routes and are thus kept locked. Time is compartmentalized into manageable segments, it makes the day pass. The wailing, to a certain extent, must be ignored because it comes from all sides. Everything has its designated place, but can rarely be found there. One must watch their step, as there are many obstacles. It is wise to wash your hands frequently. Its suggested you have extra clothes handy, in case of accidents. General rules of decorum apply but are no where evident. Running is not allowed, nor are hitting, pushing or kicking. Everyone is expected to share. Welcome to crazy town! It bears a striking resemblence to an asylum. Welcome to kindergarten one (KG1), more aptly Pre-K. This is a land of unsocialized three year olds, running riot in a wonderland of toys. To further complicate things, they do not speak the same language as their teacher. Okay...its only day two and bound to improve but I can't help thinking my classroom is a study in entropy. Twenty-seven three year olds is more than a handful, especially because most don't understand a word I'm saying, nor I them. If it weren't for my assistants, Malika and Tamou, I would have hopped on a plane home already. I couldn't ask for a cuter bunch of kids though. They have the striking beauty of cultural amalgamation, all long-lashed doe eyes, gorgeous skin tones and perfect lips. They are as adorable as could be imagined. Still, days one and two had their hiccups. There were incidents...mainly one little boy's penchant for biting and anothers repeated attempts to leave the classroom, via the window! So far the bar is set low, simply trying to get the kids to sit...and not hit each other, which they do...rather a lot. But we had far fewer criers on day two and lots more smiles. I've somehow learned almost all their names, even though they are generally streaking by in a blur of color. Their personalities are also becoming evident: the helpers, the gigglers, the smartie-pants, as well as the pushy, the stubborn and the spoiled. But every child has their moments, good and bad, and they are quickly endearing themselves to me. So maybe crazy town won't be so crazy after all. Maybe it will settle down a bit..................though never completely, I'm sure. My class, mugshots. (There are a few students missing.)  |
||
|
||
|
| And so on... |
| I've spent the week getting to know my assistants and setting up the classroom, having tons of meetings and meeting the staff. There are quite a few more faculty then I would have thought so its been a barrage of names. I'm having a hard time keeping track. My assistants, Tammou and Matika, are lovely...though they been at the school long enough to be set in their ways. They seemed distressed to find out I wanted the kids to know the alphabet by the end of the year....it seems my job is babysitting not teaching. Hmmm...are you getting my snarky tone here? I wouldn't be surprised. I've had one hell of a week and it seems to keep getting worse. First I was pained to discover my class just plays....all day! They do not learn the alphabet. They do not learn how to write their names. The only thing they do is flashcards occasionally. Otherwise it's garden time, play time, snack time, nap, lunch time, art, play, play, play. I spoke to the elementary headmistress about revamping this and she seemed to think it was a good idea...though I'm sure she thought it was possible. We'll see.... Next, I've been trying desperately to get news on my apartment. Monday I was told "we're looking at a place," Tuesday, "we found a place bu have to fix it up," Wednesday, "We've almost signed a lease." Thankfully Annabella suggested I go look at the place because I was concerned when it was mentioned off-handedly that it was on the ground floor. The apartment....was awful! You opened the door and you faced a wall about 4 steps down. Strange. The rooms were small, the bathroom had only a "shower area" no proper shower or bath tub (so the whole place would be soaked when you showered). The kitchen...had no stove or fridge and while I suppose they were going to put them in, it would have barely left room to turn around. There were no proper windows to open, just doors (which had latches to open them from the outside) leading to a balcony that could easily be accessed from the street. To remedy this there were thick wood shutters that could be cranked down...effectively blocking all light. So....shutters open, thieves, shutters closed, darkness. No way in hell! I've seen other teachers apartments. This one could have fit in their living room...never mind their bedrooms, offices, kitchens, baths, foyers and halls. Their apartments are light and bright, with proper bath fixtures and good kitchens. There is simply no way I was living in the apartment I saw today. Which is what I told the school....effectively stranding myself at the lovely Hotel Kenza indefinitely. This is further complicated by the arrival of Ramadan. Of course, I don't have a kitchen in my hotel room. The school doesn't provide any food, so I have to bring lunch. There's a few pastries in the hotel dining room for breakfast. Lunch I get whatever I can that seems like it will last until the next day. But dinner...well...nothing much is really open until the last call to prayer. I've got to wait till 7 or 8 to eat dinner, which isn't that bad I suppose, just a hassle. Plus the cost of all these dinners out. Just another annoyance... Finally...there's my contract. It took me until today to actually get one from the school! I've been hunting down the office people trying at any oppurtunity to get it from them. I finally parked myself in a chair and said I'd wait. I got the contract and discovered my pay is all sorts of unexpected. It seems the school gives bonuses twice a year....bonuses that are part of my agreed salary. When those are removed from the regular pay, and the remainder is taxed...it's not pretty. I'll be making a paltry sum...not enough to rent a studio in East New York. I am ALL SORTS OF FRUSTRATED right now! I can't believe I packed up my life in three weeks to get here only to be left stranded on arrival. Okay. So there you have it. Grutzing out of my system....I hope. I really do hope. I hope things will improve in the next few days. I hope I have a place to live soon. I hope I have a kitchen. I hope I can be in a better mood. I hope I can be happy here. I hope I made the right decision... Morocco still blows my mind.... |
||
|
||
|
| Marrakech how I've missed you... |
| 31/8/08 -Marrakech, Morocco Another bumpy start. Why fly someone in from another country to teach children and not prepare for their arrival? My two bosses Annabella and Mark picked me up at the airport and told me I'd be staying in a hotel. This was on top of NONE of my bags arriving. I tried to stay calm and friendly, despite being quite grumpy, and asked when I'd be moving. "Monday," Annabella said. "And where is my apartment?" I inquired. "Maybe near Barbara's (my friend who works at the school.) Maybe on the same road." "Oh, I like it there, its quiet. How close to Barbara?" "Maybe in the same complex," Annabella said. The underlying fact becoming glaringly clear: she has no idea where my apartment is! This is alarming because I arrived on Saturday and the school starts Monday. "How...I mean...what am I supposed to do with my luggage, should it actually arrive, when I go to school?" "We'll figure it out," Annabella assured me. I'm not really a we'll figure it out kind of person in the best of times, liking to take a few minutes and sketch a game plan, but I'm even less the type when moving to a foreign country, none of my possessions arrive, I'm tired and I have no home. SIGH. Which brings me to my temporary housing situation....the Hotel Kenza. It's an over-the-hill escort of a place...pretty at some point, I'm sure, but past its prime and fallen into disrepair. My room is done in fuschia, orange, yellow, red....green, blue, grey and cream. It's a carnival of color, trying to hide its obvious flaws: the carpeting shredded to reveal concrete, the mini-fridge with its door off the hinges, the TV the doesn't work, the toilet that never stops running and the absence of toilet paper, the balcony door that must be wrenched open, full-force with two hands, several light fixtures that don't work and the air conditioning unable to be changed from a frightfully chilly 16 Celsius (61F). Exhausted from my trip and taxed by my arrival I had no problem sleeping the day away (except for brief interludes to go pick up my found luggage and be greeted by two other teachers, Ryan and Mouhad, who are stuck at the Kenza too) in my wacky room, which is a good thing given the party at the hotel last night! After dinner with most of the other teachers, Ryan, Mouhad and I arrived back at the Kenza and were greeted by what sounded like a full volume Arab music video seeping through the cracks of the hotel...and pretty much was, complete with belly dancing. It was, in fact, a naming party for a little boy, akin to a Christianing, with a minor Lebanese pop star, and his incredibly loud drummer, flown in for the occasion. I asked the man at the front desk if it would be okay to take a look and he replied that the family had invited everyone staying at the hotel! I soon realized this was an attempt to keep peace as the party got louder and louder and clamored on until around 3am. I lay futilely trying to sleep in my dilapidated room where I added "windows that don't close nearly flush" to its list of flaws. At least the still pumping AC took the edge off the clanging cymbals and high-pitched flutes. Day 1 in Marrakech. Really?!? Just day one?!? Full to the brim with the color, character and chaos I've come to expect of Morocco it dawned on me in a rush and a flutter some moment before sleep....I live here now! |
||
|
||
|
| As things progress... |
| Things are on the move! I finally feel like I'm making some progress. *I've started packing, but things are in the messier before orderly part of the process. There's stuff everywhere! *I'm getting a bunch of liquor boxes Saturday (Thanks mom!) to pack up books, which are by far the biggest packing issue at the moment. That should really get things moving. *I rented a storage space near my apartment which is just waiting to be filled with all my stuff. *I sold my couch....which might have been a little ahead of schedule, as now there's no where to really sit in my apartment. *I've listed a bunch of other furniture on craigslist...and am keeping my fingers crossed that stuff sells. *I listed my apartment and am starting to show it...though the very first person I showed it to wants it! (Yay!) *I got a ton of info from the school today, so I feel more informed and better prepared on that front. *I booked my ticket to Marrakech and officially leave in 2 weeks! So...things are progressing reasonably well. I still have a ton to do before leaving, but I'll get there....I have to. Wish me luck as I pack up my life and head out to Africa... One crazy adventure after the next... |
||
|
||
|