Black Dog

I still have small bits of dough stuck to the backs of my hands from my previous morning’s work. I successfully made bread today for the first time, all on my own. The other two times had been interrupted and resulted in some rather flat and unsatisfactory loaves. Having just finished a small Moroccan snack of sardines and bread, I decided I wanted to relinquish some thoughts, since I haven’t for a while…

Introductions can be boring, but necessary. I am just about as settled as I plan to be in my house. I abandoned shopping on a mattress, seeing that they were all too expensive or were as hard as cement (we say that in Tash "zund cema"). So, I have decided I would much rather go for the real thing and sleep on the floor. The ponj I inherited was given with a warning and after three rather uncomfortable, sleepless nights now, I think the ponj has seen its last days in my bedroom. The only thing left I had on my shopping list was a refrigerator, and I have been across the board on that one. Yesterday, we headed into Kelaa to go see if our neighboring souk town had a better selection. It does not. I saw some really nice, brand new ones, priced at 1700 and 1800 Ds, approximately half of our settling in allowance. Most volunteers buy slightly used ones for about 1000 to 1200 Ds, some are inherited, and some volunteers sell to other volunteers for about half the price they bought it for. I went in search of a used appliances store and found some rather interesting places.

He looked like a sketchy businessman to begin with. Stealing short puffs on his cigarette and assessing me with his dark twitchy eyes, he thought he saw a quick buck for a stupid tourist. He only had large refrigerators and I needed a small one. Anything bigger would take up half of my kitchen, use up too much electricity, and frankly, not fit. He told me to come back in about an hour and he would have a small refrigerator then, a really really good one. I went shopping. I was in the market for some pants. I can’t wear shorts in my site, so 99% of the time I am in jeans or workout pants and it can get quite hot here in Morocco. Skirts would be a viable option except you still have to wear pants underneath them, if you go to have tea at someone’s house, you are more than likely to be sitting on the floor and the risk is too great not to have only some kind of safety… It was a fun morning. I was speaking a fair amount of the language and being able to describe to the store owners what exactly I was shopping for. They appreciated that I was speaking their language. I made jokes about the colors and was picky, if the pants were orange or yellow I said that it hurt my eyes and was like the sun, white pants I would have to wash everyday and I don’t have enough money to buy that much Tide, pink was like the flowers and I made a gross face. The last store I stopped at didn’t look like much from the outside. They have countertops that stretch across the store’s entrance so you can’t look through the items yourself. It is not for browsing. Most items come prepackaged in plastic, protection against the elements I assume, but it makes it quite difficult to see what the items look like. Long sleeves or short sleeves, the cut and the design. I described the pants I was looking for to the little man. He pulls out a pair, exactly what I wanted. They look terribly silly until you are wearing them. MC Hammer has come back in style, but as nice, loose linen available in all colors. I settled on a pair of chocolate brown and olive green ones. He was telling me I could find the same ones in Ourzazate for 20 Ds more, he gave me a good price for them and then I got a scarf for free. That’s how it works. J

I tried to avoid the sketchy businessman on my way back. I don’t know the roads of Kelaa at all, and taking the wrong turn is not a good idea, so I ended up on the main road. His store was off a side street and I hurried past, trying to avoid any and all eye contact with everyone to no avail. He runs up and catches me. He has the small, really good fridge and I should look at it now! Waxxight. It is smaller, definitely used. I like to describe it as one you would see in someone’s garage, holding beer, and only beer, because thinking about putting food in there would a stupid idea. It was gross. It needed a good cleaning. I asked how much he wanted for it. I thought he would start off around 700 Ds and we might work it down to 550 or 600 Ds. Guess! Guess how much he wanted for it… 1500 Ds! Hahahaha I laughed in his face. Pure laughter, Are you joking? Do you really think I am that stupid?! Oh man, he explained to me that it was a good model, even used the only English word he knew, “Guarantee” that it worked. There was no point in pricing it. He started out too high, and I definitely didn’t want to buy anything from this man.

The post office now charges for packages. I received my first one on Wednesday, and was very excited. Anjie had one waiting for her too. I was stoked. My first package since I have been in country! Full of things that I had asked for from my family! Anjie had said that she came to the post office earlier and they were now taxing packages. They told her she had to pay 500 Ds in order to pick it up. Surely thins must be a mistake? We were only aware of taxes on electronics. She had a package full of miscellaneous items, none of them electronics. My package was twice the size of hers and yet hers weighed probably two times mine. They were expecting us to pay 250 Ds for mine and 500 Ds for hers. Outrageous. Inconceivable! (Princess Bride) But really, we, as volunteers, cannot afford to pay those taxes on our packages. Receiving a stipend of approximately 2000 Ds a month, that would severely cut into a budget for something else. We need to work out some other system. My solution is for Peace Corps and the post office to work out some kind of system. We are volunteers here in this country, working for free. These packages are a small piece of sanity. These packages let us know that our families love us and support us. Our tutor, who is a big help for most things, and doesn’t understand others, asked if the things inside Anjie’s package were worth 500 Ds (approximately $55) Yes and No. First off, most of the things inside you cannot buy in Morocco, if you can, they are incredibly expensive. Her parents sent her citronella candles because of the disastrous number of invisible mosquitoes; they sent her journal, peanut butter and some other small items. Worth 500 Ds? Probably not, but to send it back to America would be such a waste at the same time. Anjie is going to Ourzazate next week to dispute this with the post office there. I hope she is successful. We both have other packages on the way. As of right now I am going to ask my parents to hold off until we work something out here. Grrrr.

On my way to pick up a mirror and I am stopped by guides who ask me to tea. Guides are an interesting lot. I have heard them describe themselves as thieves. Which in some cases, they are. They are easy to point out, dressed in bright scarves and loud shirts. Where they might look Moroccan or African at first glance, it is a stark contrast to what the normal everyday wear typically is. They are usually young guys 18-25 years old who know enough language, fluent in French, some English and others to persuade tourists to employ their services. They take tourists up through the gorge, down to the Sahara and to see the sights and sounds of Morocco. They have certain hotels and restaurants they take tourists to. It is all a system and they do pretty well for themselves. They usually get some action on the side, part of the job. One of the guides I meet is pretty notorious. He is a good 6ft tall, if not taller. His friend was just as tall but spoke less English. Nordine has a huge personality. He carries himself well, full of self-confidence. He always wears a lime green scarf and wraps it around his dreaded hair. I am the relatively new volunteer. They want to know who I replaced and where I live. As a rule, we usually stay away from the guides. Different reasons. They are associated with tourists, and we try to distance ourselves as much from being perceived as tourists. Guides are a tad bit slimy and our reputation is usually all that we have to go on. Guides also like volunteers, we know their language and have made an effort to understand and respect their customs. There is an ongoing joke that you can always spot PCVs, we are covered and modest and usually bitchy. We don’t respond to Bonjours or offers to look at goods inside stores or to tea with strangers. We don’t mean to be ugly, but I am sure it looks like that sometimes. Nordine insists that I have tea with them, “You always say ‘one day, enchallah,’ have one glass of tea with us and talk and then you may go,” Ok. Fine. And I was curious.

I walked into a small apartment with a large freezer in the middle of the room, the same ones you find in gas stations that have ice cream in them. They offer me cold water out of it. Out of nowhere I hear a yapping and a daschund comes up and starts sniffing my feet. I recognize this dog! He belongs to another guide…I then go in and sit in the living room. A French lady looks up from the ponj. She is in her late 50s and has milky blue eye shadow painted on her eyelids. Her lips are outlined in a dark brown color and the contrast is startling. She has straw blond hair and it is cut short across the back of her head. She is lumpy and starts speaking to me in French. Lounging next to her is the dog’s owner, another guide, but as of right now I can only think that he must be unemployed and busy entertaining this lady. This happens every now and then and I find it fascinating. He was probably half her age and good-looking. He looks up at me and I notice his eyes. Damn, he is stoned out of his mind. I then notice the huge blunt in his hand. I can’t smell anything though because the fan is situated at their feet. They are watching some French movie on a PSP. He is blazed out of his mind. At this point, I am given a glass of tea and sip it slowly. I talk to Nordine and his friend. One day, I can have him and his friends at my house for tea? Ummm yeah, sure…

I go and get my mirror (full size, 1m x35cm) and head back out towards the main part of town. A transit (large van that can fit up to like 30 people) that I take from time to time passes by me slowly. I am still about a half-block away from the main street. I curse myself for walking back so slowly, knowing that the next transit probably won’t leave for another hour at least. I notice the brake lights. The money boy recognized me and they stopped! (Money boys are anywhere from 12-20 years old and collect money from the passengers, load transits, open doors and assist the driver) I start walking faster, aware of the very fragile purchase under my arms. They hoist it up and put it up on the roof. The roof is crammed with various other goods, huge sacks of flour, crates of vegetables, luggage, etc. I told him to “pay attention cause it was glass” (don’t think that matters). I get in with a “bismillah” and slide in next to another woman. The transit isn’t even that crowded, to me that means that they had waited long enough and were ready to pull out. Awesome! That means it was going to take even longer for the next one to fill up. I lean back and relax, mulling over the day’s events. Oh shitfuckdamnit. I left my package with my tutor. Fuuuccckkkk. I haven’t even opened it up yet.