3 more days!

Shan and I are heading off on our Spring Break trip this Saturday morning. Don't worry, there will be no toplessness or drunken orgies. Remember we're in a Muslim country -- booze ain't that easy to come by. And I've been so long without any substantial drinking that I reckon I'd be tipsy after my second or third glass of wine, which amount of alcohol is hardly about to convince me it'd be a good idea to bare my ass in a Muslim country, even IF I might be giggling a lot and continually informing Shan I'm ddddrrunk.

We've got two nights in Marrakech, where I'm looking forward to lots of shopping and bargaining. The souk in Marrakech is something everyone should experience before dying, and I've been boning up on all my stock Berber phrases before we leave, in hopes of getting less than the tourist price. Being white in Morocco means you have to pay more. In Marrakech they speak Tashelhit (Gesundheit!), which is one of three dialects of Berber spoken in Morocco. Wikipedia says:

Tashelhiyt (also Tashelhit or Shilha, native name: tašlḥiyt, French: tachelhit or chleuh, Arabic: تشلحيت) is the largest Berber language of Morocco both by number of speakers (between 8 and 10 million) and by the extent of its area. Tashelhiyt is spoken in Southern Morocco an area ranging from the northern slopes of the High-Atlas to the southern slopes of the Anti-Atlas, bounded to the west by the Atlantic Ocean. The eastern limit of the Tashelhiyt area is difficult to pinpoint because of a smooth transition into Southern Middle Atlas Berber (Tamazight). The Sous region is central to the Tashelhiyt area, hence it's often called Sous-Berber or tasousiyt, even though it stretches to surrounding regions well outside of Sous. Tashelhiyt is known for its rich oral literature. Literature written in the Arabic script has been produced from the second half of sixteenth century on; Muhammad Awzal (ca. 1680-1749) was the most prolific poet of the Tashelhiyt literary tradition.

I have enough Tashelhit to get me by from day to day. And the people here think it's so CUTE when I speak in Berber. They always laugh in that isn't-she-sweet kinda way and go "Tsnt Tashelhit???" which means "You know Berber???" and I'm always like, "Yeah, now can you gimme my Diet Coke already." It only got annoying after like the 327th time.

Anyway, after Marrakech we're heading up to Casablanca for five nights. I am most looking forward to eating sushi and watching a movie in English. See my previous post about there being a God in Morocco. We don't get English movies here. Also the Hassan II Mosque, which is the second or third largest mosque in the world, and has laser beams shooting in the direction of Mecca every night. Totally appealing to the A-list crowd that hangs out there.

Will post photos as soon as I get back. I can't wait!

Bling

No caption necessary!

Mad Props

I've just been informed that I am lax in the giving of the mad props to Shan, who provides the vast majority of the photos I use in this blog. (As well as sweet new vocabulary such as "Mad Props") Thus, a shout out to ma homey Shan. Mad props f'da photos. Yo. Word to ya muthah.

Things

A few things happened this weekend. This differs from my normal weekend, in which no things happen. First, on Saturday night Abdellah, Ahmed, Hicham and his girlfriend, Grandie (or whatever the spelling for the French name that sounds like Grrrahndeeee), came over and I made tajine. It was the first tajine made in the new clay tajine pot after properly soaking the new clay tajine pot in water overnight instead of just cooking the tajine in the new clay tajine pot without properly soaking the new clay tajine pot in water overnight. For future reference, a new clay tajine pot must be soaked in water overnight in order for said new tajine pot to work to its fullest effect. So anyway, blimey if that overnight soaking in the water didn't make a HUGE difference in the taste of the tajine. Smoky. Yummmmmm. And the Moroccan boys were all vying over who now gets to claim me as his fourteenth wife.

Second, after the tajine and merriment we discovered that Poops had gone missing. Apparently he has finally realized he can jump off the balcony and not die, so he has taken to jumping off the balcony for secret trysts with his calico girlfriend. Lahcen went out to have a look for Poops and quickly gave up. So I went out and started calling him. Was about to chuck it in when I heard him crying, very faintly. Very faint 'cause he was halfway down the block. In a second story window of a new house that's being built. Now, he managed to get himself inside that house, and up to the second story, but the stoooopid shit couldn't figure out how to get down. We, of course, couldn't get into the house because the door was locked. Forty-five minutes and many coaxes later, Lahcen eventually hoisted Abdellah up to the window on a wooden pole, allowing Abdellah to get into the house to save Poops. That damn cat is more trouble than he's worth.

Third, on Sunday we went to the souk, where I purchased my first djelleba. I'm officially Moroccan now. It's a funny thing, buying a djelleba at the souk. You can go into any shop that sells djellebas, and ask the shop owner about a blue djelleba, and he will invariably show you a red, or brown, or green, or any-other-color-except-blue djelleba. Not because he doesn't understand what "blue" means, but because he know he ain't got a blue djelleba in your size and he's determined to convince you yellow is your color. Trust me, buddy. Yellow ain't mah signacha cullah. For that matter, neither is pink. At any rate, I eventually found a man who had a blue djelleba in my size. Yay!

Fourth, we discovered that there ARE English language DVDs for sale in the souk. Hooray! We purchased Proof and North Country for a measley dollah-fitty each. Turns out there is a God in Morocco after all. And a Movie Pirate.

So, in short, it was a thing-ful weekend.

Ten dollah...

... to the first person who can guess what this is:

Somebody pushed a plastic container to the back of the fridge a few days ago. I'm not accepting responsibility for this, though I more than likely am the guilty party. The photo doesn't accurately convey the layer of mold covering the stuff. Anyway, if you can guess what it is, I'ma give y'all a prize.

Websites

Saturday Shan and I came over to the office to do some "work" and ended up googling Casablanca to find out stuff to do while we're there next week. We came across this site. Dude must have a lot of free time. Definitely has a lot to say. Anyway, recommended highly for time-wasting-when-you-ought-to-be-working.

Also, during the small window of time in which Shan and I actually DID get some work done, we found another neat website about shoelaces. Initially I groaned. Loudly. But it's actually a cool site, in its own incredibly nerdy kinda way.

Rigor mortis

Last night I had a really restless sleep. First just couldn't sleep at all, and then had weird dreams and nightmares. Can't really remember them, but I know I had them because I woke up thinking I needed to get up and write it all down. Needless to say, I didn't, and now they're gone.

Except for a tiny tidbit of the nightmare that woke me up. I was holding my cat (who incidentally spent the entire day outside yesterday and thereby probably got me worrying about rabies) and he was shivering or convulsing uncontrollably. He suddenly bit me, latching onto my arm. I was trying to get him off, holding him away from my body, and he was still convulsing, hanging from my arm by his teeth, shaking violently. Then he lurched and died. Rigor mortis immediately set in so that he was still hanging from my arm by his teeth, stiff, eyes staring into nothingness. Needless to say I was freaked the fuck out and woke up with my heart in my throat.

And that was only the very end of the dream. There was other weirdness before that I just can't remember. I hate nightmares.

Conversation

"This afternoon at naptime I saw John* with his hand down his pants."

"Was it way down his pants, or just resting in his waistband?"

"It was way down."

"Maybe his hand was cold."

"Maybe."

"I've been known to put my hand down my pants before. You'd never realise how comfortable it is until you're doing it."

"Really. Hrm."

"And the deeper you go, the more comfortable it gets."

"I suppose you could call it that."



*Name changed to protect the innocent.

Timing is everything in comedy

This morning Shan and I were sitting at one of the little tables in the classroom preparing some work for the children, who were in the middle of a pretty damn good Quiet Game. Shan says to me, "I just got a mad craving for Chinese food." To which I answered, "Mmmm, yeahhh. That sounds gooooooood."

Not an especially funny scenario, except that about the time Shan says she wants Chinese food, Oddvar lets rip a huge, ferocious burp. To which I answered, "Mmmm, yeahhh. That sounds goooooood."

Shan and I exchanged a brief glance as our brains struggled to process it and suppress it. Beat. Blink, blink, blink. And then burst out laughing. At which time the kids burst out laughing. And then we all floated up to the ceiling and spent the next half hour trying to remember how Mary Poppins got everyone to come down once they got up there.

The culprit, seemingly mild-natured and quiet.

Kitty love

Here in Morocco, when young men get together near a satellite TV, there are only three viewing options that compute in their brains: 1. football (not unlike men in America, only THIS football is the soccer kind. You know, what the REST of the world calls football?) 2. Jackie Chan (or Jean Claude Van Damme in a pinch) 3. Spice Platinum (http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&q=spice+platinum).

Last night the boys were gathered around watching option number 3, and Shan and I were off in her bedroom talkin' girl talk. I went into the kitchen for something, and I heard a cat noise coming from the garden. That unmistakable cat noise that means some boy kitty is gettin' his hole and some girl kitty ain't too happy about it. Y'all know the noise I'm talkin' about. Anyway, my first thought is that Poops finally couldn't take his incarceration any longer and had risked death by jumping from the balcony so he could go visit that cute little calico girl who's always battin' her eyelashes at him from down in the garden. "Where's Poops?" I asked. "Is that him havin' sex in the garden?!!" That would be the WORST thing in the world -- the deflowering of my little boy!

I rushed out to the balcony to find Poops peering down at two loved up kitties down below him. Apparently Poops is a fan of Spice Platinum, too.

Rapt attention

We got Jungle Fevah

Four white girls, and lots of lovely, lovely brown menzzzes. We gots the fevah, y'all!

Poor Johnny One Hump

D.A.

My name is Denise, and I'm a Dooce-a-holic. It has been 2 hours, 37 minutes, and... 28, 29, 30, 31 seconds since my last fix. I first tried Dooce last April, when a friend of mine suggested it. She told me Dooce was fun, that I'd really like it, and that she had been checkin' out Dooce for a few weeks and that it was awesome, like it could just make you laugh and laugh.

At the time, I really needed a good laugh. I was having a hard time at work, my boss was bullying me, and my relationship was going down the tubes. I was nervous to try Dooce, because I thought it might cause problems, might take up too much of my time. I was right. I spent hours with Dooce. Alone. Just me and Dooce. Once I started, I just couldn't stop.

I'm here today to find a way to let go of Dooce. It's controlling me, and it's time for me to take control.

Sunset and surfers

Last night we drove back to Taghazout to drop off Sally and Norah at their apartment. We sat up on their balcony drinking two-fitty dollah Moroccan white wine and checkin' out the surfers. Phwooaaarr. And the sunset was nice, too.

This is the big one! I'm comin' to join ya, Elizabeth!

Last night we rented a car and drove up to Taghazout to visit Norah and Sally, who are back for their second visit in only a month. We waited in the windy windiness about 20 minutes and were just about to give up when Norah and Sally emerged from a shadow in the direction of the sea.

Norah apparently has broken her foot, so Lahcen strapped her into a piggyback ride, with her kicking and screaming the whole way -- "I'm really uncomfortable with this; this makes me really nervous. OH! JESUS! Be careful! Ahhhh, okay. Okay. Whew. We made it. Thanks a mill, Lahcen!" We landed into a little cafe run by Elizabeth, an old Hungarian woman who has lived in Morocco for the last 52 years.

Dinner was lovely and Elizabeth came and sat down for a chat and we talked religion and politics, and of course sex and all the other most appropriate dinner conversation, such as birthin' babies and diarrhea. It was fun. I dig talkin' to old people, or rather, listening to them tell stories about the olden days.