Familiar territory

A little past midnight, September 18, 2009

It’s my first night in the Oudaya.

As is typical during Ramadan, the medina, usually still and somewhat sketchy this time of night was vibrant and alive into the wee hours, as two of my new housemates and I wandered around, buying more things for the house, our fantastic palace in the middle of the sea blue and bright white of the Oudaya.

Never, in my wildest dreams, would I imagine that I would live somewhere, albeit for only nine short months, where you pass cannons and fading stone balustrades, walking through once heavily protected archways of an ancient fort in order to go home. I never dared to hope to live within a two minute walk of two art galleries, a museum, a delightful garden, and a balcony with the view of two beaches with kite-surfers and hand-holding couples, the river that separates the city of Rabat from the city of Sale, the Hassania, an old cemetery, a fun park, the medina, houses and people and life. I lusted after living like this while living in my rural community during the Peace Corps, wishing I were within walking distance of the Hammam, of a living, breathing medina, of shopkeepers, on public transportation, and a place that forces me to walk and be a pedestrian, always.

But such is life in the Oudaya, and such will be my life while working for an international education non-profit and taking an online certificate program for Public Health. If only everyone in the world were so lucky, so blessed.

As I sat on the Royal Air Maroc flight from JFK to Casa on Tuesday night, I wondered if it was the right decision to come back. It’s a different experience, the life I wanted while in Peace Corps, but I wondered: did I only remember the shiny, rich parts of Morocco while at home for those long three months? Was it a harder life than I remembered, a dirtier life, something that is full of hassle and obstacles, something that I really did not want to get back to? I had such a vibrant summer: getting closer to family—a priority that my time in the family-centered culture here inspired—traveling to interesting places, getting inspired to do graduate school, and feeling comfortable in my hometown for the first time ever. What was the point of prolonging the inevitable finding a house or apartment, a job, paying insurance, buying a car…

But as the drink cart came by, I saw Ouelmes and Ain Saiss on the cart: just two brands of water, sparkling and still. And it took me a full minute to realize that the reason they felt familiar was that they were Moroccan, something I saw every day, as familiar of brand as Target, McDonalds, or Coca Cola in the U.S. They were my past and future. In fact, the only culture shock that I’ve experienced in these last few days, despite living in an Arab rather than Amazigh (Berber) area is that I keep wanting to put on my seatbelt in taxis, forgetting that it’s impractical and usually impossible.

I did not feel the rush of excitement as I heaved and hauled my 150 lbs of luggage around the airport to the train, or had to lug them up a staircase in Rabat (lHamdullah, people helped). The men at our “typical” Rabat hotel remembered my face if not my name, and did the same act they usually do with Peace Corps Volunteers: putting me in the wrong room with another American, assuming we were friends and knew each other.

That afternoon, one of my house mates and co-workers—another former volunteer—and I walked to the Oudaya. For me, it was my first time to go. Somehow, while living it up every time I visited the capital during my service, I made it to almost every other point of interest in town, but not my future home. It was exactly as I had imagined, though I was surprised at the large hill that I will doubtless walk several times a day to get home. Already, it has become more manageable.

These last three days, I have probably walked four or more miles a day, and I feel good, finally with a forced less sedentary lifestyle. We’ve cleaned, bargained, and shopped and what was a Moroccan bachelor pad a few days ago is feeling like a home. Tomorrow, the ponjs I ordered to specification will show up at our doorstep. Eventually, we will have the luxury of a washing machine: much more affordable when there are three roommates to share the bill with.

The house is maybe twice the size of my mud house from Peace Corps, but much nicer than I anticipated for the price. I live downstairs, with a friend; my bedroom is real while hers is created from a salon space. There’s a sitting area, the front door, and a small kitchen we plan to use as a laundry room and storage. We also have a bathroom with a flush toilet and hot shower. There aren’t windows, which is typical, as we share all the other walls with our neighbors. Upstairs, we have a kitchen that bleeds into a living area upstairs, which came mostly furnished, though the L-shaped couch looks like something from a fun-house, and two bedrooms. I think that will end up being where most of the shared space and social space will be. The most striking part of it is the roof, which overlooks about five or six other roofs or courtyards, a mosque, and the river view of Rabat and Sale. I hope, once we all get our first paychecks, that we will get plastic furniture for the roof so that it is easy to dine with the setting sun, call to prayer ringing out over the stunning land and cityscape.

On Thursday, a roommate friend and I went to the Peace Corps office, to say hi to people. It is amazing how truly comfortable everything feels. I don’t feel out of place, or wonder why I am here. Morocco is not an ideal place or even my personal Shangri-la, but I really feel like it has become my second home, with its flaws and its beauty.

The end of Ramadan is drawing near, and I am almost on a Ramadan schedule: staying up late into the night and sleeping in or napping during the heat of the day. Tonight, a roommate and her friend made a l’ftor, so with the call to prayer, we “broke fast” with a slightly modified version of the feast, then ventured out again for shopping in the crowded medina and coffee on a main street in the city.

I love the medina at night when it is still alive. There comes a time when it’s not safe, but in the time between sundown and being at home under lock and key, it is amazing, even if it’s not one of the UNESCO and Lonely Planet-recognized wonder of Fez or Marrakech. No, this is not a tourist medina, for the most part, and the majority of people are shopping to live. Piles of towels, blankets, hair products, clothes, scarves, foods, books, religious articles, shoes, used appliances, cell phone accessories, phone cards, bowls of steaming gingery escargot, kefta sandwiches, or kitchen appliances create little islands in the larger walkways, and it takes maneuvering not to trip and fall while navigating through crowds of men, women, and children of every color, shape, and style: old women, old men using canes, giggling teenage girls in shiny mini-jellabas with matching pants, or tight jeans with a short-sleeved blouse, snippets of Spanish or French as tourists walk through in a wide-eyed stupor. Moroccan teens even occasionally in mini-skirts, or the occasional woman covered from head to toe with just her eyes showing, young men in packs (don’t make eye contact) or families pushing strollers, women with headscarves or loose, long hair tied back, or a short, sharp haircut… The stores run the gambit, and it really is a town, a city in miniature. Other than leaving for work, I could live these nine months never leaving the Oudaya and medina, and life would be the cheaper for it, as the downtown, Centre Ville area is much more expansive as a whole.

Don’t get me wrong: there are always problems and obstacles; life is not simple and carefree. When walking through the medina, men occasionally whisper obscenities about us in Arabic, thinking correctly that I don’t understand but not knowing that I can understand the gist of it. While shopping for ovens or washing machines at the superstore here, Marjane, of course nothing we want is in stock, no they can’t order it for us, nor can they sell us the floor model that has a price tag on it and nothing at all to indicate that it is not currently available. This wasn’t an isolated event: the same thing happened with our desired oven and washing machine.

When we were staying in a hotel for the last two nights, since our house wasn’t ready, nothing was open to eat, so we walked miles in the heat, sluggishly, having had just a handful of pretzels or a sip of water when we woke up because nothing is open for Ramadan and even if it was, we wouldn’t be able to eat in public because of our own feelings of discomfort. Every day at around two or three, my head throbs from dehydration and, until today, it usually took several hours until we were in the relative obscurity of our hotel room to down some water for respite.

I don’t mention this to complain, but to show that my eyes are not glazed over with the honeymoon period with my situation right now. Life is not perfect or heavenly here, though it’s pretty close. If, for the price we are paying for rent, I can live somewhere like this and have this beautiful lifestyle, why not stay longer, and take classes online and pursue my degree that way? No, I already dislike the impersonality and coldness of distance education, though it’s better than I anticipated. The pedant in me loves the atmosphere of classes around a seminar table, the debate and game of school, and, especially with the degrees I want to pursue, it will be much better to do it with field placements and face-to-face interactions rather than through a computer screen while sitting in a garden, or on my roof.

And work! Work has its frustrations already as well, and I know it will be a veritable challenge, though one I embrace. As if my idyllic life could not get any better, I will have the opportunity to go to Spain twice a month (though a dirty grimy port town, so sayeth the guidebooks) and most likely add a splash of sangria and tapas to my comparatively temperance-filled life in Morocco.

Until next time, lla y awn, my friends.

September 19, 2009

Life continues to be good, I suppose. This morning, we slept in, after I was up until past three, working on alpha-reading for one of my favorite childhood authors, blogging, and cleaning the house.

After finishing up the downstairs, the results are in: the house is beginning to feel like a home. Right now, my biggest home challenge is an affordable place to store clothes. Right now, most of them are hanging in our second kitchen—which is now a storage space and will soon become a laundry room—though many are still in piles or plastic bags on my second ponj. I am looking for cheap storage: be it a used dresser or simply Tupperware containers I can stack in the corner. I am also looking for a few small tables, a small trash can (a few), and hooks for the door.

After cleaning, the four of us (sans S, avec Az) went to a place that has used furniture, but we were too late and most everything was packed up. We did find an affordable washing machine, and will buy it and have it delivered on Wednesday. I also got sheets that don’t really fit on my ponj, but for nine months, I will make do.

At around four, we picked up our ponjs, and despite the sellers’ attempt to extract more money than agreed on, it was all in all a fruitful trip, and walking at my not-so-leisurely typical pace, I still could not keep up with the teenage boy who walked them the half-mile piled high on the hand cart—the carusa—dodging cars and taking the steeper hills at a fast run.

We stayed in for a few hours: until about two hours after break-fast, since most things are closed until then. A friend and I wandered the medina on a fruitless search for vegetables and plastic furniture. Unfortunately, everything was closed for the night that we needed and it was mainly clothing stores, electronic stores, hardware stores, small cafes, and stores with sundries that were open. We made do with sandwiches, found a few more Berber speakers in the medina, and headed to bed after dinner. I love that on average, I've walked probably 4-5 miles every day since I've been here, just as a way of life. I feel healthier, more productive, greener, and more natural, like this is what humans were meant to do. And I suppose, in a way, we were meant to live this way. It certainly feels ideal.