Deck of 51: February 2006

Are you talkin' ta me?

In Agadir, there are approximately 9,000 petit taxis, and several thousand more grande taxis. I have never actually been in a grande taxi, but I hear it's nice and roomy -- grande, if you will. The average petit taxi is year model 1980-ish, as far as I can tell, and most of the taxis seem to have their original parts. That is, except for the parts that have fallen off over the years.

On our weekly trip to Marjane last week, we had the good fortune to get a taxi driver who was cautious and drove safely, so I ignored the little quirks of the car, such as the torn upholstery or the bare light bulb hanging down near my left ear. (Apparently it was functioning as a brakelight.)

However, I started to have second thoughts about halfway home, when the interior dash lights and headlights gave out. Ostensibly this had something to do with whatever was causing a noxious smoke to rise from the steering column. Somehow the engine didn't seem to be affected, and we made it home alive. It was a most excellent taxi ride, one that will rank high on my list of all-time best taxi rides in Morocco.

Reasons why I like my man

When he talks in his sleep, he says, "enjoy yourself."

Imouzzer

Thanks to good ol' George Washington, today we took a road trip to Imouzzer, stopping along the way at Hassan's village. We headed off pretty early this morning and got to Hassan's village

around noon, just in time for chicken tajine. Hassan's mother is really lovely -- she's a slight, colorfully dressed, wizened old woman with exactly the same number of teeth as English words in her vocabulary: none. The last time we went to visit her, she gave me my cat, Poops. I like her a lot.

After pulling an eat-and-run, we headed off to Imouzzer with me in the driver's seat, thank goodness for my fragile tummy. I can only handle so much of Lahcen's testosterone enhanced driving, and after stuffing myself with tajine I insisted on taking the wheel for fear of blowing the proverbial chunks. That would not have been nearly as pretty as the neon yellow pee I had earlier drizzled down the side of the mountain.

Along the way we admired the awesome vistas

so generously provided courtesy of the Anti-Atlas Mountains. The almond trees are in bloom at the moment, standing out in pale pink against the greens and browns.

We arrived around 2:00 or so, the perfect time to enjoy the sunshine and check out the waterfalls Imouzzer is famous for. Ambushed upon arrival by various and sundry peddlers hoping to rope us into buying some jewelry or carved marble trinkets, we put on our steely faces and strode past them determinedly. It didn't matter that we had no money with which to buy said trinkets, or at least that's what I'd like to believe.

We hiked up to the main waterfall (there are several during rainy times), braving some slippery stepping stones. The pool at the bottom of the fall is a brilliant shade of blue, and we were told

by a man they call Tarzan that the pool is 45 meters deep. He kindly offered to dive from the top of the fall into the pool if we paid him, but we declined. Again, no money.

Abdellah was brave enough to take off his shoes and wade in to some of the shallower pools, and I could've sworn I heard him singin' the Berber version of "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" (see this post earlier).

Next time we go I will insist on following the original plan of packing a pic-a-nick lunch and eating it on a rock under the fall. It was beautiful. We took gajillions of photos, which I've posted here on Photobucket.

Hee hee!

Just for sharing: Have now twice spotted the Moroccan Pillsbury Doughboy, complete with navy blue sailor uniform and hat with a ribbon on the back. Like a little boy's sailor suit, only on a very big and fluffy man. Had Shan in stitches in the middle of the supermarket 'cause he was standing in front of her and I leaned over to her ear and said "hee HEE!".... will try to secure photographic evidence soon.

For Norah

Homeo-what?!

A few weeks ago, my lovely hippy friend Sally doused me and gave me a remedy. See, Sally is not only a lovely hippy, but a homeopath as well. I had at the time been suffering about 5-6 weeks with sinusitis and bronchitis, and after the superdooper antibiotics had failed me, I was desperate. Sally swears by homeopathy, as it saved one of her daughters from bacterial meningitis when she was a toddler, so I figured at the worst, it couldn't hurt.

So Sally doused me. Now, I've known Sally about the last year or so, having met her through Norah when I lived in Dublin. Sally is not unfamiliar with some of my issues, given that talking about issues was one of us gals' favorite things to do when we'd all get together. It seems some of us were/are at the age of self-exploration, stemming possibly from exasperation with being psycho. Anyway, when Sally was dousing me, she basically told me she wasn't going to give me a quick cure for my respiratory troubles (thanks a mill, Sall!), but rather was planning to work with me over the next several months or so to get at the root of my problems, thereby eliminating my body's need to get sick. In other words, my constant sickness is a physical manifestation of psychological issues that I am repressing, either consciously or unconsciously. What I gots ta do is deal with these issues, stop repressing, and then my body won't push out the bad energy because I will have let go of it in a positive way.

A whole bunch of hippy hooey ballooey, but I'm really giving it a go. Plus, I am fuckin' sick of fighting depression all the time, so ultimately I believe this will help me in more ways than one.

Part one of my cure is a six-week remedy called Nat Mur. Along with taking this remedy, I am directed to think about why I am guarded and don't really share with people on any deep, meaningful level -- why I don't ever really let anyone get close to me. Am taking my 5th dose this evening, so almost done with this stage of my cure.

Have done a lot of soul searching, and also have had a couple of light bulb revelations, and I am now debating on whether to share them here, on the internet. I know I'm not comfortable with people knowing my issues, or at least, what I think are my issues. Mostly, I kinda worry about certain specific people (read: my mom) being upset at some of the things that might be revealed as a part of my internet show-and-tell. But I think it's a baby step, an easier way for me to be more open while still keeping the bit of anonymity that being behind a keyboard brings.

I do know that the people reading this are, by and large, people I trust and love, and who I know love me. So I reckon I will ultimately give it a go. Hopefully no one will think I've gone all Norman Bates and run away screaming.

Dublin Memories, or, The Time I Toked the Snoop Doobie

Last night, Shan and I decided to treat ourselves to dinner out at a restaurant. The boys weren't around, so we thought it was the opportune time to choose a non-Moroccan restaurant, and we opted for Chinese. Excellent choice.

As we sat there enjoying the pleasures of swine, we had lovely conversation about anything and everything except work. It was wonderful to slow down the cogs in the brain for a couple of hours, and we did a lot of reminiscing about the last few years since I've been living in Dublin and she moved back to Arkansas and then back to California.

One thing that I still find ironic is that not once in the 3 1/2 years that I lived in LA did I see any celebrities, though I spent a fair amount of time up in Hollywood. I did feel a slight sense of injustice at this turn of events, given the whole POINT of moving to LA, when you've grown up in small-town Arkansas, is to see what Ben Affleck is like in the flesh. But the irony of the situation didn't come until after I'd moved to Dublin. Only a few months after I arrived in Dublin, situations presented themselves so that I encountered the following: Pierce Brosnan, Arnold Swartzenegger, Maria Shriver, Colin Farrell, Jon Bon Jovi, Nelson Mandela, Bono (and the rest of U2), Robbie Keane, The Darkness, Juliette Lewis, and several well known Irish personalities/bands. Among others.

That was cool and all, but the one person that I got star struck by, like literally couldn't form words properly, was Snoop Dogg. The lack of words may or may not have been in direct correlation with the number of Jack-and-Diet-Coke consumed prior to the meeting of the Snoop. Anyway, we were at a VIP party after some Irish music awards and got to go back into his lair to be a part of his harem for the night. I had anticipated prior to the party that I might get to meet him, and so had asked Ro, my then boy-friend, for permission to lock lips with Snoop Dogg, should the opportunity present itself. Ro laughingly gave me permission, of course thinking there was NO WAY I was gonna meet Snoop Dogg. Ha ha!

We headed on back to the harem, and it was literally that: the bodyguards wouldn't allow any men to come into the room. So Snoop was there with his band and about 30 or so women. But it was suprisingly low key. So low key, in fact, that I actually walked RIGHT PAST him without even noticing him sitting there. Once I registered that, I was still reeling when Norah, good ol' Norah, marched directly up to him and stuck out her hand for a hand shake. She leaned down to him and stated matter-of-factly that I had gained special permission from my boyfriend to get the Snoop kiss and he needed to oblige me. Snoop laughed, and said "Oh man, y'all made me laugh; that's the first time I laughed all day!" Score! We (read: Norah) had done the impossible. We had made the D-o-g-g crack up. So I leaned down and got my kiss, after which I was offered a toke from the Snoop doobie. No decision really. Of course one must toke the Snoop doobie when offered. And I toked and toked again. That must have been some chronic or some mad Mexican shit, 'cause I was pretty dizzy for the next several hours. Sweet. I have Snoop residue on my lips.

Good times. Great fun.

Random quote meaning absolutely nothing to you but everything to me

"The coconut -- it makes me strong!!"

Crazy people

Thank God for my mom. I can realize now, as an adult, that my mom is actually pretty cool. Throughout my childhood I felt I was truly hard done by. I thought my mom was mean and nasty for not allowing me to do WTHIW (Whatever the Hell I Wanted). As I grew into adolescence, I matured substantially and realised that not only was my mom mean and nasty, she was a righteous beeatch. After all, it was my Undeniable Godgiven Right to do WTHIW. Looking back on it, I of course recognize that it was I who was the righteous beeatch and absolutely deserving of every single one of those "creative punishments" my mother devised for me when I misbehaved. (I once had to write the ten commandments 100 times each, with special focus on "Thou shalt honor thy father and mother.")

Now that I'm teaching, I see kids in my class who are of widely varying backgrounds, age, temperament, attention span, etc., and I find myself wondering what their home lives must be like to cause them to behave as they do in class.

For instance, one of my students, let's call him *George, constantly thinks the whole world (an most especially the other students) is against him, and it's mostly if not entirely imagined. Yesterday *George was sitting next to *Fred, who was reading a book on the carpet. *Fred had his legs spread out in front of him. When George jumped up to run across the room for something, he accidentally tripped over Fred's outspread legs. George then began crying and said that Fred had tripped him intentionally. Shan saw the whole thing go down, so I know it went down like that. It's a constant slew of similar situations with George, all day long. And he often gets soooooooo angry that EVERYBODY gives him trouble EVERY day. Because he has limited English, it's difficult to find the right words to reason with him at times.

Another of my students, *Amy, is concerned with the spread of germs among the students. Amy is five years old. Have you ever known a five-year-old to call out the teacher for giving a student a drink from her glass? I can totally understand where Amy gets it from, though. Amy's dad is certifiably INSANE. He doesn't let her eat the school snacks or lunches, or drink the school's bottled water. He brings a pillow and coverlet to put over her mat for nap time so that she doesn't touch the sleep mats. He brings her a clean handtowel every day and goes into the girls restroom to hang it on the hook for her. She's not allowed to drink out of her own cup with her own name as provided by the school, even though he could take it home and wash it every day. She must only drink her bottled water out of the bottle and then throw the bottle away. Wanna take bets on whether this girl grows up to be obsessive compulsive?

Then, last night I was watching a TV show called House Swap. The mothers of two different families switched houses for two weeks. In the first week, the mothers had to follow the new household's current rules. In the second week, the mothers got to change the rules. One mother had children who were constantly required to be learning something, even at the dinner table they were being quizzed. They had to earn money for all their chores and then use that money to pay for music lessons, etc. The three kids actually had to contribute $100 each toward their family ski trip. They had supervised toothbrushing to cut down on dental bills. The mother would stand there and direct her 10 year old son and 12 year old daughter while they brushed their teeth. Hello, I'm CRAZY, nice to meet ya!

On the other hand, the other mother had one 12-year-old son, who had a cell phone, slept in his mother's bed with her, ate dinner in his mother's bed with her (while dad ate alone in the kitchen), and each week got a "happy present", well, just because. This mother was equally crazy, but obviously to the other extreme.

I hope that when I one day have children, I can figure out how not to be crazy. Kinda like my mom.

V-Day

See Shan's post here. So true.

Long Underwear

Hey, bet y'all didn't know we got yokels over here in Morocco!

Scenery

The view from our rooftop terrace is pretty cool; mountains at the front of the house and ocean at the back.

Sunset 10th February 2006

Shan and I went for a walk last Friday and got some cool sunset photos. The sunsets here are always nice. Another perk for anyone considering coming to visit me!

My baby daddy Shaitan

Word up. Ovah here on da East Siiiiiiiide y'all, Allah and ma Homey Mohamed reprezen'in. Y'all check this: down in da West Siiide they be dis fucked up beeatch Shaitan, I'ma pop a cap in his ass yo. He done sent his peeps up on my side y'all, and I don't be down wi' dat. Check it. Foh-toh-grephic evidenssss:

Hey, Grandpaw! What's fer supper??

Well, tonight we's a gonna have Moroccan style tajine. It's layered up with onions, meat, potatoes, carrots, tomatoes and zucchinis, with lotsa garlic, olives, raisins and Moroccan spices.

Whoooweee! Yuuuuummmmm Yum!

Before

After

PMS overload

*SIGH* I'm missing my friends in Dublin/USA today. Keeping up with people through myspace and various websites and blogs.... not emailing nearly often enough.... must get on to them and start bugging about visiting Morocco.

Specifically, I just saw some really cool photos of Lluther in Germany: http://www.nocturnalhall.com/livereviews/DieKrupps/krupps_pics2.html

And Moth Complex are in the running to win an online poll for best EP:
http://www.radio-active-music.com/

And Chrissy's babies are getting tooooooo big! http://members.cox.net/clayton15/ Ben will already be a year old by the time I get to meet him, and Katie nearly 3.

Faheema is still Faheema, even despite the health problems: www.faheema.com Hurry up and write me back, Fee!

Norah, whose website I go to sometimes just to hear her voice, though she doesn't know that so keep it a secret! www.norahambrose.com

Danielle, who is a personal hero of mine, and I KNOW she would tear it UP in Morocco: http://www.myspace.com/eaglefree

Again, *sigh*. PMS sucks. Missing people sucks. But Morocco is pretty awesome so far, as you can see by previous blog entries. Am having a really good time here and just wish I could share it with ALL my friends!!! Is this what being a grown up means? Learning to live without people you love because you had to leave a place or sacrifice your sanity? Perhaps that's only a symptom of my psychosis.

How to Crack a Coconut: 42 Simple Steps

1. Shake the coconut near your ear to listen for milk inside. That's how you tell if it's ripe.

2. Use a knife to scrape out one of the three holes on one side.

3. Find a ball point pen with which to poke open the scraped out hole. (Preferably blue)

4. Poke out said hole with said blue pen.

5. Drink the milk.

6. Realise the milk is rancid and run to sink to spit it out.

7. Get another coconut and repeat steps 1-5.

8. Bang the coconut on the ground around its circumference until it cracks.

9. Curse because it hurts your hand.

10. Switch hands.

11. Switch hands again.

12. Get angry at the coconut. Growl at it, saying "Crack muthafucka, CRACK!"

13. Go and find the hammer.

14. Search for 30 minutes, unable to find the hammer.

15. Try cracking by hand again.

16. Hike up leg in preparation to throw coconut.

17. Throw coconut.

18. Voila! Enjoy.

Coco-NUTS

The majority of my non-work life is spent hanging out with Said, Abdellah, Lahcen and Hassan, pictured here:

It's like a circus every time they get together at the house. Constant laughter and innuendo, which is recognizable even in a foreign language, and just general silliness. Hence Lahcen in my floppy straw hat. I don't know why the man is so fond of that hat, but he wears it all the time at home. I'm still trying to convince him to wear it when we go out. Haven't succeeded with that yet.

Also, notice the small bowl at the bottom right hand corner of the photo. It's filled with fresh coconut. A coconut I cracked myself! I have never been a fan of coconut, but then all the coconut I've ever tasted has been bleached, sweetened, and otherwise processed to a point beyond recognition. When Norah, Sally and Ayoola visited from Ireland a couple of weeks ago, Sally, who's a complete and utter hippy, showed us how to eat a real coconut.

See, Sally used to be married to an aboriginal man, and they lived in a teepee in the wilds of Australia. Truth. The way Sally tells it, her breakfast would fall on her head every morning.

I have consumed somewhere in the neighborhood of 4,837 coconuts since Sally left Morocco. I'm planning to get photographic evidence of me cracking the coconut. Will post that as soon as I have it.