Have you any wool?

You know how people say " the weather is what you talk about when you don't have anything else to talk about." Well - that's not true in this case. There are MANY things I could talk about going on here in Morocco, but the cold is still what I am talking about and what I hear Moroccans talking about too.

In an effort battle the cold, I went searching with a friend in the Medina for...wool.
Before it got cold I used to admire the tailoring and stitching of people's outfits; now i look and say- "wow, that looks really warm." Many Moroccans have turned to wearing their wool jellebas, and when in Fes do as Fessis do.

So early morning I knock on my friends door who lives in the medina and we make our way down the steep inclines deep into the old city to the section where people sell fabric. As we walk along past some German tourists, my friend comments about how a lot of stores used to sell items for Moroccans but have since taken to selling tourist souvenirs. "Its getting to be as if Moroccans have no reason to come into the medina" she says.

We start the round of fabric shops. We rub the fabrics between our thumb and index finger, we blow on the fabric. ( If you can feel your breathe on the other side, its not thick enough). We ask the price. Then we ask the price again. Then again, no really whats the absolute last price? We ask for swatches of the fabric to compare it with colors at other stores.

An hour later after going down small pathways and in and out of fabric stalls, we have decided on the store we will buy from, good quality fabric reasonable starting price my friend feels she will be be able to bring down. She also has a card up her sleeve, the guy who owns the store is her sisters neighbor and she's not afraid to mention this to get the price down a few dirhams.

So now what about the color. The color I really like, I am told is for men. Only men wear jellebas in that color. I pause for a second because honestly I don't care about it being a " man color," but i don't know how to communicate this effectively and non-offensively. I joke about getting one made but only wearing it in America where no one will know its a man color.
Then I settle on two unisex colors , but can't decide between the two.

My friend asks if there is a mirror so I can see myself, one guy in the shop says, " no - you're her mirror," but the owner picks up the bolt and walks me into another shop across the path from his shop where they have a mirror. It is rather embarrassing, but my friend holdd the mirror in front of me while the shop owner holds the bolt of fabric and tells me to hold the fabric up in front of myself and look in the mirror. I quickly do this, and then we leave the shop. The three men who were sitting in the shop before we came in, barely stopped their conversation to acknowledge us.

So now comes the hard part, settling on a price. My friend asks " how much?" without making eye contact. The shop keeper says a price without making eye contact. My friend says "whats the second price?" The shopkeeper says "that is the price." No really, my friend says, "'cause that price is way off." The shop keeper makes a comment about the quality, then says the lowest he could possibly go is a price that is five dirhams less than his previous one. Then he picks up the bolt of fabric and starts measuring out the meters.

My friend tells him to hold off, and not to cut anything until we decide on a price. She had already mentioned her sister, but I think she mentions her again for effect and says the most we would be willing to pay is 5 dirhams less than his lowest offer. He pulls out the ruler and starts readying the scissors, my friend laughs nervously and says "don't cut it unless you've agreed to that price i just said. If you've agreed to it then, say Bismillah (in the name of GOd) " A fellow shopper who has been eavesdropping says " Bismillah." We smile and the shopkeeper gives a slight nod to his head and quietly concedes to us the victory of the cloth.

Fall in Fes

I finally feel like it is Fall here in Fes. The rain that finally came brought with it the cold that reminds me of new England. What does not remind me of New England or Chicago or anyplace else in the states is that the interior of houses are freezing. The cold doesn't stay here long enough to merit indoor heating. And so for the next couple of months we will have to make due with layered clothing, multiple blankets, and sleeping in our socks.

The feeling of Fall sparked within me a craving for a Native American corn soup from back home. I got the recipe and set out to gather the ingredients. With all the fresh vegetables available in Morocco, I didn't think that finding corn would be an obstacle. When I asked for corn at the corner store near a friend's house, I was handed raw popcorn. I was pleasantly surprised by the sight of popcorn for some reason and then started thinking about the process by which corn the vegetable becomes popcorn the fun food. The guy at the store awoke me from my thoughts to ask if I wanted the popcorn or not. Not I said, I want fresh corn. They don't have fresh corn he says, but they do have ....canned. Canned? okay, and I buy 2 cans.

I still had to get some other key ingredients like red peppers . I buy them from a man pushing a cart of vegetables in the rain. He had cilantro and eggplant and beautiful red peppers. I ask him for two peppers and he repeats "two?" because most people ask for a kilo or half a kilo or a forth of a kilo, not a number. He gives them to me and charges me for half a kilo. Onions are easy to come by, i get them from the farm stand near my house. I get a half a kilo for one dirham!

There is one ingredient I am not even looking for and thats Chipotle. I settle for ground hot pepper. I buy it along with fresh cream,a chicken bouillon cube, and oh yes, a blender at the fancy supermarket.

And so for dinner a beautiful bowl of Southwest Indian Nation corn soup on a chilly North African night.

Update on the Rain

4 am in the morning, and the smell of rain awoke me.Alhamdulilah.

And then I remembered how long it had been since I had heard rainfall. The call to prayer that was given about an hour and a half after that definitely seemed more lively and meaningful than usual, but perhaps I was reading things into it.

It was a light rain, enough to wet the ground, but only a small sip for a very thirsty land.

free water

There are a lot of words for rain in Arabic, but there is no rain here in Morocco. The drought has lasted so long that this past Friday, there was a special prayer(Salatul Istisqa') for rain at mosques all around the country. It was preceded and followed by encouragements for people to make repentance. This is logical for the God-fearing types, the line of logic goes like this, we can't ask God to send us rain if we have done all these things (commonly known as sins) that God would not like and have yet to ask for forgiveness.

Its funny how something you would think only farmers would be concerned about is on every one's mind. I've heard people from as diverse walks of life as tailors, college professors and housewives talk about the drought. The tailor said it was effecting her business. When farmers have to pay to irrigate instead of using "free water" from the skies, they pass the prices on to their customers. And those customers have fewer new clothes made. Agriculture is a staple of the Moroccan economy and it is in times like this that everybody starts to feel it.

This is supposed to be the rainy season. Which generally means continuous rain for days. But for now there are just these silent, dry skies and hands open in prayer.

Just one day

Lest anyone should think that I am living the good life plucking tangerines off the vine or anything (and also because I could not think of anything else to write about,) I thought I'd describe all the things I do in a day, and I'll start with today. It is currently 1:55 pm in Morocco, schools are out for a week break to celebrate the Green March ( when the late King Hassan II led soldiers and civilians into the Western Sahara desert to " reclaim" it for Morocco after the Spanish colonizers left. This is a very hotly contested subject, mostly because the people of the desert want their own autonomy and do not want to be Moroccans.)

In general things are not that much slower than usual during this week although
there are a bit fewer cabs in the morning because of the holiday. I was grateful to get one close to my house which took me straight to my morning classes for which I am I am generally late, but this morning I was 30 mins early because I didn't read the schedule right. No harm, I walked to the corner store and had the guy there make me a sandwich of soft cheese and bread.It is about the only thing I can eat since I have been afflicted with some kind of intestinal virus from some meat I bought a few days ago --- but thats another story in itself.

I go to class late because I was waiting in the wrong room. How brilliant! We read passages from a modern Moroccan writer and we start talking about this huge orphanage in Casablanca that has its own elementary and high school. The King paid it a surprise visit last year and was very upset with the conditions there. I find it all extremely depressing and find it hard to go on talking about the story we're reading.

Class is over. I walk to the "Big Street" as Fessis call it and get pictures taken because I need 9 passport shots to apply for a Carte de Sejour, basically a green card to stay in Morocco for more than 3 months. My 3 months are almost up and so I need to get my papers in order. While I wait for the photos to be done, I go to the store next door where a boy I guess to be about 9 years old very professionally makes the photocopies I will need of my passport to submit with my application.

There is still time before my pictures will be ready so I run across the street to the main office of the company i bought my cell phone from because the phone has mysteriously refused to let me use it without a pin code that i don't know and have no way of knowing. I press the button on the machine at the door of the office and am issued a sheet with my number on it. I sit reading a book and wait until the number is called.
When I show the man behind the desk my phone , he immediately starts laughing and wants to slap my hand in some kind of comrade like, "wow isn't this hilarious". I don't want to touch him and I also don't know why its so funny.I just look at him confused like. He goes into the computer, does some stuff and then tells me the pin code is 1234, if the phone should ever lock up on me again.

I go back across the street and get my pictures, there is a very soiled mute man in the store begging for money and the woman there tells him to come back on Friday. The other woman behind the counter starts saying some prayers.

I walk towards the Baladiya , this is the place where I need to get all of my forms " legalized" , basically notarized, but I dread entering any official buildings and recite a few verses of Qur'an under my breath and hope to run into a beggar on the way to give some charity ( in order to put some good into the world and ask God's assistance) before I have to deal with Moroccan bureaucracy.

I go to the wrong office. They direct me to the right office. I wait in a line. I feel my body tensing. I get to the front of the line and the woman tells me i need a photocopy of 2 of my forms, the originals cannot be legalized. She also tells me that once I have those I need to go wait in yet another line. I walk 3 blocks back down the street to another story with a photocopy machine,try to call a friend who has already gone through this process but she is not answering her cell.

I walk back to the Baladiya. Wrong line again, then right line, but not actually a line, but people standing around in a kind of huddle formation in front of the service window. Finally my papers are taken. I wait 10 minutes , give the guy 12 dirhams and walk out with legalized papers.

By now it is 12:33 but i don't realize its that late. The call to prayer must have been given because I see a man praying on the grass just past the MacDonalds restaurant. I didn't hear it inside the Baladiya. I go buy yet some more cheese and bread and to go say the afternoon prayer and regroup.

After prayer I think about how I still have to buy a 60 dirham stamp from somewhere and then take all my forms to the police station tomorrow God willing. I'm sure that will be great, I think.

Then, I walk towards this computer place and sit down and blog.

Don't ever ask me the price of something in front of another customer

Don't ever ask me the price of something in front of another customer.

This is what the lady shopkeeper said to me, more sternly than anything I remember coming from my parents or any figure of authority.
And so dear reader it is with this stern scolding that we open another door and look into some other aspect of life in Morocco. And this is the door of shopping.

One of my Moroccan friends asked me, "where do you shop?" I only half answered her, naming certain fruit and vegetable stands and leaving off the names of the two big supermarkets I sometimes frequent. She would have assumed i have more money than I actually do, and I don't want to be known as the rich American.

But it is for the ease of purchasing items without having to speak or bargain with anyone that i sometimes resort to the big supermarkets. In the States some people actually go shopping to relax , well they best not come here. Shopping is a taxing game of chess, where each customer is quoted a different price based on the two second sizing up the shopkeeper does when they walk by or based on how well they know them, which is why I got chewed out by the lady shopkeeper.

Most things in Morocco are bought after some bargaining has taken place and both parties feel somewhat satisfied, although both act as if they are doing the other a big favor by accepting the price. This is fine for carpets and brass furnishings, but dear Lord, for a tomato? Or incense, or a blanket. These are all things I have purchased recently and for which i either forwent bargaining and accepted the first price quoted (which i would never tell my Moroccan friends) or for which i bargained with not one, but four shopkeepers until I got the price down by about 100 dirhams.

As I was paying the 4th shopkeeper for my blanket, another woman walked up and asked him what was the price for the blankets. It was a tense moment where I awaited the price to drop from his lips, he shyly quoted her the same first price I had been given, then she lowered her voice and walked with him further into the shop. She knew that I had already agreed on a price and that her bargaining could not take place in front of me. I got that sunken feeling in my stomach like when you find out someone you have a crush on likes someone else.

One price for all! I complained to the womans daughter who was awaiting her at the front of the shop. And this is why I sometimes seek refuge at the big foreign supermarket. I know that in one way I am still being taken advantage of, but the beautiful silence of taking something off the shelf without having to give a sob story as to why you can't afford the first price quoted to you is well worth it.

Of course there are a few Moroccan owned shops that have signs that say FIXED PRICE either in Arabic or French or both. I never go into those shops. I know it is hypocritical, but I feel limited by them, as if my freedom to bargain has been taken away from me. "FIXED PRICE? hugh!" I huff, "but this is Morocco!"

I know it makes no sense, but there is a sense of satisfaction one gets when they out smart a shopkeeper, or at least impressed one. Just make sure to lower your voice in front of other customers.