A life of convenience

Last night was an important milestone in my life here. The supermarche opened downstairs. It is directly downstairs from my house. I can smell that familiar Moroccan hanut smell and Tide laundry detergent wafting up. I saw that is was open yesterday, walked in and when I did, the store owner said, "Jin! Say to me "Bismillah!" So, I said "Bismillah" which means "in the name of God" and we shook hands. It's like I gave him my blessing for his new store. Then, I walked slowly through the store, taking it all in. All the important food items in my life are there: diet coke, popcorn, pistachio yogurt, and the fake cheese. They don't have real cheese yet, and that's the one thing that would make me happier. I asked about it. I am also going to ask them for granola, red beans, and American chocolate. Then, I will never have reason to leave my town. This morning I woke up, walked downstairs in basically my pajamas along with my red Spiderman plastic house slippers and bought yogurt for breakfast. That was cool.

What was totally unexpected and weird was the girl who was working behind the counter asked me (albeit in French) if I worked for the Peace Corps. I was so surprised because nobody in my town understands what the Peace Corps is, not even my boss, so for somebody to ask me about it was really shocking. Apparently, she had worked for Peace Corps a few years ago in Ouarzazate and asked me if I knew a girl named "Stacy." This happens to me all the time. As if I would know all foreigners in this country because I am one myself. She said Stacy left Morocco a few years ago, so no, I don't know her.

After all, tomorrow is another day.

I cut my finger while doing the dishes tonight. Last week I had broken a glass in the sink and thought I had collected all the shards of glass, but one still remained stuck inside the drain. It was a pretty deep cut and after wrapping it in toilet paper I hurried to the town hospital to see if stitches were needed. Of course when I arrived, the hospital was closed. I took note of a group of men drinking tea outside the hospital and, as I suspected, one of the men sauntered into the hospital a little while later. That was the doctor.

Here begins my experience with the health care system in Morocco. Besides the hospital being closed when I arrived, I would give my experience there an overall high rating. I wasn’t sure if the hospital would even be open at 6:30 pm on a Saturday evening, but I had a feeling it would be open. I wasn’t asked my name or if I had insurance. (Not that that would matter here because everyone who lives here has free health insurance!) I showed the doctor my finger and mumbled in my pathetic Arabic that “I did something to myself.” He brought me into another room and told me to sit on the bed. I ignored what looked like droplets of blood and sat down. He put on plastic gloves and rubbed iodine on my cut. He still didn’t ask for my name, but he did ask me where I lived. He asked me if I could speak French and laughed when I told him I only spoke Arabic. He then quizzed me on my knowledge of the Berber language. I told him I didn’t know anything, but when I produced the right answer for the word “bread” he said I was already practically fluent. He put some mystery cream that looked like peanut butter on my cut, wrapped it up, and that was it. When I asked him if I needed to pay him, he laughed at me and said, “For a little bandage? No, I didn’t do anything.” Thanking him, I left feeling bewildered. How different that was than anything I’ve ever experienced at home.

I had another little surprise earlier in the day, too. There have been two men knocking down the wall in the apartment next door. I had just adjusted to the idea of the dentist working next door to me and now this? After two days of constant hammering and pounding and jumping over piles of concrete, I asked them what they were building. Where there had been one big apartment, they were making a wall to divide the apartment into two apartments. I asked if they knew who would be living there and the first guy didn’t know, but the second guy was pretty certain a gendarme (policeman) would be moving in. (nooooooooo!!!) Feeling forlorn, I walked downstairs to bitch to my friend in the bakery. Before I made it there, I ran into my muldar (landlord) who had no idea what the other guy was talking about and assured me that nobody would be moving in any time soon. He said the other guy was just “talking.” Hmmm, a common phenomenon here. I have learned to not always put stalk in all the things people tell me here. It’s about saving face. Rather than giving somebody a potentially wrong answer, or admitting you don’t know, you make something up.

I them made it to the bakery, watched the Addams Family with my friend and was about to leave when an old Berber woman walked in. She yelled to nobody in particular, “A Christian! That’s a Christian!” (Calling somebody a Christian is just an old-fashioned way of pointing out a white person) I was a little annoyed because it was the market day, which meant that the town was full of people who liked pointing and laughing at the American girl. I smiled at her and greeted her in Arabic to which she exclaimed to, again nobody in particular, “She speaks Arabic!” Then I’m pretty sure she was making fun of me when she asked if I could send her to France. I told her it wasn’t possible for me to send her to France and she asked me why. I told her I didn’t even have enough money to send myself to France, so she’d have to find another way. She then asked me if I prayed. Since Ramadan, I have been asked this question a lot. Especially when people learned I was fasting, their next question would always be about praying. When they ask this, they don’t mean just praying to God, they mean praying 5 times a day with prostration. I usually respond to this by saying, “I pray, just not like how you do.” Usually people respect this and move on. Today was a different story. The woman in the bakery did not understand why I wouldn’t want to be a Muslim. I finally told her that I believe in one God and that it’s the same God she believes in. This seemed to appease her. At this point, it should have been pretty clear to her that I could speak Arabic fairly well, so when she turned to her friend and called me “ugly” I got a little mad. I asked her why I was ugly and she laughed and said I was beautiful. Whatever. She then pointed at my clothes and said I was a good dresser. This comment really caught me off guard because if any of you know a thing about dressing in Morocco, you’d know that it’s not easy for me and it’s one of the things that stresses me out the most. Also, she had just called me ugly. I was dressed pretty conservatively that day with a baggy long-sleeved top and flowy pants. I think she was making fun of me the entire time we were talking, but I can’t be sure. Today was just one of those days, I guess. Some days are harder than others and this definitely was a day that tested my patience.

After all, tomorrow is another day! As Scarlett said in Gone with the Wind, and as my friend Jackie reminded me the other day.

It's Called Common Sense!

So, big news in the neighborhood. I'm getting a new neighbor. When I first learned this, I was very disappointed and hoped it wasn't true. I like my little sanctuary here. I can escape here and enjoy the small pleasures my life here allows, like listening to American music, exercising on my roof, or walking around in a tank top and shorts. My landlord told me it would be a man and his wife.

Then, a few days later as I was talking to the man who owns the bakery downstairs, I found out that it wasn't a man and his wife, but rather a dentist, or "doctor of teeth" as we say here. So, instead of gaining two neighbors who would be infiltrating my world, I am instead getting a man, his professional place of business, and his entire clientèle. Great. There is one door downstairs that opens up to a flight of stairs and three apartments. Basically, from now on, anybody off the street will be able to gain access to my house.

If this totally upsets my way of life here, I will move. Moving would have its perks. I would find a house located on a less-frequented road. Find a little peace and quiet. But, hauling all my stuff across town and readjusting to a new house sounds unappealing.

So, today I was feeling a little better about the situation. I had a good talk with the tooth man, who told me not to worry or be scared. Then, immediately following this conversation, he left and locked me inside of my house. Prior to this, I had told him to be gentle with the lock to the outside door. I had finally perfected the right touch to opening and closing it and had warned him many times about how tricky it could be. A few times I would catch him jamming his key in and jiggling it around. Then, today he broke the lock, locked me inside and ignored me when I told him that jamming the key inside wasn't going to solve the problem. Together, me on the inside and him on the outside, we finally opened the door. He said right there and then he was going to buy us a new lock. I went back upstairs and half an hour later returned to check on his work progress. He was gone and the door had been left wide open. I closed the door, probably locking myself inside again, went back upstairs and waited and three hours later am still waiting.....