The Office

When I'm not commuting I wake up every morning and go to the office. My office is about a ten minute walk from my apartment and, although I don't like coffee, I've heard they serve an awfully good cup of joe. Yes, my office is the Starbucks on Boulevard Anfaa.

I detest going to American establishments while abroad. I travel to another country to experience what it has to offer! My advisor, Professor Hitchner, once said, though, that it can be interesting to once and a while check out a McDonalds, for example, abroad. It's an interesting means of exploring globalization. So I tried Starbucks out one day when my ISJ advisor, Aida Alami (Morocccan. Went to Hunter and then Columbia Journalism. Returned to Morocco and now files for Bloomberg, the NY Times, and others) and Mary were meeting there. Aida told me she loves working there because their internet, although not always reliable, is the best in Casa. I loved the internet, the atmosphere, and the staff. They are so happy to see me and they love to teach me French and Darija, as well as practice their English. So Starbucks has become my office. I sit in Starbucks and work all day, even on the weekends sometimes. Working from Starbucks has been an anthropological learning experience all on its own.

All different types of people come in here: expats from all over, knitting clubs, high school students, and business people. The majority of Starbucks goers seem to be a bit elite. The women are often wearing heels and outfits that would generally solicit a 'Hashuma' (Shame! One use involves strangers yelling it out in the street when someone does something immoral). I've seen kids pull up in a décapotable (convertible), run in to get their drinks, and run back out to the car. I've also heard many a French discussion among teenage girls about how "the chauffeur wouldn't do this or that." In Starbucks I usually only hear French and sometimes English. There is a language hierarchy in Morocco. Some elite Moroccans pretend they do not even know Arabic and if you can speak English, "well then you've won" my French teacher once said. One day a girl came over to me and asked me in English if she could use my computer for a second. She wanted to check admissions decisions for the French universities she had applied to.

So, as far as I'm concerned, spending a lot of the time at the office has meant gaining an added dimension to my experience abroad.

Ma vie sur le train

"Salaam," I say to the ONCF conductor every morning as he takes my train ticket. "Vous parlez l'Arabe! Mezien," is often the eager response I get. "Shwia (a little)," I laugh. I have become a Moroccan commuter and I love it! Many of my interviews, as well as meetings with my Moroccan partner, require me to take the hour long train ride to Rabat. The other night, on my way home, I sat next to an older woman in a djellaba. She must not ride the train very often because she was very jumpy. Whenever the ride became the least bit bumpy she tensed up. When trains passed by at high speed, which truly can scare even seasoned riders, she jumped. Every time the lights went out she would say "Oh la la"with a sense of panic. Playing with the young boy in front of us seemed to console her, though. I do not know a Moroccan woman of any age that can avoid stopping to touch, kiss, and play with a child.

So far I have completed three interviews. I walked around the Medina with my partner, Sara, capturing man-on-the-street (mos) interviews about dreams of receiving public transportation licenses. The recent publication of a list of beneficiaries of these licenses is the subject of my story. The Transportation Minister, Azziz Rabbah, released the list and most of the names on it are those of famous athletes, singers, and business people. Moroccan monarchs have long used the licenses as a means of granting favors and ensuring loyalty. For example, Hassan II, rewarded Saharans who supported his Green March with licenses. The license basically allows its holder to do very little work, sitting back and enjoying revenue for life. The mos interviews revealed that average people dream that the King will bestow licenses upon them. Some even write letters begging for a license and throw them to the King. Clearly, although many people say Morocco is on the path to democracy, the Moroccan economic system is not very democratic. Aside from the fact that the King and friends own important shares in Morocco's biggest companies and huge plots of the best farming land, rewarding select citizens with a guaranteed life income is not an example of a free economy. Encouraging citizens to think that they will be the next to receive a 'get out of work free card' is also not a democratic principle. Rabbah's publication of the list of beneficiaries shows a step toward change and I want to make US listeners aware; I think they'll find it interesting and thought provoking.

Sara and I also interviewed Najib Akesbi (in French!), a top Moroccan economist. He had such interesting thoughts on the issue! He doesn't believe Morocco is on a path toward democracy and he thinks the list was a good first step toward change, but has yet to see a follow up. Then, last Sunday, we interviewed the US Ambassador and his wife off the record. Their home, Villa America, is beautiful and I greatly enjoyed their company as well as the company of their friends. We had a fascinating discussion on multiple Morocco related topics including the suicide of Amina, legally forced to marry her rapist at age fifteen. Originally a French law from the colonial era, girls are given the legal option to marry their rapists. Amina's parents felt this was a better option for her than life with her lost virginity, which pretty much guarantees that she will never find a husband. There is no punishment for rapists. While in France the law has evolved with changing society, in Morocco the law has remained and has become deeply embedded in culture. While many Americans would probably expect religious reasons, deeply rooted cultural customs are often the reason why Morocco is slow to develop in some ways.

Now I'm trying to get an interview with Aziz Rabbah, himself. After that I think my interviews will likely be finished and I'll just have to write the script, organize sound clips, record, edit, etc.

In terms of living on my own, I had a fun adventure this week when my power went out one night and had not returned by the next. I knocked on my neighbors door and as the 16 year old opened the door light flooded out from behind him. I was the only one sans electricity! I asked him who the building's superintendent was and we hopped in the elevator to find her. We ran into two other residents, a Moroccan woman and her Italian husband (I think they are husband and wife, but I'm not sure) who took it upon themselves to help me! First we went back up to my apartment to check le déjuncteur (the circuit breaker). When that didn't work, the Italian got the key from the super as she was picking up her son from day care, went into the dark basement, and messed around with my apartment's electrical conteur (counter) box. It made several zapping noises, which worried his wife. We had many interesting discussions including one about "Munhutta". The Italian kept asking me if I knew of a city just outside of New York called Munhutta. The neighbor's son joined in; he had heard about Munhutta too. Then all of a sudden he changed the way he pronounced it and the word became recognizable. Manhattan! "Yes, I told them! But Manhattan is New York City! It's one of the boroughs." None of them had ever visited the US, but they dream of visiting New York. "New York is my dream city," the Moroccan woman said. I told her to come visit, but she said she didn't have the means. One of the Italian's parents is Belgian and the other is Italian so he knows French, Italian, and at least four other languages that I forget. English, funny enough, was not one of them so all of our conversations were in mixed French and Darija.

About an hour later we discovered that my counter unit was burnt and an electrician would have to come in the morning. So the next morning I called the Moroccan version of New York State Electric and Gas and became their eager student and flashlight holder while they arrived and fixed my unit in less than an hour. That afternoon I went for a walk to a patisserie artisinale américaine, which I had stumbled upon when Princess came to visit me a couple of weeks ago. I bought my immediate neighbors and the Italian/Moroccan family two large boxes of cupcakes, demonstrating my gratitude with New Yorkers' current sweet obsession.

What a different experience living in Casa and working on my story has been as compared to living in Rabat and going to class everyday!

P.S. Sorry there are no photos, but my commuter status makes it difficult to pull out my camera like a tourist. I'll try to snap more photos soon when I'm not on the job.

Of All the Gin Joints, In All the Towns, In All the World, She Walks Into Mine.

I came to Rabat and there was a major protest and I left Rabat in the midst of another major protest. I dragged my bags behind me through the Medina and out into la nouvelle ville where I saw a large protest extending all the way up Mohammed V to the train station. Consequently, I boarded the tram and rode it to the gare where I discovered the next train to Casa port would leave in 15 minutes. After buying my ticket I descended to the platform and waited. I ended up chatting in French with a medical student and an older woman who had visited the states. She detested the New York subway system and called it a jail. What a pity. I love the subway. It's not a jail; it's an underground refuge, a fun and mysterious adventure park beneath the city. She was interesting to speak to, though, and the medical student helped me with my bags.

From Sunday through Thursday I stayed in the Kenzi Basma Hotel in Casablanca's old center. What a contradiction this city is! It is home to Morocco's elite, European like citizens and there are new, modern construction projects everywhere. Yet these new projects are juxtaposed with bidonvilles (shanty towns) and crumbling architecture. The area around the Kenzi Basma looks like a French colonial ghost town. Large Parisian style white buildings loom overhead the broad palm tree lined boulevards, but the buildings look uninhabited and are covered with dirt. I never truly understood why New York's local law 11 was so important until I walked past these buildings literally falling apart before my eyes.

On Wednesday I met with Mary and Aida, a Moroccan graduate of Hunter College and Columbia's Journalism School. Aida lives in Casablanca and files for the New York Times, Bloomberg, and others; she is my ISJ advisor. We met in the Starbucks (one of two in Casablanca and possibly the whole country) on Boulevard Anfa. Reverse culture shock! I was so surprised to see Starbuck's zen atmosphere here. I don't like to frequent foreign establishments while abroad, but Starbucks, mainly due to its wifi, has become my office. It is also a very interesting place from which to learn about Casablancais. Starbucks' customers sometimes arrive in convertibles and high heeled boots. The majority speak French before Arabic and there are several canoodling couples who don't seem too afraid of cultural taboos. Interestingly, whereas in many countries English has become the new universal language, French is still the lingua franca in Morocco. People always speak French before English.

On Thursday I moved to my new apartment! It's in very safe Bourgogne Ouest, just outside of the new center. Starbucks, for example, is a ten minute walk. So is the Ocean and the famous Hassan II Mosque! Princess came to visit her partner, Ranya, and interview a woman's organization on Thursday. She stayed with me Friday night and then I returned to Rabat with her on Saturday night. It was strange to be back, but I still feel at home in Rabat. I stayed with Princess, Eboni, Marie, and Antinnea through Monday when I had a meeting with Mary, Sara, and Taieb. Then, elated about my independence and my project's progress, I took the train home. This week I'll commute to Rabat frequently as I have interviews on Wednesday, Thursday, and potentially Friday and Sunday. I originally moved to Casa because it is the country's economic story and my store is a business related one. It appears, though, that most of my interviews will be in Rabat. I'm thrilled to be living in Casablanca, though. It's an experiment in living independently and, having gotten to know life in Rabat on a deep level, I'm ready to experience life in Casa. So far I love the tall, perfect palm trees on the coastal boulevards and I love the city's modern edge.

Glimpses

Last week classes ended and I began my six week Independent Study in Journalism (ISJ). A friend described our program as a very rapid transition from childhood to adulthood; when we first arrived here our host parents walked us to school as if we were elementary school children and now we've moved out and are living on our own. Funny enough, as the time came to move to Casablanca I was able to remove myself from life in the medina and finally begin to see how different life here is from life in the US. Here are a few glimpses into life in Morocco, particularly in the Rabat medina:

-Swiftly walking through the medina's tiny streets, I approach a section of street covered with rubble. A large brick tumbles from above and almost hits me on the head! It reminded me of the time Eboni and I went to find Marie and had a similar experience with medina construction just outside of her house. It's all part of the mashky mushky (no problem) attitude here. Oh, the rubble we're dumping off this roof might hit a passerby below...mashky mushky!

-A couch is my permanent bed. My house in the medina consists of an entry way, a tiny bathroom, a kitchen, and two sitting/bedrooms. During the day, the two rooms are used for entertaining guests, eating, and watching television, but after dinner a transformation occurs. As early as 9 pm and as late as 12 am, my family opens the blanket closet and distributes the thick woolen and polar fleece blankets. I remove all of the pillows from the couch I'd like to sleep on and use them to help block out cold air from the window. I then cover the sumptuous fabric of the couch with a thin blanket, a kind of bottom sheet. Next comes the standard pillow and four heavy blankets, which I then slide under. My host mother can get by with just two blankets and no bottom sheet, but I don't think I've ever been so cold as when living in Morocco. My friends always joke that we're in Africa, but it sometimes feels like Alaska! In the middle of March it started getting much warmer, though. Anyway, the couch arrangement is a traditional Moroccan sleeping situation. The couches of lavish salons become beds at night.

-Meals also take place in these salons. There is no eating or sipping on starbucks in the street here! Eating is a communal experience. My host mother places one large dish in the center of the table and passes out the chobs (bread). I tear off a little piece, holding it in my right hand with the index and middle finger and jam food into it. My village host brother told me that it has been scientifically proven that there are enzymes in your fingers that help you digest when eating with your hands. We eat from the outside of the dish to the center and you must respect your zone, your side of the dish. Breakfast often consists of chobs, chocolate spread, fromage, mint tea, zebda (butter) and zit zitoun (olive oil). I couldn't stand the zebda and zit zitoun at first; they are fresher and have less additives than our versions so they taste completely different, but now I'm a big fan. Lunch is the most important meal and we always have cous cous on fridays. There are many different versions of the dish, but my host cousin always makes my family's. She carries it to us through the streets each Friday, covered with a dish towel. It is always on a huge platter and is topped with vegetables; the chicken is hidden in the middle. Cous cous is served with a buttermilk that I just cannot accustom myself too. Caskrote (snack) is the next meal and is usually served between 5-7; it is just like breakfast. Dinner is often a smaller version of lunch and comes anywhere from 9-11.

-Body noises are not a source of embarrassment. My host mother, for example, burps and passes gas unapologetically. She even says hamdullilah (praise to God) after burping. She also very loudly spits into the sink every morning. Yes, it does disgust me a bit, but I've gotten used to it.

-Pajama culture. People hardly ever get dressed, particularly women. My host mother changes her outfit once every three weeks. She'll often just throw a djellaba over her pajamas and go out. My village host brother slept in the same clothes he wore every day. He did not shower either; a shower to him was only for a rare, celebratory occasion. I see girls my age wearing pajamas in the street and it is the most normal thing in the world.

-Cars are made to stuff people into. I have been in a car made to seat five people, but with nine people along for the ride. There are two types of taxis here: petit taxis cannot leave a city's boundaries and can only transport three people. Grand taxis can travel between cities and can squeeze six people in. I have also seen people jump onto moving buses and hang onto the back of trucks.

-Medina streets can be quite messy. In fact, there is even a street we call the garbage street. Especially when walking around late at night, after the day's commercial activity has ended, the streets become a sea of discarded papers, bottles, and wrappers. There are very few public trash cans in the city and people treat the street like a garbage can, mashky mushky. When the streets are busy the filth is still present, just less noticeable. I always seem to step in puddles of mysterious water. Luckily, I've become pretty good at avoiding the blood streaming through the streets from the butcher stands.

-I never believe my eyes when I'm walking past butcher shops. I see full legs, hooves, and cow heads on full display. Butcher shops in the states almost never present meat in its original form.

-Stoves in the medina are powered by gas tanks that have to be replaced and replenished every few months. My host mother even has a decorated cover for her gas tanks. I often see little kids in tattered clothes pushing the tanks through the streets.

-I love to watch my six year old host nephew and his mom interact. She's a strong disciplinarian and often hits him or shouts hashuma (shame), but he also gets away with a lot that American six year olds wouldn't. I was surprised when his Mother brought him coffee one day. Here, youngsters drink coffee.

- Street harassment could be a blog post in and of itself. It is constant and mainly verbal, although one friend was groped the other day. "Bonjour, tu es très belle!", "Zwina" (beautiful), "Hey! Do you want to talk to me? Hello? Bonjour?", "Ohhhhhh Myyyy Godddd". And the penetrating stares; you know those eyes are fixed on you until you round the corner. My mood towards it constantly changes. Sometimes the New Yorker comes out and I want to throw a punch or some mean words. Other times I've been amused by the behavior and I've even appreciated it. I've also wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out again. We had one class with a female Moroccan rapper, Soultana. She wants this behavior to change and hopes that her songs will make men realize "Hey, that could be my sister, Mother, or wife. I shouldn't harass them."

-The ever present call to prayer. Sometimes it is an annoyance, but it is often an incredible feeling to stop what I'm doing and listen as it begins to emanate from every mosque. I'm always surprised to hear it at five in the morning if I wake up in the middle of the night. The best listening experience is from the CCCL's highest balcony at lunch time when you can see each Mosque and point out each one as it begins the call, "Alahu Akbar...Alahu Akbar."

Leaving the Medina for Casablanca felt so strange! Our last week was all about preparing for the ISJ. In French class Louis and I were given assignments that got us outside, practicing in the field. We spent one morning drinking mint tea in my favorite café, which is inside the Andalusian Gardens and has a beautiful view of the ocean. Then we interviewed Moufdi, the owner of our favorite orange juice stop just across from the kasbah. All of the language classes had to present skits on Friday. Louis and I met with our professor at a literary café behind the Mohammed V theatre to prepare. Our skit had Louis and I running into each other in Rabat in 30 years, reliving our memories, and discussing what all of our friends were up to. I had become the Princess of Monaco hahah! That last week Louis, Marie, Stacy, Linda Brooks (a friend of Mary's who was visiting and teaching us about photojournalism), and I also went to visit Chellah, the Roman ruins in Rabat.

On our last Friday we had a small get together at the CCCL to thank the host families. My host mother and host sister couldn't make it, but I went with my host cousin, Asthon's host sister Aziza. Aziza and my host mother dressed Ashton and me up in matching pink caftans. Aziza also embroidered us two headscarfs, not hijabs, but the kind that women where while working in the house. After the party I packed my bags and two days later, that Sunday, I hugged my host mother and dragged my suitcases to the train station.