Stealing Fatima's Hand

By Carolyn Theriault

“ ...Finally a grand taxi stopped and offered to take us to the train station for the unbelievably low fare of twenty dirham, so unbelievably low, that I was not a little disappointed when the driver didn’t rob us, slit our throats, and dump our bodies into the Strait of Gibraltar... “

Stealing Fatima’s Hand is a collection of narratives presenting an alternative view of
Morocco.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vox Humana Books
• Release date: May 30, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452352282

Carolyn Theriault

Canadian born essayist and novelist, Carolyn Thériault currently resides in Turkey where she is at work upon her second book and a number of other print and other media projects. As a photographer, Ms. Thériault also keeps a somewhat nostalgic eye on the diminishing minarets, muezzins, medinas and mashrabiyyas of North Africa. Her travel photographs are currently in the collections of corporate and private patrons in Europe, Asia, North America, and New Zealand may be viewed at www.urbancaravan.com

Book preview

Prologue

On the day I left my husband, I cried until all my tears were spent, which I must confess, was a prodigious amount because I am by nature a bit of a weeper. This was a mutual decision, this leaving of mine ― a temporary blip on the marriage map. If a year can be a blip. Plagued by a series of seven-year itches (including stints as an envelope opener, a peddler of fine china and an archaeologist), I have lived a somewhat vagabond’s life in this otherwise forty-hour work-week world: never content to stay anywhere long, always looking for something to capture and maintain my interest for a few years at a time. In a world of ants, I am a grasshopper; Aesop cursed me with no easy life. As a result of this unconventional lifestyle, and because my attention span has an expiration date not unlike a can of baked beans, I have developed very few marketable skills. Not surprisingly then, the ability to find any sort of permanent niche has eluded me in this impermanent world of my own making. To make matters worse, what does bring me a modicum of joy (particularly traveling, writing, and drinking before or by midday) seldom carries with it any benefits of a pecuniary stripe. Indeed, such whims cost money unless you work for Condé Nast. They’ve never returned my e-mails. My father once told me that I came by this angst honestly, that I am but one in a long line of late bloomers. Small consolation indeed. To complicate matters, I have married one. Many years have passed and I am still awaiting my bloom, and I now fear that I will not recognize it when (or perhaps more accurately if) it comes.

So while our friends crammed money into their retirement funds, watched their children grow up, took cruises to Puerto Vallarta, celebrated anniversaries or dissolved their marriages, my husband and I once again decided to pull up stakes: another career change, another country, another round of splaining to do. A not quite mid-life crisis, but rather, an ongoing one; this is a crisis that began in utero. A teaching position became available in Agdal, a neighborhood of Rabat, the capital of Morocco, a country where Chris and I have some experience, having traveled there several years ago. Traveled? ― Pshaw! We backpacked through it for crying out loud, so how difficult can it be to live there? we asked ourselves, with a mouthful of hubris. If memory serves, I think we even pooh-poohed the likelihood that either of us would succumb to culture shock. How the gods must have peed themselves laughing.

So in the realm of being careful for what you wish for ― and because I was qualified and could therefore technically begin immediately ― I accepted the position. We agreed that Chris would join me in a year’s time, after he (rather importantly) obtained the necessary certification and (more importantly) paid off all of our outstanding debt. Being debt-free takes on greater significance in a country whose currency is not convertible to tradable currencies and upon which there are draconian restrictions on the amount that can be annually exchanged and exported. He would achieve the first one of our two goals. Our friends quite astutely thought we were insane to leave our home, jobs, health plans, pensions ― and each other. Later I would hear that bets were laid, not on the future of our marriage, but rather on the precise date it would end. Fear prevents me from asking Chris if he got in on the action. Nonetheless, I felt ― we felt ― that we had no choice. It was yet another manifestation of our collective seven-year itch. I flew to Morocco, to scratch the itching, to start again from scratch. To paraphrase Hope and Crosby, like Webster’s Dictionary, I was Morocco-bound.

On many levels, it was a year of transition: foremost learning to redefine my marriage in terms of distance, using a newly acquired cyber language, a marriage virtually devoid of touch and voice. I found that computers and cell phones could bestow an intimacy previously unknown to us ― and eventually we would discover the semi-prurient joy of webcams; text messaging became our dialect of love and we learned to abbreviate what we longed to say in person. Having said that, time did not fly and it did suck to be apart.

It was also a year of challenges. If you were born before 1980 then you know that by challenges I mean difficulties and problems. This was not an easy country for women, Moroccan or those, like me, from the Land of the Round Doorknobs. When I first traveled there half a dozen years previously, my identity was different: I was a woman with a male escort (who would rather foolishly become my husband the following year); suddenly I was perceived as a single woman. Which I suppose I was. I was a meat-eater and am now a vegetarian. The balance tipped and not in my favor: There is a lifetime of struggle between these two incarnations. I faced them daily. I found myself angry much of the time; my morale taking a beating. The cat-calls rankled, the wolf whistles bristled, the stares disheartened. I debated designing a line of t-shirts: No, I don’t want to have sex with you. This low-level but incessant sexual assault knew no boundaries of age: teenagers and men old enough to be my grandfather appraised me equally. I practiced yoga more regularly to bring me calm. It didn’t work.

I was inattentive to my nutrition. Not surprisingly, there are no meat substitutes (apart from anything that is not meat) and although vegetables are inexpensive, I easily slipped into a gluttonous diet, never having mastered the art of resisting the temptations of apatisserie or a boulangerie. If I had been advised to change to a wheat-free regime, I would, quite simply, have died. Before I bought an oven, I prepared my meals on two half-hearted electric burners, so what little culinary creativity I may once have possessed either abandoned me or died from neglect. Most (and by most I mean all) Moroccan restaurants offer the non-carnivore two dining choices: a vegetarian pizza or a cheese panini, or a window-dressed grilled cheese sandwich. Even salads are crammed with seafood and meat. I could not avoid cheese so I compromised on dairy. I certainly hadn’t expected that my dietary concerns would be catered to by an Islamic community; this is, after all, a country where the verifiable absence of pork is attested to on boxes of Cheerios. But I rankled when I realized that so-called vegetarian meals, such as couscous à sept legumes (seven vegetable couscous) were normally prepared with meat broth, while the vegetarian egg rolls at the local Chinese restaurant were packed with shrimp. Eating quickly became a penance for a past incarnation in which I must have reveled in skewering babies and defiling holy places.

This is all a rather long-winded and feeble way of saying that what follows is not a travelogue. It is not A Year In Morocco. I didn’t buy and renovate a ryad in Marrakech so that I could detail the excruciating minutiae of how I had it properly tiled. I didn’t tear my hair out because it took six months to install my swimming pool. I didn’t marry a local; against staggering odds, my own husband finally did appear. I didn’t travel around the country with a fridge. I won’t (although I could) tell you where you can find the best couscous. Why? Because a) I hate couscous and b) this is not a travel guide. I haven’t written about Morocco. I’ve written about the Morocco that I experienced before and after Chris arrived. Even the Morocco we visited seven years ago and the one of this series of somewhat snarky essays bear no resemblance to each other. It didn’t take long for the gods to make me realize that traveling through and setting up house in a country are two very distinct and sometimes contradictory experiences.

My friend, supervisor, and fellow gin and tonic aficionado Mr. N. read my scribblings and suggested that I was wasting my time teaching and should be writing ― clearly his discreet way of telling me that I was a crap teacher. As a further act of kindness, he bequeathed to me a fatwa-provoking working title for his own book, a book which he has regrettably yet to write. A fatwa levied against my book, he pointed out, would make it a bestseller. (Common sense and fifty rejection letters later, I changed the name.) Further encouraged by Chris who reminded me that any profits I might accrue would reduce our still considerable bank loan, I made the decision to start writing. The next day I walked out of one of the seven score computer stores in Rabat with a laptop under my arm, remarkably having just paid with a post-dated cheque ― a cheque post-dated for the end of the following month. You see,in Morocco, everything is easy except when it isn’t.

Leaving the Land of the Round Door Knobs

I have crossed three continents, four time zones, five major languages, half a dozen dialects, an ocean, an unknowable number of rivers and streams, possibly a few canals, one strait, and definitely two seas. Like Julius Caesar, I have crossed my Rubicon ― which may or may not count towards one of those rivers I may or may not have traversed ― but since it is a metaphor, accuracy is not important. Alia iacta est ― the die has been cast ― and to think that I was mocked for studying Latin. I just hope the die wasn’t loaded.

I said goodbye to my husband and cried, which, if you read the prologue, will know meant that I cried until all my tears were spent. And I must confess, this was a prodigious amount because I am by nature a bit of a weeper. On that day I learned I have no reservations about making a spectacle of myself in the departures area of the airport ― a trait hitherto unknown to me. It was bad luck that one of my former supervisors was there to witness my meltdown. I must remember to remove him from my c.v.

Not surprisingly, my suitcases well exceeded the airline’s overseas draconian weight restrictions. As I watched my overage charge reach triple digits on the check-in wench’s calculator, I leaned over the counter and told her I was off to Africa to teach little children. Which was true, if not in spirit, then in letter. She waived the fine. I am shameless.

The trip was otherwise unremarkable. The airline food was unpalatable, sleep impossible, service risible ― but such are the pitfalls of modern travel. My pink-poodle luggage (selected to stand out against a sea of navy and floral-printed suitcases) arrived in London without handles, scuffed beyond recognition and one wheel shy. I was less distraught by their bruised appearance than by the complete absence of handles and then by extension, any available luggage carts. I apparently had not packed as lightly as I had thought. After a cumbersome sprint from Gatwick to Heathrow and a two-hour delay at the boarding gate, I was in the air once again. The flight to Casablanca (or Casa as the locals call it) was the day’s climax. A dubious honor since as till then, the highlight of the trip was the discovery that one can buy a cellophaned cheese sandwich at Heathrow for just under $10, so it’s fair to say that the bar had already been set quite low. Nonetheless, the flight was spectacular and I spent an idyllic two hours watching the undulating shadow of our plane ripple against the Pyrenees. We passed the Strait of Gibraltar and then descended gently over a very verdant northern Morocco. I didn’t want to disembark. In retrospect, I suspect that I should have followed my instincts. My luggage arrived, decidedly less pink and now two wheels lighter. I passed effortlessly through Passport Control and then on to Customs.

I was asked to hoist the largest of my suitcases onto the Surly Officer’s examining table, which I did with no little effort and no assistance. The only item of interest to the Surly Officer was my Mp3 manual which I believe he initially mistook for detonation instructions. We shared a charming moment during which I produced the Mp3 player from my carry-on and he and a Colleague in Uniform (whom he had waved over for this express purpose) pushed buttons and slid their fingers up and down the player’s touchpad. They were still doubtful even after consulting the manual ― this in spite of the fact that the directions were in English and French. When I pointed this out to them no one laughed at the misunderstanding except me. Eyeing my remaining two unopened bags, he asked what was inside.

"Les vêtements."

"Les vêtements?" he asked, a little too incredulously for my taste. Was seventy-nine kilograms of clothing unreasonable?

"J’aime les vêtements." I responded very lamely, and not for the first time that day wished I had continued with French after high school.

He waved me through.

I was met at the airport by a large sullen man holding up the name of My New Place of Questionably Gainful Employment and I followed him out into an unbelievably humid dusk, my suitcases in tow. I confess that I would have appreciated a little assistance with the bags but then I remembered that he was my driver and not my personal assistant-cum-bellboy. Moments later we were careening off into not so much a sunset as a suncrash: one moment it was light and the next we were negotiating our way through total darkness.

The drive from Casa to Rabat was memorable, which is a shame since I am still trying my best to forget it, although we did arrive in Rabat without maiming any children (whose playground of choice seemed to be the roadsides of very busy thoroughfares) or donkeys, and killing only one rooster. I was reminded during this drive that there is a certain comfort in the Known Commodity, and it was some consolation to learn that in spite of the fact that I hadn’t been here for a handful of years, some things hadn’t changed and Morocco’s rules of the road (i.e., there aren’t any) were just as nonexistent. My driver saw no reason to stay in his own lane and would only deign to move back over when confronted by an oncoming vehicle larger than his own, always at the very last moment. This gambit of playing chicken (with other vehicles and live poultry) is made even more perilous by the reluctance of many drivers to use brakes, car lights, turn indicators, etc. The only bits of pesky technology considered de rigueur by my driver, which he fumbled with as frequently as possible, were his cell phone and the volume knob of the cassette player. Plus ça change. In spite of the surfeit of rooster feathers on the front windshield, I smiled.

Feathering the Nest: a Tale in Four Parts

I found an apartment in record time. Not only in record time ― in less than twenty-four hours since I had arrived ― but I suspect that I set the record for apartment-finding for the entire country. Just a little something to add to my c.v.

The First Part: Why I Found an Apartment In Record Time

Prior to setting the Maghrebian Record for Apartment-Finding, I was billeted downtown at the Balima Hotel where new teachers to My New Place of Questionably Gainful Employment are housed for their first two weeks ― on the company’s dirham. It’s immaterial that the Country Director for My New Place of Questionably Gainful Employment would never ever consider putting up the parole officer of his third cousin by marriage of his wife’s ex-husband there; it was good enough for his teachers. The Balima ― or the Bulimia as I now fondly think of it ― sits across from the train station on the city’s main thoroughfare, Mohammed V. A cursory glance at any Moroccan guidebook will advise the visitor that every city, town or camel-crossing here has a main street thus named. I wonder to what extent this bothers the current monarch who is named and numbered the same plus one? It would only take a single stroke to change a V to a VI ― do you suppose he’s tempted? Does he know that you can buy Sharpie-knock off’s in the medina for just a few dirhams?

Like all of Avenue Mohammed V, the Bulimia is short on charm, a little long in the tooth, and terribly loud. The noise from the street ricochets off the neighboring buildings and bounces into hotel rooms where it is amplified tenfold. First thing in the morning and last thing at night, the waiters from the café on the terrace below my non-double glazed window set out or took in the café’s tables and chairs in as nails-on-a-chalkboard manner as possible. My room was damp and its bathroom was ― to be charitable ― functional ― on a good day. And this is not sour grapes because the reception staff, denying that I had a reservation, pretended not to understand my French when I tried to check in.

During my four days in the Bulimia, I spent a significant amount of time in my bathroom. Rather than puttering about Rabat, I chose instead to evacuate the contents of my bowels for thirty-six straight hours in my poorly ventilated bathroom with only one roll of single-ply pink toilet paper to assist me in my blotting, accompanied by a legion of cockroaches to taunt me. Why? ― because I had been felled by a vegetarian pizza from a craphole, multinational conglomerate which produces mediocre pizza. Oh the shame of it! Thanks to my seemingly fully-cooked cheese slice ― not dodgy ice cubes, not unwashed fruit, not wormy meat ― I spent a day and a half voiding my viscera. When the spasms finally began to subside, mercifully gripping me in thirty minute intervals, I carefully timed my egress and bolted outdoors in search of a pharmacy. Fortunately, there are pharmacies every half block in Rabat and I was quickly able to find one around the corner from the hotel. I had less than twenty-five minutes until the next round of bowel clenches. Not knowing the word for diarrhea, I made a feeble attempt at miming my condition to the pharmacist, augmenting my performance with the French word for stomach ― which amazingly I knew. Huzzah! Moments later, I was back in my hotel room (the bathroom to be more specific) with pills for the colony of insects reproducing with reckless abandon in my intestines and a powder to rehydrate me.

The rehydration powder tasted like elevator carpets, or how I imagine elevator carpets would taste if I ever had call to taste one, but with a hint of vanilla to ensure that I would never again consume anything with vanilla flavoring. I have even eliminated vanilla-scented candles and incense from my life. But by late afternoon I felt sufficiently mobile to leave the hotel. The day’s siesta over, the streets were teeming primarily with men, both individuals and in groups and a smattering of women walking arm-in-arm in pairs. Having spent an hour or so cringing under the cat calls and sucking-of-teeth of Rabat’s Carriers of the Y-Chromosome, I came to the conclusion that I had to get far far away from Mohammed V ― and the Bulimia ― as soon as possible.

My Director of Studies and supervisor Mr. N. ― who had yet to become my friend and fellow gin and tonic aficionado- gave me three things to assist me in settling into Rabat. One was a piece of advice: Ramadan was less than two weeks away and I should pop out immediately to stock up on gin before all god-fearing liquor outlets closed down in an effort to show how god-fearing they are. The second was for my Apartment Quest; namely, he gave me his assistant Nabil who came armed with a weighty notebook which contained three names and three phone numbers scribbled on three separate pages. The third was a piece of advice for my Apartment Quest: don’t live downtown, find a place in the neighborhood of Agdal. That one I had already figured out.

The Second Part: Apartment # 1

Oddly, the first place Nabil and I went to was not listed on any of the three pages of his weighty notebook. The apartment’s concierge was nowhere in sight but, from her window, a woman on the second floor (which is really the third floor) who was watching us, called us over. While she wasn’t the concierge, her cousin had a set of the keys because his brother-in-law had lived there four years ago. A quick phone call, a little breaking and entering, and we were ushered in by one of the three (to my knowledge) Mohammed’s we met with that day. The apartment was ridiculously cheap but was large enough to plant a few cash crops and put livestock out to pasture, so I declined. Its complete lack of kitchen counters and cabinets had nothing to do with my decision. Honestly.

The Third Part: Apartment # 2

Oddly, the second place Nabil and I went to was not listed on any of the three pages of his weighty notebook. Viewing it, however, was a more straightforward affair: the concierge (Mohammed) was on duty, and for twenty dirhams, he showed us the flat. Apparently, showing vacant apartments to interested tenants is not part of his job description and requires supplementary remuneration. This flat too was unacceptable. The inclusion of a Turkish toilet ― undoubtedly the last one in Agdal if not Rabat ― dampened my enthusiasm.

The Fourth Part: Apartment # 3

Oddly, the third place Nabil and I went to was not listed on any of the three pages of his weighty notebook. I took this apartment. The concierge (Mohammed) was on duty and showed it to me along with two other teachers, and between the three of us, he earned that afternoon enough cash to keep him in tea and cigarettes for a month. The flat was newish (i.e., only twenty years old), bright and clean, and had a toilet that did not require that I do leg-squats three times a day to facilitate my evacuations. It also had significantly less acreage than the first place I had looked at but this was fine since I had already decided that I could do without a field of soya beans in the salon. Only after I agreed to rent it did I realize that unlike 99% of flats in Morocco, it had neither a balcony nor a terrace; however, it did have an air vent in the wall of the shower which, with a little imagination, I could pretend was a skylight.

The Fifth Part: Adventures With Bed Boy

Farsighted Mr. N. suggested that I not leave the elegant furnishings and gracious service of the Bulimia until I had purchased a bed and had it delivered. It seemed that in spite of setting the Moroccan record for finding an apartment, I would have to wait until the end of the week before I would be clear of the Bulimia. I would have another few nights of watching the mould drip down the walls of my hotel room before I could leave and thus minimize the likelihood of developing pulmonary hemosiderosis. The next day generous Mr. N. lent me the use of one of the reception gopher-boys, a person of indeterminable age (sixteen to thirty) and of indeterminable skills ― language or otherwise. It is doubtful that he owns a pair of prehensile thumbs. He speaks no English, practically no French, and questionable Arabic. Yes, Abdellatif would be my hierophant in the land of bed-buying. But no visit to a department store for us; rather off we went to the neighborhood of Akkari which I’m certain was the prototype for the set of Sanford & Son.

Making a beeline through the fruit and vegetable sellers, then past the butchers and fishmongers, we arrived at the furniture and general junkatorium subdivision, where one could buy anything from sectional chesterfields to pots and pans guaranteed to give you Alzheimer’s in no more than five years. Although much is laid out along the dirt road, the quality merchandise is displayed indoors. Abdellatif led me further on to a mattress shop which resembled the Ingalls’ home on Little House on the Prairie (which I promise will be the last of my 70’s television references), a somewhat asymmetrical wooden building in which the mattresses are arranged on the floor (the Ingalls’ living area) with the bedding in an open loft (where Mary and Laura slept). Mattress after mattress was hauled out and laid flat for me to try, which I did grudgingly, for every time I tested a mattress, Abdellatif insisted on joining me. After a few minutes of rolling about and giggling like a girl, he would announce that the mattress was not good enough and ordered another. I drew the curtain down after three command performances of Bed-hopping with Bed Boy and purchased the next mattress that I was shown.

The next order of business was getting the bed home. The Little House on the Prairie Bed and Mattress Depot didn’t have their own delivery department so we had to avail ourselves of the services of one of the many mini-truck drivers whose mini-trucks line the streets of Akkari. A driver was engaged for fifty dirhams to drive me and the mattress home. And of course Abdellatif. Because the cabs of these mini-trucks are designed to accommodate two people, the three of us didn’t quite fit. I ended up sitting on Abdellatif’s lap, thereby committing several driving violations as well as transgressions against good taste and decency ― not to mention breaking my marriage vows.

With Abdellatif navigating our way across town, we took the most circuitous route possible which served to not only showcase his uncanny knowledge of Rabat’s most potholed streets but suggest that he wasn’t as stupid as I first thought. As I bounced merrily on his lap and he giggled like a girl, we drove up three one-way streets and got lost only twice. As we cleared one particularly deep road-crater, I learned that Abdellatif did in fact have prehensile thumbs. The decision to take a chemical shower the moment I got home was coincidental with this discovery.

My bed and I were eventually delivered, if not safely then at least delivered. I continued on (by taxi) to the Bulimia where I tried to wring the mould out of my clothes and packed up my seventy-nine kilograms of baggage. I spent the first night in my apartment with no furniture but a bed. No reading light save the bare bulb in my bedroom. No entertainment except for Dickens’ Bleak House. Probably not the best choice of titles to christen my new home.

I have since learned that Abdellatif is married. His wife lives in Casa while he lives in Rabat.

A Ramadan Haiku

From dawn to dusk: No!

This month of prayer and fasting

No food, drink, cigs, sex.

Commentary to a Haiku

It is a month during which nothing can pass the lips of the devout; from sunrise to sunset, no food, water, saliva, toothpaste, coffee or cigarettes, and presumably impolite remarks, although I have heard my fair share of not nice comments foam from the mouths of irate taxi drivers these past weeks. Sex is a no-no as well. Only prepubescent children, pregnant, nursing or menstruating women, the very sick, the mentally feeble, and those traveling are exempt from fasting, although abstaining adults will be required to make up any lost days later. My landlord is currently engaging in carnal pleasures somewhere along the Costa del Sol and will be returning next month. I asked him if he was allowed to break his fast because of his trip and he told me that he was taking his trip because of the fast. Can’t say that I blame him much. I secretly admire his hedonism.

Ramadan has endowed the city with an otherworldly quality. The overwhelming majority of sidewalk cafés and restaurants are closed until sundown or are closed for the entire month until after Eid el Fitr, the festival which marks the end of Ramadan. Around 3:30, the end-of-day rush hour traffic begins as The Very Hungry vie with each other to get home before sunset. The sidewalks begin to empty. Within thirty minutes of sunset, the streets will be completely deserted. Walking at that hour (which I now try not to do) is disconcerting and thus far, it’s been the only time that I’ve felt unsafe in this country. By 6:00 you can hear a pin drop and then the boom! ― at sundown the cannon in the kasbah is fired and the fast is officially broken with a fitr (breakfast) of harira (tomato and chickpea) soup, dates and a glass of milk. That done, the business of gorging can begin and life assumes a bit of normalcy. Or at least Ramadan normalcy. Some Muslims will stay up all night while others will maintain usual hours, but the next thirty days will slowly erode their energy and already limited stores of patience. At night the streets will strain under the weight of hundreds and hundreds of promenading Moroccans and those en route to visit friends and families. Cafés and a few restaurants reopen and parents turn a blind eye as their daughters and their girlfriends take to the streets unescorted. According to my downstairs neighbor, a veteran teacher at My New Place of Questionably Gainful Employment, this is the best time of the year to meet women.

Define meet any way you wish.

I confess that it’s a little disingenuous of me to be counting down the days until the end of Ramadan but there it is: I am. In spite of my apparent self-centeredness, I admire those who fast, although it’s difficult to sympathize with those who only fast for a dozen or so hours and then break it with enough sweets and savories to make the weight conscious go on diets after Ramadan. But I can - if I so choose ― eat, drink, smoke, have imaginary carnal relations, and swallow my spit in broad daylight; nonetheless, I have one eye on a very slow moving calendar. I am not fasting but I feel irritable, dirty and tired.

Irritable because I seriously underestimated how much liquor to buy and consequently much of my Ramadan has been dry. I did not heed Mr. N's warning. I had provisioned myself with a few bottles of wine and beer, thinking that, as I knew very few people and I generally don’t like to drink alone, I wouldn’t need more. But forbidden fruit is a force to be reckoned with. At the end of Week One of Ramadan, I was seeking the advice of veteran teachers and I learned that non-Muslims could buy liquor if one could convince a store owner to open his Aladdin’s cave of booze. One afternoon in Week Two, three of us walked down Follow-the-Leader (or rather Fal Ould Omer, Agdal’s main drag, as rendered by Chris’ lingua-tard tongue) to a neighborhood grocery store where we cornered a Bored Employee.

We need to buy some wine, I whispered, not quite certain what level of circumspection was required in such case. Please.

He raised a bored and possibly tired and irritated and hungry eyebrow.

Passports!

Three foreign passports were promptly produced. The Bored Employee thumbed through them with feigned interest and nodded to two young stock boys to unhook the cordon and let us into the basement where the liquor was stashed. Under their bemused gazes we scurried about grabbing the remaining bottles from the denuded shelves: wine, beer and vodka clanked cheerfully as they tumbled into our shopping baskets. We were escorted upstairs and deposited at the front of the check-out line, much to the audible disapproval of several dozen women who were trying to finish their shopping before fitr. I briefly considered looking their way and offering a sheepish smile with a what-can-you-do? shrug but decided that would garner no goodwill. Instead, as I watched bottle after bottle of Belgian beer pass over the check-out scanner, I regretted not buying a bag of potato chips.

I felt dirty.

Tired because to accommodate the breaking of the fast at sunset, My New Place of Questionably Gainful Employment rescheduled our evening classes so that many of us are working until 11:30 at night. Most teachers have devolved into pedagogical zombies. Last week, Fiona, a new teacher on staff, taught an entire Intermediate-level lesson to an Elementary class (rather than learning the past tense of the verb to be they learned conditionals) and either they didn’t notice, were too tired, or were too linguistically challenged to be able to correct her.

Extraterrestrial that I am perceived to be, the keener and younger of my students have bombarded me with a gazillion questions about my planet since I arrived, but foremost on their list was whether I have been fasting. I was genuinely taken aback the first time I was asked this. Why should I? I asked. I’m not a Muslim. Apparently that’s not the airtight/conversation-ending reason I had assumed it would be. They argued that one need not be a Muslim to fast, that depriving your body of life-giving fluids and proteins and amino acids from sunrise to sunset, then breaking your fast with a light bowl of soup, a gentle glass of milk and a few innocuous dates, then rapidly consuming anything not nailed down and partying until dawn is somehow spiritually and physically cleansing. Persuaded though I was, I did elect to nourish my body that month although, unlike some of our teachers, I made a conscious effort not to drink water in front of my students. I was conflicted between my status as a guest in a Muslim country and as a representative of a Western culture, teaching a Western language and residing in a country which espouses religious tolerance. But during Week Three of Ramadan, another new teacher was walking down Follow-the-Leader simply carrying a water bottle when a passing carload of young men verbally abused her most grievously and spat upon her. At that moment she decided to fast. Silly twat, I thought. I would have lobbed the water bottle at the car window. I hope she doesn’t suffer from kidney failure.

The (Almost) Dead Letter Office

Imagine my delight when one morning I thrust my hand into my non-secure mailbox and pulled out mail. Well, not mail exactly but close enough: a flyer. Since my arrival in Rabat, I had received exactly four pieces of bona fide mail, with the exception of my electric bill which confirmed in my mind that the utilities company was my most ardent admirer. The brochure was kindly deposited in