The Ebb and Flow

As the ocean tides ebb and flow, I'm finding, so do the moods in expat life.  Having lived abroad before, I'm familiar with the feeling.  The highs and lows and in-betweens.  The surges.  The wane.  Now that I'm starting to settle into expat life, I see this movement, the continual rhythm of change, as a constant in my new life.

While I haven't hit anything worthy of tidal wave status yet, I've felt the swell of frustration and discouragement on a few occasions recently.  I'll focus this post on one of those occasions:  my first personal experience with the Moroccan postal system.  Let me begin by saying the post office's bad rep preceded my move here.  Expats I met during my initial visit warned me not to trust the mail system here - many packages that are sent here are never received.  Those that are received are opened by postal workers doing customs inspections, and they often levy heavy import taxes before you can take goods home.  For this reason, most foreigners avoid the mail unless it is necessary.

Despite these warnings, I ventured into the local post office today.  Having promised some family and close friends post cards, I have been determined to get some in the mail.  Postcards in hand, I ask our driver to take me to the closest post office.  This happens to be in Dar Bouazza, the little sleepy seaside town close to our home.  

When the driver initially pulls up to the building, I am surprised to see it is inside of a bank.  The driver who is helping us while we get accustomed to the Moroccan way of driving, Younes, accompanies me into the building.  Again to my astonishment, I see throngs of people waiting around on benches.  What are they waiting for?  Stamps?  Packages?  Some bank-related business?  Younes walks in and immediately engages a man who looks like a security guard.  After quite a bit of discussion, the guard gives me a paper to fill out, all in French.   With no English speakers around and spotty French, I have a form to fill out ENTIRELY in French!  Yikes!  Thank goodness for Younes!  The security guard says something else to Younes.  Now it appears that EACH postcard I plan to send needs a form.  What?!  I panic for a moment as I realize I have 30 postcards!  Wait a moment, the guard seems to say, these are going to the US?  Oh.  Then you're at the wrong post office.  What?!  Different post offices for different types of mail service.  Hmmmm...a novel concept!  Deep breath.  But I am relieved to be saved from filling out those 30 different forms and waiting for an eternity in line with kids in tow.  Whew!!

Next stop:  The big post office in Casablanca.  As we drive up to the front of it, I see the typical beggars hovering around, wherever lots of people frequent.  My kids see a young woman, sitting on the sidewalk, showing her scraggly Guinea pig.  The kids insist on stopping to pet it.  Younes pays the woman a dirham for her efforts.  I think about taking a picture, but then decide flashing my iPhone in a place with a lot of beggars maybe isn't the greatest idea.  So no picture.

Again, this post office is located inside some sort of a bank building that also exchanges money for foreign currencies.  Not surprisingly, the big post office has even more throngs of people, sitting around and waiting.  Just waiting.  This time, there appears to be a sign of efficiency, though.  There is a computer screen at the entrance that assigns you a number, presumably your place in line, and prints out a ticket for me. #315. I start to feel more hopeful that perhaps this won't be such a complicated process, after all.  

Another surprise.  My driver, Younes, walks right up to the counter!  I look up at the number on the display.  #183.  Is the number counter display not working or are there really 130 or so people in front of me?  Are we "ditching" people who are waiting to use the post office?  Or are these people here for bank business?  I look around at the throngs of people for their reaction.  I get some "hairy eyeballs."  Is that because I might have ditched them in line?   Or is it because I am a Western woman who appears to be with a Moroccan man, something that is frowned upon by the more conservative Moroccans?

I become very self-conscious and try to surmise what Younes' discussion with the postal/bank worker is about.  The postal workers does lots of typing on some sort of computer.  The man who appears to be the boss figure of the operation walks over and mumbles something in Arabic to the worker waiting on us.  We wait.  More typing on the computer.  At this point, the kids are starting to bug each other, unable to keep their hands off each other.  They start whining about how hot it is and how tired they are.  Nowhere to sit.  All of the seats are taken by the throngs.  I look over at some well behaved Moroccan children and again, I feel self-conscious.  After more back-and-forth discussion and looking at my postcards, Younes writes the cost of mailing the postcards on a scrap of paper. 435 dirhams.  I pull out my bank card. The postal worker shakes his head, indicating that I had to pay with cash.  What?!  I don't carry that kind of cash around!  Oh no.  Really?!  I shake my head and say in French, "non argent, pas d'argent."  No money.  "Je reviens en lundi."  I will return on Monday.  Once again.  Ugh.  And so my feelings ebb.  The water rises.

Then on my way home from the post office, I feel stomach cramps.  I think maybe it's just breakfast not sitting too well.  What did I eat?  Just cereal and milk.  Hmmmm...last night?  Gelato at a little place near the movie theatre.  Ice....made from water...that maybe wasn't filtered.  Uh oh.  I get home and the stomach cramps are worse.  After a long visit to the bathroom, which thankfully wasn't needed while I was in the post office, I start to feel better.  Today becomes a rest day.  My body is thanking me for that.  The tide begins to reverse.

While I lounge around, I work on filling out the kids' school forms and see that I need to put down emergency contact information.  Who to put?  Thankfully we have one other American family from Mike's company who came here at the same time as us.  After a conversation,we agree to be each other's emergency contacts.  Whew.  I feel thankful for our new friends!

Kabira, our housekeeper, makes crepes as a treat this afternoon.  The tide flows out more.  I hear the children splashing and playing in the pool.  A little more rushes.  A neighborhood rooster crows.  I sit down to write and vent.  Despite its confusion at times, life is good.  I'm back onto an even keel for the moment.

The Heart of Morocco

As I sit down to write my first blog entry, I feel a gentle, balmy breeze that waves the palm fronds outside my window.  I hear the playful greeting of an unknown bird and smell the fragrant spices of tagine, cooking in my kitchen.  Since moving to Morocco two weeks ago with my family, it feels as though my senses have been activated, reminding me of former travel experiences while creating something altogether new.  My aim in writing this blog is to capture the Morocco I experience and share it with all of you.

Morocco is new.  It is also old.  It is a place of contrasts.  Young people text on their smartphones as they walk through the Morocco Mall, shopping for skinny jeans.  Old men, dressed in jelabas (traditional Moroccan robes) and fezzes (traditional hats), stand on the street corner, talking about the latest news.  A business man, driving his brand new Mercedes sedan, whizzes by a man driving a donkey cart, carrying vegetables to sell in the city.  A fully covered woman in a burka sits with her toddler at the IKEA play area.  Next to a her, a Moroccan woman in Western dress comforts her own child while wearing no head covering at all.  Juxtapositions.  Contrasts.  

Despite all of these contrasts, Morocco is a place of unity.  People are warm and generous with one another, regardless of their differences.  They are also warm and generous with outsiders.  In fact, during my three weeks of total time in Morocco, I have only been treated with warmth and generosity.  In a country with such dichotomies, it amazes me that there isn't more conflict.  Why aren't the poor more disgruntled about their position?  Why aren't the more old-fashioned people disgusted with all of the change and progress?  Why aren't the conservative Muslims more frustrated with the more liberal ones?

I don't have the answers to these questions.  However, I have read that one of the pillars of Islam  talks about charity - giving to the less fortunate.  This does not only include material wealth, but also giving of one's time and energy, as well as resources.  They believe that God has given them the blessings they have and that they are morally obligated to share what they have with others.  I have seen wealthy Moroccans give freely to the beggars on the street, but also I've also personally witnessed gracious hospitality and kindness from strangers, regardless of their social position.  People have gone out of their way to tell me that I am welcome here.  A man selling flowers gave me a free bouquet for "International Women's Day."  While we were at the market, I saw vendors happily give each of my children a piece of fruit as a gift.  When my son spilled his drink at a restaurant, the waiter immediately brought him a new drink and cleaned up the mess with a smile, insisting it was no problem at all.  

This warmth and kindness to me - a stranger - has touched me so deeply.  What I leave with you today is an image of the big heart of Morocco - a big heart for the whole world.