Weekend Getaway

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“It is as hard to see one’s self as to look backwards without turning around” -Thoreau

I took a little escape to Marrakech today to see some of the volunteers. My big plan for the day was to check out prices on things I needed for my future house and see if they are cheaper in the city or in my little town (cheaper in town). I came away triumphant with Tabasco (I can’t tell you how much I have craved the taste!), soy sauce and sesame oil for me and a can opener for Maryam. It was a treat to hang out with the other volunteers too. I really needed to relax and do a little venting.
I have been a bit stressed out lately because finding a place to move into has not been easy. Luckily I have Maryam as a back up - living with her is a pleasure and she actually makes a better roommate than most of the people I have lived with in the States. I am supposed to move out on February 1st, but if I don’t find a place before then I feel very comfortable staying put. Maryam actually almost cried last time we talked about me moving out. Living alone is not very common here; dependency and living communally are highly valued. Every time I talk to somebody about wanting to live alone they look at me like I’m crazy.
So, for the majority of the past couple months I have been planning on moving into the house that the previous volunteer was living in. It’s a bit far from Maryam and the Dar Chebab, but has a nice view of the mountains, sunny windows and a real western toilet. Unfortunately the landlord raised the rent above what the Peace Corps will pay.
The apartments I have looked at so far have none of the things that I liked about that other place, but they all are much closer to Maryam and work, which seems like a fair trade to me. The problems begin when I try talking to the landlords, namely that I can’t talk to them. Everyone I have dealt with so far is a representative for a landlord who lives in France or Italy. Every little negotiation from new paint to fixing leaking roofs has to go through international calls, which of course nobody wants to pay for so they wait until the landlord calls them. This may take quite a while.
At least life at Dar Maryam is still great. She and Hichem are being very helpful with moving stuff out of the last volunteer’s house and trying to find somewhere for me to rent in our part of town. I have felt a lot closer to them since our road trip together across the mountains.
We have had a few little issues, like the night that I was tired from searching for a home and stressed because I had to teach two classes the next day and still had no idea what I was going to teach. Maryam was tired from working all day (and probably from being pregnant) and asked me to make dinner. I usually like cooking for her, but just was so fed up with everything that day I knew it was a bad idea. I convinced her that Hichem was perfectly capable of making spaghetti, (he can make yogurt, marmalade and alfredo sauce) but a few hours later after I had cobbled together something that I thought might work for a lesson and my stomach was growling and Maryam was asleep in front of the TV, Hichem still wasn’t home.
Grumbling, I went into the kitchen and decided that if I was going to cook I was going to make something that I wanted to eat. It took awhile for me to convince Maryam that I really do not like meat. That must be another incomprehensible cultural difference, like the desire to feel independent. Now there is always an alternative to meat in the house, even if I have to cook it for myself. My only complaint is that Moroccans seem to like their vegetables cooked very soft. Among the other Americans we use phrases like ‘over cooked’ ‘mushy’ and ‘cooked to death.’ If I was going to cook spaghetti I was going to replace the ground sheep with onion, garlic and zucchini - with some crunch to the zucchini.
I knew it wouldn’t go over well, but I thought of a conversation I had recently with another volunteer about how we always eat what they put in front of us, praising the food and when it’s not good mentally counting the days until we can move out and cook for ourselves. At the same time when we are asked to cook something ‘American’ for them more often than not somebody is hanging over our shoulder telling us how to cook. In my opinion Moroccans are so used to their food, and like it so much, that something different is doomed to disappoint no matter how much they think they want to try it. I am sure there are exceptions to this generalization, but it has been my experience.
I cooked as fast as I could (I have never grated a tomato that fast), partly because my stomach was snarling and partly because I didn’t want Maryam to see what I was making until it was steaming in front of her and it was too late to change anything. I am a solitary cook and remember when I lived in Colorado with Scott we would warn the other ‘you’re stirring my sauce’ if they interfered too much. I don’t like anybody else stirring my sauce.
I heard her get up off the couch, hoping she would just go to the bathroom or something. The sauce was done and I just had to boil the pasta. She came in and looked at the sauce, surprised and said “I’ve never seen vegetables in spaghetti sauce.” A neutral comment, perhaps she would like it. She asked which olive oil I had used and I confessed there wasn’t any in it yet. She was perplexed and asked how I had cooked the vegetables. “With water.” She looked puzzled, but still not critical. Then it came out: “but the zucchini’s not done.”
A tiny little comment. Insignificant. Nothing to get upset about. But I had had it. I knew it was coming, but had hoped naively that perhaps I would be spared criticism. I just wanted to cook for myself. I didn’t want to try to make Moroccan food. Or even food for Moroccans. Pasta sauce is such a simple little thing. It was just bad timing after a bad day.
I erupted into a big tirade against mushy vegetables, food drowned in oil, meat and saying I like Moroccan food every day but never having the courtesy returned.
Maryam took it pretty well, completely surprised that anybody would want vegetables crunchy. Hichem actually joined in agreeing that sometimes there was too much oil in the food. They were careful to praise the spaghetti when it finally made it to the table, assuring me that they really liked it. I had given in and poured on some olive oil.
I am so lucky to be living with people who are sympathetic and always willing to listen to me, even if they don’t always understand what I’m saying and more often than not have no idea what’s wrong when I’m upset.

Other notable: In Marrakech there is a large plaza named Jma l’fna which is always crowded with tourists (Moroccan and foreign), vendors, musicians, entertainers and beggars. Rebecca and I were standing off to the side a bit today, watching the crowd and in particular a well dressed blind beggar with a cane in his left hand, his right held out, empty and needy. As we watched him shuffle slowly along we noticed another beggar coming in the opposite direction, slowly moving along with his eyes closed, cane in the left hand, right extended expectantly. At first it didn’t seem possible. “You don’t think . . .” I started to say, then stopped, waited to see what would happen. In the slow motion of a B movie the two blind men walked head on into each other. I was too stunned to even laugh. They both were obviously surprised, patted each other’s chests and faces, then broke into smiles and long strings of delighted Moroccan greetings “labas-labasalik-bixir-kulshibixir-kifdayr” and more, as always, all said in one breath. There are much stranger sights in Jma l’fna, but this was definitely the most unique so far.

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Comments

[HFW]

yeah, but did you play them Lucero while they ate the dinner?