the rapid and backward

The only reasons curbs exist on the streets and sidewalks of Morocco is so that the cars have something to hook onto when they park on the sidewalks!

24 April 2007: A few days ago three of the boys from the street knocked on the door, grins ear to ear.
In Moroccan: "We are collecting money for a football."
Me: "You pirates! You have a football. You are outside my door kicking it every day!"

The grins get wider.

They had put a blue velvet drape with some sort of crest on it over the football box. That sort of initiative deserves a reward. I dug into my change and gave them money. I hang my head as it is my firm policy NOT to give the children candy or money, but if you had seen them you would have given them money too!

A question asked by Hamid, Q’s tutor, in all seriousness, as they were discussing religion and American culture:
“Would it be more important for a Protestant or Catholic to go to confession or be on Dr. Phil?”


Present time: In the past two days I have passed as many demonstrations and in both of them women were well represented – and in both of them the women were grouped together at the BACK. Grrrr I acknowledge that it is likely this bothers me more than them.

I have found that my pace of walking is proving a security measure. I walk faster than any potential thief, and a stalker would be oh too easy to spot if he were following at my pace. Handy eh?

Abdul Latif has warned me away from walking along the river to Marjane, but only at a certain time of day – early I think. He said the danger is thieves? Traffic? Rain? Potholes? I’m just not sure but I am thinking if it is thieves that they are monumentally stupid – to be in the same place every day at the same time… perhaps it was aggressive birds?

Come by this week-end as I am posting the observations and photographs from my trip to Chellah this week.

Ciao.

‘Tis [always] the season…

Reading the world’s newspapers on any given day is enough to make us throw up our hands and say, “There’s nothing I can do. What can one person do?” I know you say this lovely readers because several of you have expressed that hopelessness on this site. I have an answer for you she said smiling. This is my pet project discovered some ten years ago – Project Heifer International. It is an organization that practices that old tale about teaching a hungry man to fish rather than giving him bread for the day.

Heifer International is a worldwide organization that has had an enormous positive influence on the planet toward ending world hunger. Look around you, how obscene is it that in the world of 2007 there is a problem of world hunger? It is absurd and we need all to feel a bit ashamed. This organization works on a marvelous principle of spread the wealth, or what they call pass on the gift. You give a rabbit, a goat, or a cow to a family. When that animal produces (the organization makes sure it has a little romantic friend nearby) offspring, the family is obligated to give one of the animals away. Now think about that, how that can spread through a village. Go to the site and read. They tell their own tale much better than I can.

For years it has been my own routine to “sacrifice a goat” whenever something good happens. True the phrase has shocked more than a few people in the more urbane parts of the world… What I mean is that whenever the Universe gives me a gift, I go to the Heifer International website and buy a goat for a family. It is only $120/58 pounds for one goat, and amazingly the price hasn’t changed over the past ten years. There are more expensive animals and less expensive. It is the price of a day at the salon, or a new shirt, or a pair of gloves – and how many of those do we need? For that small price you get to feel smug, joyful, and generous. It DOES work to change the world. There is an old Korean proverb: To build a mountain, you start with a grain of sand.

I believe that every time we commit a good act it affects the Universe, just as every time we commit a bad act it affects the Universe. Now do the math, if we have more good acts….

Think it over and then go sacrifice a goat eh?

Ciao.

to stroll perchance to walk an adventure

I am a flaneur, a walker. To walk, to stroll (not my pace but it works for others), to see things at eye level with the ability to explore farther – this is the way to discover a city. I love great walking cities: Paris, of course, Prague, New York, London, and San Francisco are a few. I like walking in the sun, the rain, the snow and I will walk in the heat, if I must. This day the sun was sparkling in a sky so blue you could fall into it and get lost. A few high flying white fluffy clouds just to define a nice chill and I was set.

I went out this morning with the intention to visit the bank in New
City to get cash, like you do, and then have lunch, read a bit, and pick up my new djellaba that is being altered; but as often happens in Morocco that’s not how it went. The bank, as it is so often, was out of money, which I needed to have to lunch at Le Grand Comptoir as I thought to have fish. I walked as far as the Gare de Ville rearranging my day in my head as I walked. Taking a taxi to Chez Paul in Agdal, I then walked over to the bank, which always has money, and made my withdrawal. As long as I was there I visited La Vie en Rose and did a small bit of shopping – something white and lacy. Having traversed the boulevard I decided not to return to Paul’s but instead to lunch at one of the sidewalk cafés where Q and I had eaten before. Wonderful service, great French fires with mayonnaise, and delicious lamb for a pittance.

After lunch I started walking in the direction of New City thinking I would catch a taxi as soon as I no longer recognized any landmarks. I walked past the computer stores that are located past the clothes-shopping district, only HP and Dell – Apple is located somewhere to the north I think.
I continued over the bridge as I remember coming this way. Now I was walking past the shops for house paint and mirrors and other items for refinishing and refurbishing a house or apartment.
Then the auto parts of every ilk.
Next were antiques, chandeliers, and lamps; with one cedar table and set of chairs to die for – but as I reminded myself I have no use for at present.

By now I was far enough along that I was thinking I could make it to the train station, pick up my djellaba (as it was now past three p.m.) and take a taxi the rest of the way home. I continued in the general direction of west even though I recognized nothing by this time. I stopped at a pharmacy and then a furniture store to “ask” directions. It’s amazing what you can garner from a conversation when you understand not-one-single-word.

As I rounded the next curve in the road I saw the walls of the Medina ahead and began to recognize landmarks. I had completely bypassed the New City and come around to end on the other side of the Medina! Some six miles or better I guess. Inshallah. I can pick up the djellaba on another day.

Looking to the right I saw what appeared to be a mini-Marjane, Label’ Vie Supermarche’. It is indeed a small market with fruit, a meat section in the back (under glass!), and Haagen-Dazs ice crème! I bought some apples and Clementines – this year’s crop is sad compared to last year where there were carts of them in the street and you could buy a kg. for less than ten dirhams. Something happened, not enough rain – something I’m not certain what. The “orange juice man” in the Oudayas has converted his hannout to selling gas for the winter as he says the price of the oranges is too high to make it profitable for him. And yes I bought two (!) pints of ice crème, Pralines and Crème. At the check-out I had not had my fruit weighed and priced (didn’t know I should, didn’t know where) and instead of stopping the line and looking at me like I was a stupid git, the nice young woman called over some one else who took my fruit and had it priced, bagged, and returned while she moved the line along around me. I’ll be back.

Coming to the Medina walls I saw Oued Dahab, a shopping mall of sorts that I keep meaning to check out. I went in to find I’m not missing anything – it’s full of sneakers and not much else.

As I took an unfamiliar road into the Medina I saw six old men lined up along the walk, sitting at rickety tables with ancient typewriters, some with an umbrella for shade. They had people sitting in the extra chair at the table and were typing letters and documents for them. What an enterprise, out of time.

The dates are spectacular and cheap this season as I noted coming past the Medina market. The King’s dates are marked down to 100 dirhams/kg. and look delicious.

Arriving home I had tea, dates and Clementines, and cake while watching “Amazing Grace” with Ioan Gruffudd, as William Wilberforce the Englishman who was the driving force behind the abolition of slavery in Britain. A wonderful film, really well done. I recommend this one.

Ciao.

and today there will be oysters and popcorn in the market

Now THIS article makes me smile! Teachers are listed right at the top with firefighters as the "most prestigious" professions! There you go!


As there was no sleep to be had in the Oudayas last night due to the party next door (I think the parents went out of town…) I finished “World Without End”. It did not disappoint. I highly recommend this one. History, sex, war, murder, plague, and politics – it’s got it all.

Abdul Latif and I met each other in the cobbled streets of the Oudayas this morning and both threw our hands up and said, “No sleep!” It is however an isolated incident and I think a good time was had by all, so no problem. I am tempted to rouse them from bed this morning with a blast of the Corries at full volume but… no. he he Walking through the Medina there are no more sfinj being offered, but there is popcorn and fresh oysters for sale.

It is a gorgeous day out. The sun is shinning from a sky that is clear and blue as the sea that is crashing in on the beach below the fort. It is 18 degrees C and I am a happy camper even though I feel a bit knackered from very little sleep. Once again I wish I was a “napper”, but alas it is not a talent I posses. Q learned this skill from her grandfather, one of the great nappers of America. I always think I’m going to miss something, or the world will be in danger and they will need me – I don’t know why. Q says I have a “rescue complex”. Could be worse, I could have a “victim complex”. Yuk.

I see, speaking of rescue, that Ms. Rice has decided to settle the Middle East matter before her boy is out of office. Good luck with that. Australia is considering dismissing the monarchy; Sharif has returned to Pakistan to stir the pot even more (aren’t we thrilled they have nuclear weapons?), France is making francs building airplanes for China, and Columbia and Venezuela are having a political crisis because the leaders of both countries like the little boys they are have been insulting each other.

Aside from the world-shaking events is the decision I have to make. Where shall I go for Christmas? I am thinking I will go to Paris, as there are some old memories I’d like to visit, but the lure of the North Sea or Dunvegan is strong as well. Then there is London, and at Christmas it’s like walking through a Dickens novel but with the retail delights of Knightsbridge and Harrods. Sigh, such a problem. Or……. Lyon, Madrid, or Lisbon? What do you think? I’ll take opinions and suggestions. Indulge your fantasy – if you could go, where would you choose?

Ciao.

our world, our problems

Two shocking articles that give rise to concern:

This about Iraq veterans living in Britain. I find it hard to believe anyone would treat veterans in this way, but then again only recently I read another article about the hundreds! of veterans living homeless in the U.S. As this was a war of choice how can we allow the soldiers who fought to be treated this way? There should be an outcry. This is my part - for now.


and this about the future of terriorism in my back yard.


I went out yesterday, for the first time in days, to find grey, overcast skies, chilly wind, and intermittent pouring rain. It was brilliant! The three people in Morocco who did NOT think I was a bit “off” are now convinced that I am. I can only assume they are unaware that in Scotland we bring our crazies, I mean eccentrics right down to the parlor where everyone can see them.

The rain in Fez falls in soft intermittent showers; the rain in Rabat falls as if Thor is empting a bucket on your head. The rain rolls in, sits just off the beach beyond the breakwater and sends in what can only be described as a celestial bucket that then dumps the rain onto Rabat, then there is a quiet period before the next bucket makes its appearance. There were real splash-your-feet-in puddles, and yes…. I did. By the time I arrived back home my jeans were soaked through and I was being very pleased with myself that I had chosen the Moroccan version of proper rainwear – in leu of wellies, sandals. I’m smiling.

Ciao.

I am returned

I continue to be amazed at how supportive the cyber community is; we need to be reminded I guess that it is flesh and blood people writing these posts. When you get out in the world and meet members of your cyber circle, like sally, Geoff, and jmb, you become certain it is a brilliant medium. This is my roundabout way of saying “thank you!” to everyone who was so kind to leave a message during my recent indisposition. I apologize to all my lovely readers for the lack of material these past few days and I shall endeavor to make it up to you by being extra witty and entertaining.

I must admit I have no adventures to report as I have been confined to my bed – alone. Not a lot of material there. We have had rain here; a good solid rain, enough to come through my sometimes-leaky glass ceiling. Fortunately it kindly always leaks in the same place so I am at the ready with a towel on the floor. I am going out later to retrieve my laundry from the Press and to see the city, as I am sure it has exploded in green. after the rain; always a glorious site.

I began reading a new novel yesterday when I started to feel better and I am going though it like a knife through warm butter. It is Ken Follett’s “ World Without End”. That man can spin a tale so well. It is a sequel of sorts to “Pillars of the Earth” which was brilliant, about the building of a Cathedral in England. If you are an architecture or history buff, or just like a good story, I highly recommend both. You don’t need to have read the first at all to read the present offering which takes place some hundreds of years later and follows the lives of several children who witnessed a murder in the forest. Yes…. I am reading it and as I find myself hundreds of pages past where I was going to stop I ask, “How does he do that?”


Here are some observations from Fez this time last year:
4 December 2006, Fez Morocco, 1144 hours local time

I have in amazement noted the presence of many liquor shops, and a large liquor section at Marjane’s, with a back door… for the French, the tourists, the Muslims gone astray?

There are a section of women with hair the color of shoe polish; an odd purple color that comes from henna applied to jet-black hair I believe.

I have made note of a great many people – men, women, and the occasional child – with eye patches. It appears to be medical, not from an injury, and I wonder if it is some endemic disease, or something environmental?

None of the government offices in Fez, and I had cause to visit them all in pursuit of a residency card, have a single computer. They all work on paper and the files are kept in flimsy tin cabinets.

The cab driver I had recently on my trip to Marjane’s: “You must learn Arabic to read the Koran, to enter the mosque, the Koran takes all (after the explanation I am Buddhist) people under Islam. “You are a writer woman. This is good.” It was the kindest of proselytizing.

The distance between rich and poor is vast, but they don’t clash up against each other on a daily basis; the culture is “inward” like the houses. Even more than in other places of the world, you can’t go on outside appearances.

Overheard in conversation at lunch with Q and some of the girls: We were discussing the differences between the Catholic and Buddhist views on sex before marriage.
P: “My parents have accepted that I sinned and we moved on, we just don’t talk about it?”
Q: “I think it is great that you learned to speak Italian just to sin.”

There is no “Health and Safety commission”, no OSCHA: at the construction site you see the workers hauling the bricks up with rope on precarious wooden platforms, chaps on the ledge smoothing the cement with trowels and no safety ropes or helmets; and the welder with no gloves, glasses, helmet, or coveralls.

Moroccan men cannot parallel park, but they can dance.

I have been here long enough now to tell the difference between couture and off the rack djellabas.

The scariest rooms I know are – empty. The bureaucrat from the Residency cards took us upstairs to “the boss”. I long for the simplicity of the bajeesh of India where you simply hand over the bribe and you’re done) the bottom floor is like any bureaucracy, but notably bare of decoration, personal or otherwise. The second floor sent me reeling back thirty years to a similar set of bare rooms with long dark hallways set with closed doors with numbers set above. Shiver.

Morocco is lousy with birds and full of bird song. The birds come in all sizes from the tiny brown and grey songsters that perch in our window’s iron grating to the huge black majestic that fly the thermals.

Ciao lovely readers.

back soon

dear readers,

I have been quite ill, some better today. I shall be back soon.