The olive booth

Day 5: Hay Hassani

August 5, 2015 / Natasha Regehr / 0 Comments

Oh, but I love Morocco. I feel sorry for all the people out there who don’t live in Morocco. And what a lot of adventures I’ve had since the big trip to church!

I met the other incoming staff members, and socialized easily and fluidly (this is an accomplishment for me, and a testimony to the welcoming tone of this friendly, genuine place). And the food was fantastic.

We had a day of orientation. Anywhere else, such a thing would be excruciating. Remember some of those other orientations I’ve had to sit through? Snooooze… Artificiality, jargon, redundancy after redundancy. They brought forth nothing but cynicism and eye-rolling from this hardened educator’s soul. But an orientation in Morocco is nothing like an orientation in Minden. Let me tell you: it was riveting. For real. These are people I can work with. And this is a place where I can contribute, and feel like what I am doing matters. It’s been sooooo long since I’ve felt like that. I am going to be very, very happy here.

In the afternoon we went for a drive to “the Corniche” for exotic fruit juices, and I drove part of the way back. Stick. In real traffic. Through a roundabout. I didn’t stall once. I didn’t panic very much. It was positively exhilarating. I can do this.

Did I mention that the food was great? Tasty and abundant. And, again, real. My salad had something in it that looked like poultry but tasted like fish, and I had a tiny, fishy epiphany: “Oh! This is what tuna tastes like before it goes into the can! Now I get it!” The desserts are exquisite. Everything is exquisite. There’s enough food in this here belly to feed me for a week – and that’s not counting the leftovers in the fridge. “Are you eating right?” asks my mom. Oh, yes. Yes indeed.

Today began with another small victory: I made myself a cup of tea. This involved boiling water on my scary gas stove, and I accomplished it without blowing anything up. Not even once. We had more riveting orientation sessions and another exquisite lunch, and then we were off to the market for the afternoon.

Yes. I was the stupid-obvious tourist with my jaw gaping and my eyes gawking and my camera snapping and my mind spinning. I could have chosen one spot at that market and stood there for hours, watching the colourful people floating by, and examining everything from sheep’s hooves to flat screen TVs on display. Wouldn’t it be splendid to go alone sometime, and spend as much time as I want at every little booth? Well, no, I’d likely just get lost. But at least it would be interesting.

There were sections for fruits, vegetables, grains, spices, furniture, mattresses, appliances, heaters, cleaning products, electronics, lingerie, fabric, bathing suits, shoes, lamps, antiques, automobile parts, hardware… a regular Canadian Tire, but better! I bought a big, floppy hat for 25 dirhams, and almost got run over chasing it when the wind blew it away. I bought gigantic sunglasses for 30 dirhams, and that’s okay, because “big is in” these days. I bought clothespins for 20 dirhams, to keep my laundryfrom flying off my balcony, and I bought a bright pink bag with a zipper and long handles to carry all my purchases. Oh! And we can’t forget the two screws. All I need to keep my curtain rod from falling on my head every single bleeping day is two screws that are just a tiny bit longer than the stubs that are (not) holding things together right now. “2 dirhams,” said the man at the booth. Sold.

We got fresh lemon ginger juice for 5 dirhams, and paid our 5-dirham taxi fare. My only complaint, really, was the stinky, unidentified liquid I stepped in while looking around at everything but my own feet (and the ensuing stick-stick-sticking noises every time I took a step). We established that it likely was not blood. Let’s just leave it at that.

When we got back, I signed out the Dokker and did three km of solo driving practice around the campus parking lots, and then worked up the nerve to go through the gates and drive up the laneway on the other side of the wall. It was going brilliantly. I stopped for all of the children and chickens. I started up the hill, ever so slowly, in first gear. The teenagers on the laneway looked at me curiously and stepped aside (good thinking, boys). Suddenly I thought, “Oh no! I don’t know what’s on the other side of this hill! What if I have to reverse all the way back down?” And that is how I found myself opting for the off-road route, driving through a field with a bunch of donkeys and some even more curious kids.

No big deal. Everything is okay here, it seems. You just go with it. Everybody goes with everything. It’s a pretty sweet way to live a life, as long as I can retreat to my quiet, predictable flat when the big world gets too bewildering for this gawking, gaping brain. All is well, all is well. I waited much too long to come here.