Excitement

I am guilty. I have been a counter of chickens. When whispers of a possibility hinted there might be a slight chance Shan could be coming to Morocco, if the circumstances presented themselves in a way that might allow that to happen, I GOT MY HOPES UP.

But guess what? It worked for a change and Shan's comin' over, BABY! Yesssssssssssss!

That's MUTTON, Baby!

As I strolled through my 'hood on the way to the internet cafe Monday afternoon, I detected something a little out of place: sheep peering down from second- and third-floor balconies, frantically bleating at each other and anyone else who'd listen. I wasn't too surprised, given that I knew Aid Al Adha was comin' up soon. People had simply purchased their sheep ahead of time -- "The all new bleating sheep-o-matic! Get yours NOW! While stocks last!" Having no gardens in which to tether their temporary pets until Wednesday, the logical thing to do is put them on the balcony, preventing runaways or thefts. Right?

I couldn't help feeling sorry for the poor sheep. You could tell they knew what was in store for them. You could hear it in their voices. "Baaaaaa-i'm-gonna-die-i'm-gonna-die-oh-NOOO-i'm-gonna-die-aaaaahhhhh." Their defeatist tones and pessimistic words were really a sad thing to witness. Of course, you knew there was always gonna be the one dumb sheep, the one going "Baaaa-i've-never-been-on-a-balcony-before-hey-the-view-is-pretty-nice-from-up-here-and-they're-feeding-me-real-good-lately-what's-WRONG-with-you-guys?-aaaaaahhhhh."

Then on Wednesday morning, I awoke to the unmistakable sounds of sheep death and gangsta rap. Each family was slaughtering its sheep, giving props to Allah-and-His-homey and the Eastsiiiiiiddddee, yo. Stepping out of my house later that afternoon, I couldn't help but notice the quiet that had fallen around the neighborhood. That, and the unmistakable smell of July the 4th. Pit barbeques every which way I looked. Yummmmmmm.

Why is it, no matter where you are in the world, all the really big holidays are centered around meat? Thanksgiving and Christmas? Turkey. Easter? Ham. July 4th? Burgers and ribs. Aid Al Adha? Mutton. Sure, you could always argue that these holidays are about God and independence, and not about the meat, but who are you kidding? Christmas AIN'T Christmas without turkey. Chicken couscous just DON'T cut it. Trust me on that.

Word up to Allah, the MastaPimp, and His homeboy Mohammed. Mutton rocks.

When nightmare becomes reality

Whenever you get into a taxi here in Morocco, nine times outta ten the taximan will have his radio tuned to the Q'uran station. All Allah, all the time, baby! I wouldn't really have a clue what they're saying, it being Arabic and all. But the way the Q'uran is recited has a very specific cadence, tone, and melody (if you call it that). So I can recognize that I'm hearing about God and his homeboy, Mohammed, even if I'm not sure whose bitch got smacked up or when.

So imagine my surprise when I climbed in a few days ago and heard the whiney strains of The Corrs piping through the speakers. What's this!!?? I thought I had gotten away from those evil, EVIL people when I fled Ireland! Have they followed me here, to the wilds of Africa?

As the song finished, I forced myself to focus on the passing people, cars and buildings, convincing myself it had only been a horrible dream. I practised my breathing and other anxiety reducing techniques Oprah and Dr. Phil taught me, successfully extracting myself from the taxi a couple of kilometers later with my sanity still intact. (I never realized being a couch potato was gonna come in handy!)

But I discovered this afternoon that I was wrong. Oh, so painfully wrong. It wasn't just a dream, it was reality, and now it's on my TV! I was channel surfing when I came across those vile people-whose-names-are-unmentionable AGAIN. It seems Arabic TV is now beaming the Corrs' concert to Allah-and-his-homey-lovers across the world, not only in Morocco. Live and in color! This sucks.

It's like living in the Bronx!

The last two weeks, I have been suffering a pretty harsh case of bronchitis. And even though I am happy to say I am now the proud owner of a Moroccan National Insurance Card, I hesitate to use it. Something about the thought of third world medicinal practices just doesn't instill confidence.

Case in point: A couple days ago the woman who lives above me shouted down from her window to talk to me. (Side note: There's something akin to an empty elevator shaft in our house, that bottoms out in my foyer. I can stand inside my place and look straight up to the roof of the three stories, and when it rains, I can stand inside and get soaked. Anyway, the window of the second-floor apartment opens onto the inside of the elevator shaft thingie, so the woman upstairs can sit inside her place and talk to me when I'm inside my place. It's a bit odd. End side note.) Apparently she had been listening to days and days of me hacking up my lungs and felt sorry for me, so she wanted to tell me about the Moroccan cure for a cough. Heated olive oil in a spoon. Now I like olive oil as much as the next person, but I ain't about to eat it from a spoon. Olive oil is best enjoyed with balsamic vinegar and copious amounts of Macaroni Grill bread. Yummy.

Two days and a bottle of cough syrup later, I am still coughing, but at least the nasty blood part has stopped. Yay for western medicine!!