I was walking through the Medina and saw two small boys engaged in what could have only been a game of” rock, scissors, paper”. I think in Africa there are different signals, however the intention was quite clear. Some things are international and translate without difficulty. Who knows perhaps the game began here?
I have had three occasions now to use my knowledge of American Sign Language (ASL) while here in North Africa. The first was in the hanut nearby the Villa. A young boy came in with his friend and it was quite clear he was mute. I thought I would give it a go and when he understood and answered me, I don’t know which of us was more shocked. Now I have found there is a young man who works in the local market and is deaf as well. I had to get him to slow down, but we had an understandable conversation. I wish I had brought my text with me, but there is an excellent site on the Internet that works as a dictionary. The third instance is the young chap at the flower stand at the other end of the Medina. We got on quite well and he told me he has been deaf since birth and learned ASL at the English school.
The shoes of the women in Morocco are shocking. I thought in Rabat, a more sophisticated city, that the women who in Fez dress like it was 1964 would be more modern. Not so. They wear the pointy-toed stiletto heels of three inches! On the rocky dirt and pot filled sidewalks and roads in Fez, on the sidewalks and in the heat of Rabat, with jeans, with dresses, and with the djellabas. It makes my feet ache to see them, and I am talking all ages here. Jimmy Choo would go quite mad with joy I should think.
I have solved the mystery of the sudden appearance of the trash on our little cobblestone street. It has always been so well kept up since our arrival, and the chap comes along at seven in the morning to pick up all the trash and wash down the street. It is the onset of summer. Apparently this causes the appearance of ice crème stands. The big favorite is an ice crème on a stick, causing the wrappers and sticks to be dropped on the street during the day. Sigh and a smile.
Speaking of fashion – I have noticed a definite difference in the style in which the hijab is worn, depending on the region and city. In Fez it is pulled loosely around the neck and tied up neatly to the side oft times with a pin. In Rabat there is a flange to the side and the pin is not as often present. In Marrakech it is tied closely and tightly under the chin and covers the chest or is knotted over the chest.
Sounds of the Oudalyas: there is a chap who pulls his cart through in the morning and again in the afternoon selling fresh vegetables. His call sounds like “ha-moot” and the cadence is in turn with his footfalls. At four in the morning one of our neighbors is up every morning at his prayers. The singing is quite comforting actually, and of course you can hear the call to prayer from the mosque during the day. The children who play outside my door are two groups: the little girls come out and play ‘house’, and the boys come out and play football. Yes, yes, I know I hear the feminists screaming but I am just an observer! The sounds of shrieking and laughter are quite wondrous. I think they have just about gotten the message that Pam and her bribe-them-with-candy-theme has exited the building; there’s a new sheriff in town. Q suggested we hand out toothbrushes just to confuse them. I don’t know where she got that wicked sense of humor, really I don’t.
The wedding in Fez apparently went off well and Q has many photographs. I will see if I can’t get a few up for you in the coming days. The weddings here are such a production, as you have never seen. There are six costume changes for the bride! The wedding party, depending of the size of the wedding, also changes costumes, as does the mother of the bride. The music is played at a decibel range for deaf hippopotamuses and everyone dances.
The heat is scheduled to begin this week, up to the high eighties. We will see how cool the salon and bedrooms stay. I am hoping for the best, we have fans in reserve.
I am fascinated at the world of blogging. I have been perusing the different blogs and wow! Every subject and every stage of complexity. What fun. I love the 21st century.
I see that the Queen has been visiting the Colonies. What a great reception from the Americans! She went to the Kentucky Derby which is not surprising given that she is an avid horse person as well as loves to bet the races!
So what do you think is the difference between cat people and dog people? Dog people are really looking for love and approval don’t you think? I mean you always hear dog people talk about the “unconditional love” of their pet. How the dog will “always be there when you call”. That dogs are “faithful” to their owners and shun or even attack strangers.
Cat people on the other hand tend to be more independent or more aloof? It could go either way. From this group you hear, “A dog comes when you call, a cat comes when he is damn good and ready.” Neither the cat nor cat people will be loving to you or your friends unless the fancy strikes them, where they may well sit in the lap of your enemy and purr.
I've been quite good and trudged up to the roof/terrace and watered the garden a good sloshing, as it is to be quite warm on the morrow.
Under the headings of "Whoo hoo!" and "Whew" the nice postman came today and hand delivered my package from Cathy with my medication. Funny because I had just before gone to the nearby Post to see if it had come in and they had not sent a notice. Now I know, great service that.
There is a new odd smell upstairs, well more a waft than a smell....yes, indeed. I have an extremely sensitive nose so I am not sure if anyone else can smell it, hence I hesitate to call Abdul to investigate. I shall use my usual method of pouring clorox down all pipes and openings to see if that solves it. Q is to return on Wednesday, we will see if she can detect anything.
I don't cook and I don't have allergies, but if you do this is a lovely site: http://piginthekitchen.blogspot.com/
Monday, 7 May 2007
Sunday, 6 May 2007
a look back at the beginning...
10 September 2006, Fez, Morocco, 1014 hrs local time
Not a good first week-end. My scratchy throat is now moved on to annoyingly painful; and T’s hacking cough kept her up through the night. She spiked a temperature up to 102 degrees, and had a spell of vomiting this morning.
I have brought her fever down to 99 degrees with some Tylenol (which she had not been taking last night, because “someone” told her it can cause liver damage. Do you see my eyebrows crawling up my forehead? Do you see that? I carefully (and gently, as she is in pain) explained to her she would have to down the bottle, all at once. Ah hum.
I have the local doctor’s number recommended by the school here on my desk, but she is resisting. I do agree with her in that I think it is bronchitis brought on by irritation from the dust (most likely culprit in the condition of my throat. I recognize my symptoms from similar ones I normally have when in India.) However, her symptoms are progressing not receding. I believe one can here, as in India, simply go to the apothecary and get antibiotics and some cough syrup without a Rx. We have made a compromise; she is sleeping now. If she feels better on waking we will hold off treatment until tomorrow, if not, some action must be taken this day.
If she is unable to negotiate a trip to the apothacary, then she needs a doctor. Oh, get this – a house call is 250 dirhams (that is around $25 usd). If she is not better in a couple of days I would like to get her on a nice wide spectrum antibiotic like Tetracycline. Neither of us really wants to go the way of blood work; but if it comes to it, I brought enough needles so I can do it myself. Poor kid, she is exhausted from the hacking cough. The good news is she is sleeping quite soundly just now.
The outside temperature is to drop (do insert a sarcastic tone, oh do) to 92 degrees today. Oh, don’t think I am not grateful for any lessening of the oppressive cycle of heat. It was much cooler last night. I actually slept rather well; except for the “mother-hearing” that woke me every time she coughed.
T managed to nap off and on during the Moroccan siesta time of one to three this afternoon; and her elevated temperature remained around 100 degrees. At three she felt well enough to walk the three or four blocks to the nearby apothecary. We found not one, but three – all closed. Thank you La France (again with the sarcastic tone).
We headed over to the posh meeting place in Fez, the place known as the most wonderfully frigid cool there is, as it was 95 degrees at this time (so much for the forecast drop) it seemed the smart move – MacDonald’s. What an experience. It has the Walt Disney clipped and colored cutout appearance, and it is pristine spotless. The parking lot sports the finest cars in town.
As we passed the meticulously tended rose garden at the entrance, we entered the first floor (Yes, there are two floors, and a separate building off to the right that houses a playground for children). Standing in front of us in the queue was a young woman of 15 or so years in a baby pink djellaba, pink thong sandals, with her hair in white netting, and a pink baseball cap perched firmly on her lovely head with the brim off to the side in the current hip hop manner. She was rattling off her order to the dark beauty on the other side of the counter who was listening in professional rapture in her immaculate MacDonald’s costume. The teenager in pink ordered for her entire group without having to consult the menu – a regular I take it?
After securing a bounty of carbonated, cold, and caffeinated drinks for my ailing youngster, I followed her up the stairs to the second floor where she assured me it was even cooler. The staircase opens onto a walkway that divides off into two rooms one to the right and one to the left. Both areas are walled in glass with elevated ceilings done in the stacked wood and tile, Moroccan style. Looking out at the view from our table we saw a huge fountain on the other side of the lush green lawn that surrounds the MacDonald’s. Women in pastel djellabas of various hues were strolling with their families and friends; they appeared to be sprinkled over the landscape like summer flowers as they enjoyed the relative coolness of the afternoon in the shaded environment. The other windows to our back looked out on subtlety shaded hills of sand and shrubs rising in undulating heights to a ridge that ran the distance of our view.
As she drank the cola, instead of perking up, T began to fade and shiver. Her face was flush and heated and she was having chills. She took my long sleeved over shirt for additional warmth, and we left to begin the relatively short walk back to the villa, that loomed all too long in view of the heat and her fading strength. I found it amazing that even in the heat, and in spite of the fact I was much cooler in only my t-shirt and slacks; I felt somewhat embarrassed, is the only word, at my lack of covering on the walk back as we passed both women and men along the sidewalk and streets; even though no word was spoken, no look of disapproval was given – and I am so obviously ‘alien’ I felt I had committed some cultural faux pas.
Upon returning to the apartment, T collapsed into bed. Her temperature was elevated now to almost 103 degrees. It was all I could do to maintain the illusion that I was calm and certain of my actions. I set her to bed, gave her two Tylenol and went about finding some way to find a pharmacy that was open - now. No longer did I even consider waiting until tomorrow and hearing the doctor’s judgment; I trusted my own instincts at this time far beyond any physician’s; it is no matter if the M.D. was granted from Johns Hopkins or Mohammad V University. This far from the certainty of quality extended medical care; she was going on the antibiotics now.
The only apothecary listed in the Lonely Planet (the third world traveler’s bible) was in the old city, and more did not open until nine this night. That was too long to wait by the sound of her coughing, and the flushed appearance of her face. Lucky for me (Thank you Kali) Jason, the just-did-a-two-year-stint-with-the-peace-corp.-in-Morocco, was out in the lobby working at his computer. I told him I had tried the nearby pharmacies to no avail. He said that piece of paper I had noted on the pharmacy nearest the Villa was in actuality a listing of nearby pharmacies that would be open. Joy and rapture!
Now ‘all’ I had to do was go alone out into a city that spoke only two languages; one of which I can not speak at all; and the other I speak only in what my daughter describes as “gutter French”; but I have had no exposure for years. It takes a few days of rubbing up against the language for me to get my chops back. It is however like the old Navy joke, “What does a Marine say when you tell him to take that hill?”
“Yes sir. Which hill sir?”
It works the same way for mothers. I gathered my little bag with credit card, passport, change for the cab, bigger bills for whatever-might-happen, paper and pen to write down the address, slapped my hat on my head, and headed out into the city. I would be returning with the needed medications for my child, or I would not be coming back (too many John Wayne movies in my youth).
Now let me tell you the ending to this tale which makes the luck of the Irish sound like a bad day in Baghdad.
I walked back to the pharmacy where I almost melted into a puddle leaning against the metal door of said pharmacy that lay in the direct path of the sun, copying down three addresses of nearby apothecaries, three just in case. I then made my way to the nearest large avenue and immediately one of the Petite Taxis pulled up. The driver looked like the lead character in that HBO series The Sopranos. I showed him the address.
“Pharmacie? Du Passage, Champs de Course Hay Rajae N* 13?’’ He rattled off, along with a string of French I could not comprehend.
I pointed to the address and said, “Je parle peu le francais.” (I speak very little french)
He took the card from me, as he headed off into the street traffic in the Moroccan version of driving which greatly resembles the suicide wish of a drunken hedgehog. “English?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Oui, Aye” I answered in a polyglot of what I was sure was incomprehensible. “ Je suis Scotland.” (I meant to say I am from Scotland, but in fact I said, I AM Scotland!)
He turned about a full 180 degrees in his seat; the only reason I did not fear for my life was I have been driven about in India, which makes these chaps look as safe as a day at the park in Mountain Brook. “Ah Scotland! Football!” He grinned as he added some more sentences that I am sure were complementary to my homeland, but football? There are a few things we Scots are known for worldwide, but football? Hey at this point I was smiling, nodding, and perfectly willing to go along with it.
We arrived at the pharmacy in short order as it was quite close by on what appeared to be a major street. I took out 10 dirhams to pay him, but he said he would wait. He would wait?! All of a sudden the heat seemed ten degrees less, the dust that had coated my apartment and my throat for four days was inconsequential, and I had feelings of great affection for this man and his country. He would wait.
I girded myself for my next hurdle. I could only pray the pharmacist spoke French as well as Arabic or this was going to be a mime show for sure and for certain. I have great faith in pharmacists in general; they tend to have a better working knowledge of medications, their uses, effectiveness, and possible interactions than do the majority of physicians.
There were several people at the counter. The shop was filled with a general air of bustle and activity, but not frantic (except for my vibes I am sure) emotions, or the resigned expectation of generalized woe one encounters in an American pharmacy. The pharmacist saw to me right away (I have no doubt my face conveyed my state of anxiety). I managed to convey to him I wanted antibiotics, as the word is virtually the same in French, which he did, mercifully, speak – and the trade name of Tetracycline is as it is. He was wonderful with the cough syrup. I ask for the phenergan with codeine syrup. He showed me what he had, which was only a phenergan syrup; I managed with a combination of words I could not believe I brought up from the recesses of my memory of a lifetime ago when living in Paris, and miming to convey to him the need for an “expectorant”.
‘Ah!”, again a universal expression, he said as he reached for another bottle instead. “Expectorant.”
He smiled. I smiled.
We then agreed upon the dosages and times, and he suggested a medication for her elevated temperature. Mon Dieu! I could feel the tension rushing out of me, and the relief was so great I could hardly stand.
He then very carefully showed me the total due on his calculator. Did I care? Would I have paid whatever he asked? Did I not have in my head the price it would have cost in the U.S., not to mention I could not have obtained any of it without a doctor’s prescription obtained after hours waiting in an emergency room? I saw several sevens, I could not find the decimal, but I figured around seventy dollars American was dirt cheap and I was happy to pay it. I pulled out 700 dirhams, and he quickly pushed the money back at me, taking only the 100 dirham bill. He made to push the rest toward my wallet out of sight. The entire bill was 77 dirhams; that is less than ten dollars! I thanked him profusely and ran out to my waiting taxi.
Alrighty here we go, now I had to tell the driver how to get me back to the Villa. Not obsessive for nothing – I had written the address down, and apparently most of the taxi drivers know the American Language Institute in Fez. As he headed back, I began to recognize streets, and felt the relief of familiarity no matter how new. I gave him the entire 20 dirhams, even though the ride was less than ten. He had been grand. I mean come on, and he knew where Scotland is – well, sorta.
For some unknown reason, again from the recesses of my memory came the phrase, “ Je pense donc je suis”. I raced into the villa. Mom to the rescue.
2151 hrs. Local time
Much improved T is watching “Stargate SG-1” on her laptop and bemoaning the reality she may not make class in the morning. The very fact she feels well enough to complain about anything is music to my ears. Her fever is down, and the cough syrup is controlling the cough. She has the second dose of antibiotic in her, and I think she may get some real rest tonight thanks to the fever medication.
I ventured yet again out into the heated, exotic, folds of Fez to fetch her home some food from the all Arabic menu, but has the great sandwiches kiosk she pointed out to me yesterday when we made a run to the bank. I could not make myself understood to the very busy men behind the counter, but fortunately there was a-would-be-Lothario in the outside café who was happy to help the “English”. Obviously he is unaware of Scotland’s new fame as a contender for the World Cup.
I end this day exhausted, but content in my abilities as “the mother”. Tomorrow I shall tell you of the dog who lives next door who thinks he is a wolf, and the Berbers with their drums in the bright red and yellow robes, climbing the hills behind our apartment up to the Kasbah, with the jingle of bells following behind. The sounds of their drums is coming though the darkness now, and flowing onto our patio stirring my imagination. You may rest easy that the spiders still reside in plentiful abundance in Fez. On our first night in our apartment T and I stood on the balcony cheering on the two geckos backlit in the high window of the bathroom. We wake in the mornings to the corners of the bedroom hosting the night creatures who have roosted there. We saw a cockroach on the sidewalk the other day that I swore had relatives back in Alabama. But it is life here, one adjust. I am willing to let them go their way, as long as they stay out of my bed and off my skin. A reasonable compromise I feel.
Not a good first week-end. My scratchy throat is now moved on to annoyingly painful; and T’s hacking cough kept her up through the night. She spiked a temperature up to 102 degrees, and had a spell of vomiting this morning.
I have brought her fever down to 99 degrees with some Tylenol (which she had not been taking last night, because “someone” told her it can cause liver damage. Do you see my eyebrows crawling up my forehead? Do you see that? I carefully (and gently, as she is in pain) explained to her she would have to down the bottle, all at once. Ah hum.
I have the local doctor’s number recommended by the school here on my desk, but she is resisting. I do agree with her in that I think it is bronchitis brought on by irritation from the dust (most likely culprit in the condition of my throat. I recognize my symptoms from similar ones I normally have when in India.) However, her symptoms are progressing not receding. I believe one can here, as in India, simply go to the apothecary and get antibiotics and some cough syrup without a Rx. We have made a compromise; she is sleeping now. If she feels better on waking we will hold off treatment until tomorrow, if not, some action must be taken this day.
If she is unable to negotiate a trip to the apothacary, then she needs a doctor. Oh, get this – a house call is 250 dirhams (that is around $25 usd). If she is not better in a couple of days I would like to get her on a nice wide spectrum antibiotic like Tetracycline. Neither of us really wants to go the way of blood work; but if it comes to it, I brought enough needles so I can do it myself. Poor kid, she is exhausted from the hacking cough. The good news is she is sleeping quite soundly just now.
The outside temperature is to drop (do insert a sarcastic tone, oh do) to 92 degrees today. Oh, don’t think I am not grateful for any lessening of the oppressive cycle of heat. It was much cooler last night. I actually slept rather well; except for the “mother-hearing” that woke me every time she coughed.
T managed to nap off and on during the Moroccan siesta time of one to three this afternoon; and her elevated temperature remained around 100 degrees. At three she felt well enough to walk the three or four blocks to the nearby apothecary. We found not one, but three – all closed. Thank you La France (again with the sarcastic tone).
We headed over to the posh meeting place in Fez, the place known as the most wonderfully frigid cool there is, as it was 95 degrees at this time (so much for the forecast drop) it seemed the smart move – MacDonald’s. What an experience. It has the Walt Disney clipped and colored cutout appearance, and it is pristine spotless. The parking lot sports the finest cars in town.
As we passed the meticulously tended rose garden at the entrance, we entered the first floor (Yes, there are two floors, and a separate building off to the right that houses a playground for children). Standing in front of us in the queue was a young woman of 15 or so years in a baby pink djellaba, pink thong sandals, with her hair in white netting, and a pink baseball cap perched firmly on her lovely head with the brim off to the side in the current hip hop manner. She was rattling off her order to the dark beauty on the other side of the counter who was listening in professional rapture in her immaculate MacDonald’s costume. The teenager in pink ordered for her entire group without having to consult the menu – a regular I take it?
After securing a bounty of carbonated, cold, and caffeinated drinks for my ailing youngster, I followed her up the stairs to the second floor where she assured me it was even cooler. The staircase opens onto a walkway that divides off into two rooms one to the right and one to the left. Both areas are walled in glass with elevated ceilings done in the stacked wood and tile, Moroccan style. Looking out at the view from our table we saw a huge fountain on the other side of the lush green lawn that surrounds the MacDonald’s. Women in pastel djellabas of various hues were strolling with their families and friends; they appeared to be sprinkled over the landscape like summer flowers as they enjoyed the relative coolness of the afternoon in the shaded environment. The other windows to our back looked out on subtlety shaded hills of sand and shrubs rising in undulating heights to a ridge that ran the distance of our view.
As she drank the cola, instead of perking up, T began to fade and shiver. Her face was flush and heated and she was having chills. She took my long sleeved over shirt for additional warmth, and we left to begin the relatively short walk back to the villa, that loomed all too long in view of the heat and her fading strength. I found it amazing that even in the heat, and in spite of the fact I was much cooler in only my t-shirt and slacks; I felt somewhat embarrassed, is the only word, at my lack of covering on the walk back as we passed both women and men along the sidewalk and streets; even though no word was spoken, no look of disapproval was given – and I am so obviously ‘alien’ I felt I had committed some cultural faux pas.
Upon returning to the apartment, T collapsed into bed. Her temperature was elevated now to almost 103 degrees. It was all I could do to maintain the illusion that I was calm and certain of my actions. I set her to bed, gave her two Tylenol and went about finding some way to find a pharmacy that was open - now. No longer did I even consider waiting until tomorrow and hearing the doctor’s judgment; I trusted my own instincts at this time far beyond any physician’s; it is no matter if the M.D. was granted from Johns Hopkins or Mohammad V University. This far from the certainty of quality extended medical care; she was going on the antibiotics now.
The only apothecary listed in the Lonely Planet (the third world traveler’s bible) was in the old city, and more did not open until nine this night. That was too long to wait by the sound of her coughing, and the flushed appearance of her face. Lucky for me (Thank you Kali) Jason, the just-did-a-two-year-stint-with-the-peace-corp.-in-Morocco, was out in the lobby working at his computer. I told him I had tried the nearby pharmacies to no avail. He said that piece of paper I had noted on the pharmacy nearest the Villa was in actuality a listing of nearby pharmacies that would be open. Joy and rapture!
Now ‘all’ I had to do was go alone out into a city that spoke only two languages; one of which I can not speak at all; and the other I speak only in what my daughter describes as “gutter French”; but I have had no exposure for years. It takes a few days of rubbing up against the language for me to get my chops back. It is however like the old Navy joke, “What does a Marine say when you tell him to take that hill?”
“Yes sir. Which hill sir?”
It works the same way for mothers. I gathered my little bag with credit card, passport, change for the cab, bigger bills for whatever-might-happen, paper and pen to write down the address, slapped my hat on my head, and headed out into the city. I would be returning with the needed medications for my child, or I would not be coming back (too many John Wayne movies in my youth).
Now let me tell you the ending to this tale which makes the luck of the Irish sound like a bad day in Baghdad.
I walked back to the pharmacy where I almost melted into a puddle leaning against the metal door of said pharmacy that lay in the direct path of the sun, copying down three addresses of nearby apothecaries, three just in case. I then made my way to the nearest large avenue and immediately one of the Petite Taxis pulled up. The driver looked like the lead character in that HBO series The Sopranos. I showed him the address.
“Pharmacie? Du Passage, Champs de Course Hay Rajae N* 13?’’ He rattled off, along with a string of French I could not comprehend.
I pointed to the address and said, “Je parle peu le francais.” (I speak very little french)
He took the card from me, as he headed off into the street traffic in the Moroccan version of driving which greatly resembles the suicide wish of a drunken hedgehog. “English?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Oui, Aye” I answered in a polyglot of what I was sure was incomprehensible. “ Je suis Scotland.” (I meant to say I am from Scotland, but in fact I said, I AM Scotland!)
He turned about a full 180 degrees in his seat; the only reason I did not fear for my life was I have been driven about in India, which makes these chaps look as safe as a day at the park in Mountain Brook. “Ah Scotland! Football!” He grinned as he added some more sentences that I am sure were complementary to my homeland, but football? There are a few things we Scots are known for worldwide, but football? Hey at this point I was smiling, nodding, and perfectly willing to go along with it.
We arrived at the pharmacy in short order as it was quite close by on what appeared to be a major street. I took out 10 dirhams to pay him, but he said he would wait. He would wait?! All of a sudden the heat seemed ten degrees less, the dust that had coated my apartment and my throat for four days was inconsequential, and I had feelings of great affection for this man and his country. He would wait.
I girded myself for my next hurdle. I could only pray the pharmacist spoke French as well as Arabic or this was going to be a mime show for sure and for certain. I have great faith in pharmacists in general; they tend to have a better working knowledge of medications, their uses, effectiveness, and possible interactions than do the majority of physicians.
There were several people at the counter. The shop was filled with a general air of bustle and activity, but not frantic (except for my vibes I am sure) emotions, or the resigned expectation of generalized woe one encounters in an American pharmacy. The pharmacist saw to me right away (I have no doubt my face conveyed my state of anxiety). I managed to convey to him I wanted antibiotics, as the word is virtually the same in French, which he did, mercifully, speak – and the trade name of Tetracycline is as it is. He was wonderful with the cough syrup. I ask for the phenergan with codeine syrup. He showed me what he had, which was only a phenergan syrup; I managed with a combination of words I could not believe I brought up from the recesses of my memory of a lifetime ago when living in Paris, and miming to convey to him the need for an “expectorant”.
‘Ah!”, again a universal expression, he said as he reached for another bottle instead. “Expectorant.”
He smiled. I smiled.
We then agreed upon the dosages and times, and he suggested a medication for her elevated temperature. Mon Dieu! I could feel the tension rushing out of me, and the relief was so great I could hardly stand.
He then very carefully showed me the total due on his calculator. Did I care? Would I have paid whatever he asked? Did I not have in my head the price it would have cost in the U.S., not to mention I could not have obtained any of it without a doctor’s prescription obtained after hours waiting in an emergency room? I saw several sevens, I could not find the decimal, but I figured around seventy dollars American was dirt cheap and I was happy to pay it. I pulled out 700 dirhams, and he quickly pushed the money back at me, taking only the 100 dirham bill. He made to push the rest toward my wallet out of sight. The entire bill was 77 dirhams; that is less than ten dollars! I thanked him profusely and ran out to my waiting taxi.
Alrighty here we go, now I had to tell the driver how to get me back to the Villa. Not obsessive for nothing – I had written the address down, and apparently most of the taxi drivers know the American Language Institute in Fez. As he headed back, I began to recognize streets, and felt the relief of familiarity no matter how new. I gave him the entire 20 dirhams, even though the ride was less than ten. He had been grand. I mean come on, and he knew where Scotland is – well, sorta.
For some unknown reason, again from the recesses of my memory came the phrase, “ Je pense donc je suis”. I raced into the villa. Mom to the rescue.
2151 hrs. Local time
Much improved T is watching “Stargate SG-1” on her laptop and bemoaning the reality she may not make class in the morning. The very fact she feels well enough to complain about anything is music to my ears. Her fever is down, and the cough syrup is controlling the cough. She has the second dose of antibiotic in her, and I think she may get some real rest tonight thanks to the fever medication.
I ventured yet again out into the heated, exotic, folds of Fez to fetch her home some food from the all Arabic menu, but has the great sandwiches kiosk she pointed out to me yesterday when we made a run to the bank. I could not make myself understood to the very busy men behind the counter, but fortunately there was a-would-be-Lothario in the outside café who was happy to help the “English”. Obviously he is unaware of Scotland’s new fame as a contender for the World Cup.
I end this day exhausted, but content in my abilities as “the mother”. Tomorrow I shall tell you of the dog who lives next door who thinks he is a wolf, and the Berbers with their drums in the bright red and yellow robes, climbing the hills behind our apartment up to the Kasbah, with the jingle of bells following behind. The sounds of their drums is coming though the darkness now, and flowing onto our patio stirring my imagination. You may rest easy that the spiders still reside in plentiful abundance in Fez. On our first night in our apartment T and I stood on the balcony cheering on the two geckos backlit in the high window of the bathroom. We wake in the mornings to the corners of the bedroom hosting the night creatures who have roosted there. We saw a cockroach on the sidewalk the other day that I swore had relatives back in Alabama. But it is life here, one adjust. I am willing to let them go their way, as long as they stay out of my bed and off my skin. A reasonable compromise I feel.
Thursday, 3 May 2007
The undoing
Quite obviously part of the problem with getting rid of the gnats is that I have been spelling it incorrectly! bugger! The housekeeper is here today. Once she has done her cleaning gig I am going to spray the area where they seem to be congregating. Perhaps a social or political group of some genre? After spraying I shall hoof it up to the terrace to breathe for a while...
You really haven't experienced a foreign language (and Moroccan Arabic is separate from Standard Arabic, indeed its own language) until you try to explain duties to your housekeeper. I love our housekeeper. She is a lovely woman who lives just a block or so away and complements me on my struggling Dariga (Moroccan). The real challenge came in March when I had to explain my altar and its restrictions and upkeep. One of the most strict rules of Islam is no "images". I am a Buddhist. We are really big on images, statues, prayer flags (on the terrace, but tiny), and photographs of His Holiness the Dali Lama. She is fabulous about the whole thing. The funniest thing is when she lines up in order and places carefully my sticks that are left after the incense burns! She is always so proud, showing me each time how she has lined them up! I have not the heart to tell her they go in the trash so I now have a real surplus of - sticks. She is slowly but with heart and no complaints learning the difference between 'Moroccan clean" and 'British clean' and then 'my clean'. I'll give you a hint, when my daughter was wee she called me Mrs. Tiddlemouse. Enough said.
I am replacing the furnishings in the house week by week. It was quite good enough for transient Fulbright and college students staying only for a few months which is what Abdul rented it for before my arrival in March. After long discussion, and much reiteration on his part, we signed a lease for a year. Apparently in Morocco as long as you rent short term there is no tax, but if you have a long term tenant there is a tax. Hence his concern that once he paid the tax I would stay giving him the benefit of long term rent. Oh, and on that note ask me how much I love my landlord. When the Baby leaves for NYU in August he is LOWERING the rent by 500 dirhams! Never, never have I had that happen! His logic is that you charge less with only one tenant. Can't beat that, eh? He is also helpful whenever we need anything hoisted to the terrace that we can't manage (furniture), and brings the gas man, and watches the house when we go on holiday. His name is Abdul Latif. He is a gym teacher at the high school and most amiable.
If you are lacking physical affection in your life book a flight to Morocco for I did read that affection will not only lengthen one's life but makes it more enjoyable. My face gets kissed daily, both cheeks; lots of hugging, hand shakes with the men, and always the polite conversation that goes with any entry to a shop. I find the sight of the handsome young men and beautiful girls holding hands or embracing as they walk the streets endearing. Make no mistake, not with each other mind - girl to girl, boy to boy. When I see a couple holding hands I am taken aback. It is amazing how quickly one takes on the nuances of a culture. I haven't seen 'legs' in almost a year now with the exception of a few ill mannered and ignorant tourist (yes this is a sore spot with me).
If you are going to come all this way, read up on the country for mercy's sake. It is a Muslim country! Dress with some respect and restraint. One need not wear a burqa (indeed when we see women dressed in the all black head to toes we say, "Not from 'round here. Must be visiting." -with the exception of Marrakesh). I have seen this same behavior in India, and it never ceases to shock me. Aside from the religious reasons, there is good cause for the manner of dress. The Berbers were wearing robes long before the Arabs arrived with Islam. It's a desert, hot sun, ozone weak..coming through is it? harrumph.
I am returned to the story of Matilda and the Goring brothers today. I tell you this is not a story I would have ever written. I like to write stuff where things are blowing up, and there is intrigue, and a kick ass attitude all 'round. I only wrote the intro for the Creative Writing class I took last quarter. It was a photograph for a prompt and the professor went quite mad for the story and insisted I flush it out for my final. Being the approval junkie that I am, I of course did so and now she is urging me to turn it into a novel. I am beginning to develop some affection for these characters. This next bit is where everyone gets buggered. I hate that part. I would much prefer to just skip to the happy ending, but that's just not as interesting is it? Here is the intro for "Fractured" if anyone wants to give it a read. Comments are as always welcomed.
The huge freighter slipped through the morning mist, displacing thirty-two tons of water as she moved through the Pacific toward the Panama Canal. She sat low in the water, her bow line passing under the waves. Gunn Tang shivered pleasantly in the cool breeze coming off the water. He was at heart a man of the mountains who had gone to sea. The wildness and limitless expanse of the world’s oceans were home to him; his ports of call only somewhere to leave. He would be more relieved than usual to off load the cargo from this trip. Like most of his countrymen from the Qinghai province, Gunn knew better than to speak aloud when he saw anything out of the ordinary. He had done his stint in the Chinese Navy; he knew the dimensions and construction of containers necessary for the transport of a nuclear missile, and they had loaded twenty of them into the belly of his ship. The purpose of the device that had been brought onto the ship and placed in the forecastle was unknown. He knew only that it had been producing a low level hum since they pulled out of port in Shanghai, and the technician that came on board with it never left the deck. He could see the locks of the Canal coming into view. It was time to finish his morning tea and rouse the crew. The cargo was not his concern. Soon he would be pulling out of port, and be on his way across the Atlantic to Casablanca where he had good friends and a snug berth waiting. He inhaled deeply, taking in the salty breath of the sea and then went below.
Dorothy Beal clutched the white porcelain of the coffee mug as if it were a life raft. The stabbing pain that was located behind her eyeballs, each of which she felt in excruciating detail, was spreading to both her temples. As long as she could feel her butt in the chair, she was pretty sure she would not vomit all over her desk, in spite of the sheen of moisture that had now broken out over her forehead. The blips from the NRO monitor on her desk in the tiny cubicle chirped, indicating activity from the satellite passing over the Canal. The noise made her want to throw the mug full of steaming black coffee into the screen. There was a Chinese freighter coming into the Canal. Fabulous, who cared? It was most likely carrying a load of knock-off Barbie dolls and Bruce Wills DVDs. Why had she drunk so much at the party last night? Did she make an idiot of herself with Jack? She couldn’t remember anything past eleven o’clock. At least she had woken up in her own bed, was that a good or bad sign? She needed to do something to change her life. Another year in this cubicle for eight hours a day, five days a week would kill her. Just a couple of those Vicodin Lela had given her would do the trick. That would take the edge off the hangover, then she could stand upright long enough to make her way over to Lela’s cubicle on the other side of the endless basement and find out what she did last night. As she leaned over the side of her chair to search through her bag for the medication, and look for the remains of that bottle of water she had brought in earlier in the week, the ship passed through the Canal, out of sight of the satellite, and on its way to dock in Santiago de Cuba.
You really haven't experienced a foreign language (and Moroccan Arabic is separate from Standard Arabic, indeed its own language) until you try to explain duties to your housekeeper. I love our housekeeper. She is a lovely woman who lives just a block or so away and complements me on my struggling Dariga (Moroccan). The real challenge came in March when I had to explain my altar and its restrictions and upkeep. One of the most strict rules of Islam is no "images". I am a Buddhist. We are really big on images, statues, prayer flags (on the terrace, but tiny), and photographs of His Holiness the Dali Lama. She is fabulous about the whole thing. The funniest thing is when she lines up in order and places carefully my sticks that are left after the incense burns! She is always so proud, showing me each time how she has lined them up! I have not the heart to tell her they go in the trash so I now have a real surplus of - sticks. She is slowly but with heart and no complaints learning the difference between 'Moroccan clean" and 'British clean' and then 'my clean'. I'll give you a hint, when my daughter was wee she called me Mrs. Tiddlemouse. Enough said.
I am replacing the furnishings in the house week by week. It was quite good enough for transient Fulbright and college students staying only for a few months which is what Abdul rented it for before my arrival in March. After long discussion, and much reiteration on his part, we signed a lease for a year. Apparently in Morocco as long as you rent short term there is no tax, but if you have a long term tenant there is a tax. Hence his concern that once he paid the tax I would stay giving him the benefit of long term rent. Oh, and on that note ask me how much I love my landlord. When the Baby leaves for NYU in August he is LOWERING the rent by 500 dirhams! Never, never have I had that happen! His logic is that you charge less with only one tenant. Can't beat that, eh? He is also helpful whenever we need anything hoisted to the terrace that we can't manage (furniture), and brings the gas man, and watches the house when we go on holiday. His name is Abdul Latif. He is a gym teacher at the high school and most amiable.
If you are lacking physical affection in your life book a flight to Morocco for I did read that affection will not only lengthen one's life but makes it more enjoyable. My face gets kissed daily, both cheeks; lots of hugging, hand shakes with the men, and always the polite conversation that goes with any entry to a shop. I find the sight of the handsome young men and beautiful girls holding hands or embracing as they walk the streets endearing. Make no mistake, not with each other mind - girl to girl, boy to boy. When I see a couple holding hands I am taken aback. It is amazing how quickly one takes on the nuances of a culture. I haven't seen 'legs' in almost a year now with the exception of a few ill mannered and ignorant tourist (yes this is a sore spot with me).
If you are going to come all this way, read up on the country for mercy's sake. It is a Muslim country! Dress with some respect and restraint. One need not wear a burqa (indeed when we see women dressed in the all black head to toes we say, "Not from 'round here. Must be visiting." -with the exception of Marrakesh). I have seen this same behavior in India, and it never ceases to shock me. Aside from the religious reasons, there is good cause for the manner of dress. The Berbers were wearing robes long before the Arabs arrived with Islam. It's a desert, hot sun, ozone weak..coming through is it? harrumph.
I am returned to the story of Matilda and the Goring brothers today. I tell you this is not a story I would have ever written. I like to write stuff where things are blowing up, and there is intrigue, and a kick ass attitude all 'round. I only wrote the intro for the Creative Writing class I took last quarter. It was a photograph for a prompt and the professor went quite mad for the story and insisted I flush it out for my final. Being the approval junkie that I am, I of course did so and now she is urging me to turn it into a novel. I am beginning to develop some affection for these characters. This next bit is where everyone gets buggered. I hate that part. I would much prefer to just skip to the happy ending, but that's just not as interesting is it? Here is the intro for "Fractured" if anyone wants to give it a read. Comments are as always welcomed.
The huge freighter slipped through the morning mist, displacing thirty-two tons of water as she moved through the Pacific toward the Panama Canal. She sat low in the water, her bow line passing under the waves. Gunn Tang shivered pleasantly in the cool breeze coming off the water. He was at heart a man of the mountains who had gone to sea. The wildness and limitless expanse of the world’s oceans were home to him; his ports of call only somewhere to leave. He would be more relieved than usual to off load the cargo from this trip. Like most of his countrymen from the Qinghai province, Gunn knew better than to speak aloud when he saw anything out of the ordinary. He had done his stint in the Chinese Navy; he knew the dimensions and construction of containers necessary for the transport of a nuclear missile, and they had loaded twenty of them into the belly of his ship. The purpose of the device that had been brought onto the ship and placed in the forecastle was unknown. He knew only that it had been producing a low level hum since they pulled out of port in Shanghai, and the technician that came on board with it never left the deck. He could see the locks of the Canal coming into view. It was time to finish his morning tea and rouse the crew. The cargo was not his concern. Soon he would be pulling out of port, and be on his way across the Atlantic to Casablanca where he had good friends and a snug berth waiting. He inhaled deeply, taking in the salty breath of the sea and then went below.
Dorothy Beal clutched the white porcelain of the coffee mug as if it were a life raft. The stabbing pain that was located behind her eyeballs, each of which she felt in excruciating detail, was spreading to both her temples. As long as she could feel her butt in the chair, she was pretty sure she would not vomit all over her desk, in spite of the sheen of moisture that had now broken out over her forehead. The blips from the NRO monitor on her desk in the tiny cubicle chirped, indicating activity from the satellite passing over the Canal. The noise made her want to throw the mug full of steaming black coffee into the screen. There was a Chinese freighter coming into the Canal. Fabulous, who cared? It was most likely carrying a load of knock-off Barbie dolls and Bruce Wills DVDs. Why had she drunk so much at the party last night? Did she make an idiot of herself with Jack? She couldn’t remember anything past eleven o’clock. At least she had woken up in her own bed, was that a good or bad sign? She needed to do something to change her life. Another year in this cubicle for eight hours a day, five days a week would kill her. Just a couple of those Vicodin Lela had given her would do the trick. That would take the edge off the hangover, then she could stand upright long enough to make her way over to Lela’s cubicle on the other side of the endless basement and find out what she did last night. As she leaned over the side of her chair to search through her bag for the medication, and look for the remains of that bottle of water she had brought in earlier in the week, the ship passed through the Canal, out of sight of the satellite, and on its way to dock in Santiago de Cuba.
Wednesday, 2 May 2007
Nats
I hate nats. I think they are creepy. They always make me think of dead and rotting bodies. for a long time I took any appearance of nats as an ominous sign, but then as my daughter points out I am superstitious in four different cultures. The only bad symptom of summer thus far is the appearance of nats in the house. They are larger than 'normal' nats, but slow and stupid. I can't find any standing water or any internal reason for their appearance, so I am assuming for now it is a sign of the season. It's not like there are hoards or anything, just enough to be annoying. Inshallah. I have a deal with the Universe. I try not to kill anything unless it is trying to kill or injure me. I can't be a Jane, although I admire their compassionate view point, but I am too much the pragmatic Scot to carry around a little brush to wipe away any living creatures before I sit and to let the rats run free (yuk, shiver and shake). I do think nats qualify, they are after all not only endangering my sight (they COULD fly right into my eyes while I am coming down our death-in-a-fall stairs. They could!) but my sanity as I find them creepy and in the vein of the whole "ides of March" thing. So I do kill them, but not with glee; relief but not glee.
I cannot believe it took the powers that decide these things so long to give Denzel Washington an Oscar. That man can act, and he is so very pretty.
Oh my giddy aunt! I have a "comment". The excitement and pleasure this incites only confirms my status as an approval junky. Perfect for a writer eh? Thank you for reading, I am inspired to be interesting...
I cannot believe it took the powers that decide these things so long to give Denzel Washington an Oscar. That man can act, and he is so very pretty.
Oh my giddy aunt! I have a "comment". The excitement and pleasure this incites only confirms my status as an approval junky. Perfect for a writer eh? Thank you for reading, I am inspired to be interesting...
one more thing
One more thing I love about Morocco - I personally find it extremely difficult, if not impossible to be cheated in this country. Overcharged? yes, but I rather think that is the fault of the buyer nes pa? You do your research, look about, decide what you are willing to pay then enter the negotiations in the true spirit of the game. It's a lot like gambling, even when you lose the game itself was bloody entertaining.
Reasons I make a wake in Morocco: I am taller than almost all the women, my red hair, my hats, but most of all is the pace of my walk. The people here most sensibly move at a slow pace as suits the weather. I am a Highlander, I walk with the stride of my ancestors meant to distance hills and small mountains. I have tried to slow myself, one would think age would be of assistance but no-o-o-o-o. It could be worse right? I mean there are worse faults.
T is off to Fez on the morrow for a wedding of our friend Miriam's sister, and some shopping. her birthday is on 4 May and I am giving her a rug. She will do the shopping as she knows what she wants and is a sharp and able bargainer. I am having her bring back a large rug for the upstairs bedroom as well. We also enjoy giving business to our friend Mohammad at the Coin Berberb in the Fez Medina. That is where I bought my "princess coat". I put a photograph above. It is actually not a coat but a kaftan handmade for some big royal to-do fifty to eighty years ago. It is silk brocade and all the buttons and clasps are handmade. I decided to wear it as a coat; I love it! It was an extravagance but once the father of Mohammad, himself an antique, cut the price to 1/4 what he was asking and 1/5 of what he had sold one the week before (yes I do have data to validate the claim) because of my hair, I had to buy it. It would have been terribly ill mannered to do otherwise; and it fits perfectly. See the redhead smile?
I watched "Flightplan" today. Really quite excellent. I had not viewed it before because frankly I thought it would be boring, not so. Ah Morocco home of cheap DVD's. Who knew? And Rabat is the capital in more ways than one. While in Marrakesh I found "Mr & Mrs Smith" in English. When I tried to buy it, they wanted FIFTY DHS! It was a great lesson in the economics of tourism when in reply to my, "Oh my goodness. You know in Rabat where I live they are only ten dirhams apiece." the young man replied smiling, "Oh but Madame THIS is Marrakesh!"
My DVD collection which was substantial to begin with has almost doubled. I am amazed at how quickly they arrive. I had just read a bad review of "Next" and the very same day saw it in "digital alley". Some of them I have had to wait for to get the English. I have only secured "The Queen" with Helen Mirren this day. I mean really you just can't watch it in French, well not if you're British!
T returned from lunch with the fabulous and always informative Suzanne to tell me some latest gossip on the 'street'. Delicious, and not surprising. I however only pass along good news.
Suzanne is an American and representative of all that is best I think. She is an entrepreneur, multilingual, and has a questioning spiritual outlook. She is lovely physically and has the high energy of a cosmic fragment! Business, the doing of and creating a market for, is her passion, and she does it to perfection. T has some good shopping tips from her. I am thinking she is the one we should ask for advice on the new couches I am determined to have in the very near future.
My priorities are the table set for the terrace, a nice table for downstairs with covered stools and cushions, an armoire to replace "the horrid yellow thing with cubbyholes" in my bedroom, and a microwave. Oh and that lovely thin television screen for the DVD watching - of which we have many! If I stay through the winter I shall see about assisting Abdul in the replacement of the glass ceiling. I can live with the dripping when it rains and the two windows that won't quite close, but I'd rather not.
Rabat has more dwarfs, less djellabas on the street, less apothecaries, more gardens and trees, less cleaners, more paved roads and sidewalks, more tourists (outside my door!).
I went to the bank today to discover that the street on the other side of Mohammad V is completely buggered! Not the street per se, for the cars but the sidewalks on both sides down to the dirt. I was surprised as they looked fine before and the ones in Fez are rocks and dirt and frequent pot holes.
When I was in MA visiting C. this little scene occured:
C.: "B woke up this morning, we were in the den and he said, 'Man I am just stiff all over'.”
C: “So I said, “Quick, shouldn’t we be getting back to the bedroom?”
As they are in their seventies it gives me hope.
Going outside with Cathy, 1 April 2007.
Me: "Smell that? I’m telling you it smells like fresh gingerbread, like nutmeg."
Cathy: sniffs. "No, what you do smell is Spring coming to New England. That’s what New England Spring smells like."
T had her mobile phone stolen while we were in Fez. She takes responsibility as she went out with it stuck in her back pocket. Some youngster lifted it from her pocket, threw it to his friend, and made off. Apparently they (being thieves in general) have a methodology of removing the call card (?) and replacing it. I learned this after I called her mobile several hundred times and left the message that I would pay them the price of the mobile to return it as she needed the numbers. Apparently it was already in the wind.
AH Kara is apparently the place to go for furniture. A taxi ride away says Pam.
T’s conversation with the Moroccan girls at the 'after the wedding' party where she was shocked at their frankness about sex and men. There is apparently a “deflowering” song, yes, they actually still call it deflowering here. The song was being enacted by the six year old daughter of the sister of the bride. The words “cunt”, “pussy”, and the discussion of anal sex were on the venue. They had all read, and had copies of the Kama Sutra. My poor little American child felt quite undone.
1945 British Roadster and the 1934 Triumph Gloria Six - are two of the great cars of all time for looks.
It wasn’t books that changed my life, nor my love of a good man, or anyone’s god, it was the baby
Great quote from T: “You really get to know someone once money is involved.”
To live outside your skin is a way of life that takes practice.
The South Carolina contingent at the Villa continues to cause chaos. Showing their own ignorance they had Neal and Caroline banned from the Villa “because they are tying up the bandwidth”. You have to have over two hundred fucking people before it slows down the bandwidth. That group embodies "the Ugly American" syndrome.
Tamara’s parents are both M.D.s; one is a GI and one is infectious diseases. Very useful when you are traveling in third world countries. Her father lives in Belize. Her mother is in southern California and is something of a hippy. Tamara started her own business to pay for the surgery she has to have on both knees at the age of nineteen. She is a South African - Valley Girl hybrid. Quite a combination. In addition to being physically lovely she is bright, funny, and compassionate. We enjoyed getting to know her while she was in Fez.
Matilda is in Damascus now. I think Cat and Toba are still there. Sally is in Cairo. All pursuing the Arabic language...
Reasons I make a wake in Morocco: I am taller than almost all the women, my red hair, my hats, but most of all is the pace of my walk. The people here most sensibly move at a slow pace as suits the weather. I am a Highlander, I walk with the stride of my ancestors meant to distance hills and small mountains. I have tried to slow myself, one would think age would be of assistance but no-o-o-o-o. It could be worse right? I mean there are worse faults.
T is off to Fez on the morrow for a wedding of our friend Miriam's sister, and some shopping. her birthday is on 4 May and I am giving her a rug. She will do the shopping as she knows what she wants and is a sharp and able bargainer. I am having her bring back a large rug for the upstairs bedroom as well. We also enjoy giving business to our friend Mohammad at the Coin Berberb in the Fez Medina. That is where I bought my "princess coat". I put a photograph above. It is actually not a coat but a kaftan handmade for some big royal to-do fifty to eighty years ago. It is silk brocade and all the buttons and clasps are handmade. I decided to wear it as a coat; I love it! It was an extravagance but once the father of Mohammad, himself an antique, cut the price to 1/4 what he was asking and 1/5 of what he had sold one the week before (yes I do have data to validate the claim) because of my hair, I had to buy it. It would have been terribly ill mannered to do otherwise; and it fits perfectly. See the redhead smile?
I watched "Flightplan" today. Really quite excellent. I had not viewed it before because frankly I thought it would be boring, not so. Ah Morocco home of cheap DVD's. Who knew? And Rabat is the capital in more ways than one. While in Marrakesh I found "Mr & Mrs Smith" in English. When I tried to buy it, they wanted FIFTY DHS! It was a great lesson in the economics of tourism when in reply to my, "Oh my goodness. You know in Rabat where I live they are only ten dirhams apiece." the young man replied smiling, "Oh but Madame THIS is Marrakesh!"
My DVD collection which was substantial to begin with has almost doubled. I am amazed at how quickly they arrive. I had just read a bad review of "Next" and the very same day saw it in "digital alley". Some of them I have had to wait for to get the English. I have only secured "The Queen" with Helen Mirren this day. I mean really you just can't watch it in French, well not if you're British!
T returned from lunch with the fabulous and always informative Suzanne to tell me some latest gossip on the 'street'. Delicious, and not surprising. I however only pass along good news.
Suzanne is an American and representative of all that is best I think. She is an entrepreneur, multilingual, and has a questioning spiritual outlook. She is lovely physically and has the high energy of a cosmic fragment! Business, the doing of and creating a market for, is her passion, and she does it to perfection. T has some good shopping tips from her. I am thinking she is the one we should ask for advice on the new couches I am determined to have in the very near future.
My priorities are the table set for the terrace, a nice table for downstairs with covered stools and cushions, an armoire to replace "the horrid yellow thing with cubbyholes" in my bedroom, and a microwave. Oh and that lovely thin television screen for the DVD watching - of which we have many! If I stay through the winter I shall see about assisting Abdul in the replacement of the glass ceiling. I can live with the dripping when it rains and the two windows that won't quite close, but I'd rather not.
Rabat has more dwarfs, less djellabas on the street, less apothecaries, more gardens and trees, less cleaners, more paved roads and sidewalks, more tourists (outside my door!).
I went to the bank today to discover that the street on the other side of Mohammad V is completely buggered! Not the street per se, for the cars but the sidewalks on both sides down to the dirt. I was surprised as they looked fine before and the ones in Fez are rocks and dirt and frequent pot holes.
When I was in MA visiting C. this little scene occured:
C.: "B woke up this morning, we were in the den and he said, 'Man I am just stiff all over'.”
C: “So I said, “Quick, shouldn’t we be getting back to the bedroom?”
As they are in their seventies it gives me hope.
Going outside with Cathy, 1 April 2007.
Me: "Smell that? I’m telling you it smells like fresh gingerbread, like nutmeg."
Cathy: sniffs. "No, what you do smell is Spring coming to New England. That’s what New England Spring smells like."
T had her mobile phone stolen while we were in Fez. She takes responsibility as she went out with it stuck in her back pocket. Some youngster lifted it from her pocket, threw it to his friend, and made off. Apparently they (being thieves in general) have a methodology of removing the call card (?) and replacing it. I learned this after I called her mobile several hundred times and left the message that I would pay them the price of the mobile to return it as she needed the numbers. Apparently it was already in the wind.
AH Kara is apparently the place to go for furniture. A taxi ride away says Pam.
T’s conversation with the Moroccan girls at the 'after the wedding' party where she was shocked at their frankness about sex and men. There is apparently a “deflowering” song, yes, they actually still call it deflowering here. The song was being enacted by the six year old daughter of the sister of the bride. The words “cunt”, “pussy”, and the discussion of anal sex were on the venue. They had all read, and had copies of the Kama Sutra. My poor little American child felt quite undone.
1945 British Roadster and the 1934 Triumph Gloria Six - are two of the great cars of all time for looks.
It wasn’t books that changed my life, nor my love of a good man, or anyone’s god, it was the baby
Great quote from T: “You really get to know someone once money is involved.”
To live outside your skin is a way of life that takes practice.
The South Carolina contingent at the Villa continues to cause chaos. Showing their own ignorance they had Neal and Caroline banned from the Villa “because they are tying up the bandwidth”. You have to have over two hundred fucking people before it slows down the bandwidth. That group embodies "the Ugly American" syndrome.
Tamara’s parents are both M.D.s; one is a GI and one is infectious diseases. Very useful when you are traveling in third world countries. Her father lives in Belize. Her mother is in southern California and is something of a hippy. Tamara started her own business to pay for the surgery she has to have on both knees at the age of nineteen. She is a South African - Valley Girl hybrid. Quite a combination. In addition to being physically lovely she is bright, funny, and compassionate. We enjoyed getting to know her while she was in Fez.
Matilda is in Damascus now. I think Cat and Toba are still there. Sally is in Cairo. All pursuing the Arabic language...
Tuesday, 1 May 2007
a more spectacular event
This is one of the more memorable experiences when we had been in Fez for a few months:
28 November 2006, Fez Morocco, 1223 hours local time
So it’s 2430 hours this morning and I’m sleeping, like you do; when I hear a timid knocking on the door. You know the sort, “Are you there and receiving visitors?” sort of knock. In my somnolent state I’m thinking, “No, go away you fucker, I’m sleeping.” But noooo, the knocking continues.
I get up, open the door just enough to peak my head ‘round, because I sleep au natural – and thus I am. Standing on the other side of my door is the rat-like chap who works on the staff here, the one at the bottom of the command chain as I have noticed. The one my daughter tells me was at the party in the Medina given by one of the other students last week; where he was up on the roof smoking Hashish and pillaging the teenage daughter of the school secretary who is visiting from the U.S.
“The water, the water is on,” he says. Now this chappy is not Moroccan, he is not American, and he is not French. Some say he is Russian. Ha, I have been to Moscow; this sneaky son of an alley cat is not Russian.
“What? What are you talking about?” I asked in my sleep dazed state. Let us remember I had ver-r-r-r-y little sleep the night before as the Baby was ill.
He pointed through the cracked door toward the back of the apartment where the rooms for the bath are located. “Hang on, just wait there,” I said closing the door and walking to the end of the bed to retrieve my clothing I had just taken off an hour before; forgoing – and this becomes a factor later – my over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder as I thought this was a quickie deal.
I turned to the Baby who had been sleeping most of the day in recovery from her night before of yet another (why oh why did the gods of the gene pool not give her my digestive system) episode of food poisoning and said, “Now stay there. Cover up and snuggle down while I see what is going on.”
I returned to the door, and opened it further.
“Alright, what is it? What do you want?”
Again with the pointing. “Do you have the water running?” he asks.
“What are you talking about? I was sleeping,” like I am talking to a brick.
I turned and headed toward the back of the apartment. I got to the end of the bed when my feet started feeling wet. By the time I had reached the bathroom door, I had already bent over to cuff up my trousers away from the water now at my ankles and swamping my little Moroccan red leather shoes.
I opened the bathroom door and from the far corner of the – wall – was spraying forth in an arc, a fountain of water that hit me square in the face. “Oh yea, this was going to be fun.”
You have to get this picture – the Villa is one of the nicest places to live in the New City. We live in “the apartment” which is the most posh accommodation in the Villa. We have two; I say again two, working electrical outlets. You with me?
I have two of the “Moroccan version” of extension cords on a surge protector on the right side of the room which gives power to T’s Apple, the tiny red lamp, my precious and beloved electric kettle, and the re-charger for her phone; with an empty space for the toy iron when I need it. On the left wall I have the surge protector, one “Moroccan extension cord” (24” maximum with three to four outlets mounted on a brick like affair) and my find of the month – a ten meter actual extension cord (albeit has a funky outlet at the far end). This serves to hook up my phone re-charger, my speakers for my computer, my Dell, and runs under the settee, past the box with the German goodies (another tale), under the armoire, and around the doors to the “back room” that sits between the two –with doors- bath, rooms. That area is my little office. Quite nice really, has a window at the …oops that is not this story.
I have curly red hair, really curly hair, black-women-understand-there-is-a-whole-dimension-to-my-life-that-is-devoted-to-my-hair-curly – and I had just blown it out straight two days ago. So the shriek that left my mouth was not so much about the three to four inches of water I was standing in, or the electrical cord just to the back of me floating in the water, or the six pairs of shoes now floating out from where they had been carefully placed under the armoire. No, it was the thought that I would frizz!
I turned to see “rat face” standing behind me and he said, “I thought you were cleaning your apartment.”
I grabbed the little weasel by his collar and lifted him up into the air until his abnormally small feet were kicking in terror, and looked up into his smarmy face and screamed, “You’re telling me you knew the water was gushing in here for the last hour and you did nothing? You think I was cleaning my fucking apartment at one in the morning with all the lights out?” And then I smashed his head up against the wall and watched as his unused brains slid down the wall and into the standing water.
Alright I didn’t. But I really wanted to!
“I beg your pardon? You thought I was cleaning in the dark? You mean you knew the water was leaking into the apartment?” I said very quietly and very calmly. Now see, my child who knows me well, at this point hearing my tone, hid her head under the blanket.
“Yes, it is leaking into the apartment on the first level,” he said as though he had just confirmed the certainty of the theory of relativity.
“Go turn the water off,” I said very slowly.
“I will go turn off the water now,” he said as though I had not spoken and he headed for the door. Yes, yes the smashing his head fantasy had returned, but now it had blood gushing from his ears, and loud screaming noises.
Once the water was turned off and the geyser in the wall had ceased to spew forth, I spent the next two hours getting the water out. Now under “good news, bad news, and just the way it is” – Moroccan villas are built on a tilt. I have every confidence there is a proper architectural term, but I know it not. The floors are all stone or marble and at the ‘back’ of any large room that leads to the outside is a – hole. Yep, just like it sounds Sparkey, a hole in the floor. Not a drain, not a decorative object, not an ecological device – a hole.
After the maid sloshes the water from her pail, this is on a normal day, not the flood scenario; she uses a device much like a window squeegee but with a mop handle to push the water out said hole.
There is still the part with the gorgous Norwegian with a voice like mink, and Nancy’s reaction to no water, and the plumber with the paper bags. Oh my.
28 November 2006, Fez Morocco, 1223 hours local time
So it’s 2430 hours this morning and I’m sleeping, like you do; when I hear a timid knocking on the door. You know the sort, “Are you there and receiving visitors?” sort of knock. In my somnolent state I’m thinking, “No, go away you fucker, I’m sleeping.” But noooo, the knocking continues.
I get up, open the door just enough to peak my head ‘round, because I sleep au natural – and thus I am. Standing on the other side of my door is the rat-like chap who works on the staff here, the one at the bottom of the command chain as I have noticed. The one my daughter tells me was at the party in the Medina given by one of the other students last week; where he was up on the roof smoking Hashish and pillaging the teenage daughter of the school secretary who is visiting from the U.S.
“The water, the water is on,” he says. Now this chappy is not Moroccan, he is not American, and he is not French. Some say he is Russian. Ha, I have been to Moscow; this sneaky son of an alley cat is not Russian.
“What? What are you talking about?” I asked in my sleep dazed state. Let us remember I had ver-r-r-r-y little sleep the night before as the Baby was ill.
He pointed through the cracked door toward the back of the apartment where the rooms for the bath are located. “Hang on, just wait there,” I said closing the door and walking to the end of the bed to retrieve my clothing I had just taken off an hour before; forgoing – and this becomes a factor later – my over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder as I thought this was a quickie deal.
I turned to the Baby who had been sleeping most of the day in recovery from her night before of yet another (why oh why did the gods of the gene pool not give her my digestive system) episode of food poisoning and said, “Now stay there. Cover up and snuggle down while I see what is going on.”
I returned to the door, and opened it further.
“Alright, what is it? What do you want?”
Again with the pointing. “Do you have the water running?” he asks.
“What are you talking about? I was sleeping,” like I am talking to a brick.
I turned and headed toward the back of the apartment. I got to the end of the bed when my feet started feeling wet. By the time I had reached the bathroom door, I had already bent over to cuff up my trousers away from the water now at my ankles and swamping my little Moroccan red leather shoes.
I opened the bathroom door and from the far corner of the – wall – was spraying forth in an arc, a fountain of water that hit me square in the face. “Oh yea, this was going to be fun.”
You have to get this picture – the Villa is one of the nicest places to live in the New City. We live in “the apartment” which is the most posh accommodation in the Villa. We have two; I say again two, working electrical outlets. You with me?
I have two of the “Moroccan version” of extension cords on a surge protector on the right side of the room which gives power to T’s Apple, the tiny red lamp, my precious and beloved electric kettle, and the re-charger for her phone; with an empty space for the toy iron when I need it. On the left wall I have the surge protector, one “Moroccan extension cord” (24” maximum with three to four outlets mounted on a brick like affair) and my find of the month – a ten meter actual extension cord (albeit has a funky outlet at the far end). This serves to hook up my phone re-charger, my speakers for my computer, my Dell, and runs under the settee, past the box with the German goodies (another tale), under the armoire, and around the doors to the “back room” that sits between the two –with doors- bath, rooms. That area is my little office. Quite nice really, has a window at the …oops that is not this story.
I have curly red hair, really curly hair, black-women-understand-there-is-a-whole-dimension-to-my-life-that-is-devoted-to-my-hair-curly – and I had just blown it out straight two days ago. So the shriek that left my mouth was not so much about the three to four inches of water I was standing in, or the electrical cord just to the back of me floating in the water, or the six pairs of shoes now floating out from where they had been carefully placed under the armoire. No, it was the thought that I would frizz!
I turned to see “rat face” standing behind me and he said, “I thought you were cleaning your apartment.”
I grabbed the little weasel by his collar and lifted him up into the air until his abnormally small feet were kicking in terror, and looked up into his smarmy face and screamed, “You’re telling me you knew the water was gushing in here for the last hour and you did nothing? You think I was cleaning my fucking apartment at one in the morning with all the lights out?” And then I smashed his head up against the wall and watched as his unused brains slid down the wall and into the standing water.
Alright I didn’t. But I really wanted to!
“I beg your pardon? You thought I was cleaning in the dark? You mean you knew the water was leaking into the apartment?” I said very quietly and very calmly. Now see, my child who knows me well, at this point hearing my tone, hid her head under the blanket.
“Yes, it is leaking into the apartment on the first level,” he said as though he had just confirmed the certainty of the theory of relativity.
“Go turn the water off,” I said very slowly.
“I will go turn off the water now,” he said as though I had not spoken and he headed for the door. Yes, yes the smashing his head fantasy had returned, but now it had blood gushing from his ears, and loud screaming noises.
Once the water was turned off and the geyser in the wall had ceased to spew forth, I spent the next two hours getting the water out. Now under “good news, bad news, and just the way it is” – Moroccan villas are built on a tilt. I have every confidence there is a proper architectural term, but I know it not. The floors are all stone or marble and at the ‘back’ of any large room that leads to the outside is a – hole. Yep, just like it sounds Sparkey, a hole in the floor. Not a drain, not a decorative object, not an ecological device – a hole.
After the maid sloshes the water from her pail, this is on a normal day, not the flood scenario; she uses a device much like a window squeegee but with a mop handle to push the water out said hole.
There is still the part with the gorgous Norwegian with a voice like mink, and Nancy’s reaction to no water, and the plumber with the paper bags. Oh my.
holidays
We had planned to go over to the office to pick up T's stipend today, as well as have me sign up for French classes. Alas when we called Abdul this morning,
T: "We need to replace the Booda but I guess Abdul is at work, and I want a shower."
Me" "Try him. They have the most unusual holidays, well unusual to us. When I returned 2 April it was some sort of school holiday so you never know."
He came right over, bringing the chap who brings the gas and informed us that yes indeedy today is a holiday. So there will be no picking up, nor signing up. The holidays are Moroccan, and French, with the other ex-pats throwing our own days in there.
I have an email today about the writer's conference in British Columbia. The timing is good, mid-October. I can go into Boston, leave my stuff off with Cath', go up to Surrey, then return to Boston to visit, shop, and see doctors. The ticket and hotel are doable, I don't know the fee for the conference yet.
I am taking up the challenge of one of my fellow bloggers - to create at least one page of writing every day in May. Just the re-start I need.
Our weather continues to be glorious. Warmer, yes but absolutely tolerable.
T: "We need to replace the Booda but I guess Abdul is at work, and I want a shower."
Me" "Try him. They have the most unusual holidays, well unusual to us. When I returned 2 April it was some sort of school holiday so you never know."
He came right over, bringing the chap who brings the gas and informed us that yes indeedy today is a holiday. So there will be no picking up, nor signing up. The holidays are Moroccan, and French, with the other ex-pats throwing our own days in there.
I have an email today about the writer's conference in British Columbia. The timing is good, mid-October. I can go into Boston, leave my stuff off with Cath', go up to Surrey, then return to Boston to visit, shop, and see doctors. The ticket and hotel are doable, I don't know the fee for the conference yet.
I am taking up the challenge of one of my fellow bloggers - to create at least one page of writing every day in May. Just the re-start I need.
Our weather continues to be glorious. Warmer, yes but absolutely tolerable.
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