La Vie Quotidienne au Maroc

There are so many reasons to love life in Morocco. On the other hand, those of us spoiled with the upbringing of a highly developed country encounter many and frequent annoyances that complicate what formerly were banalities in life. There are more feral cats than Moroccans roaming every space with their fucked up little faces, scratched and furless from brawls over trash-sleeping privileges. Paying the electric bill requires a visit to the office that lasts at least an hour. The Moroccan washing machine, if one is so privileged, is practically medieval. It has two drums. One must be filled with water from a host that extends from a spigot on the wall to an aperture on the machine. Except when the hose develops a hole or won’t secure properly to the washing machine hole, then you have to do it manually. You can’t walk away because the stupid hose will fly out and spray water everywhere. There are 2 settings—drain, agitate, and super agitate. After you have filled the drum with water, requisite soap, and your clothes (which will never be the same again), you choose your agitation cycle. When it finishes, you must then turn a dial so the water drains. To rinse, you fill the drum again, turn the dial to agitate without adding soap of course, and then turn the dial to drain when it’s finished. There are always so many frigging suds that I usually rinse twice, too lazy and too stingy with my time to go beyond that. The second drum is the centrifuge. It’s the devil. You have to arrange the clothes just so in order to avoid the earthquake that results if you’re careless. Horrific.

Heating water for bathing or cooking is also a dangerous affair for the careless. In my apartment we are blessed with 2 separate hookups—one for the shower and one for the range. Other homes have only one, which means the butane vessel might more likely empty in the middle of your shower than while you warm up your supper if you're unlucky. Even though there is a vice at both ends of the hose (hopefully) preventing the escape of deadly gas, it is prudent to close the valve when not in use. And hot water at the faucet or washing machine? None of that. At least not in my apartment. We are tree huggers against our wills with our conservation of energy by washing dishes, clothes, and our hands in cold water.

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Having just enjoyed an avocado, tomato and canned meat sandwich, I no longer have the wherewithal to complain. Morocco has amazing, seasonal produce, most of it local. I had some Larache raspberries last week and strawberries from nearby. I have two delightful and perfect pears in the kitchen and the usual tasty apple. After the success in the medina (see below) with the pie-making accouterments, I found and purchased an 8 pound pumpkin half, whole cloves (you can buy spices a la carte, what an amazing, wonderful idea), buttermilk and other ingredients. The result was 2 adequate pumpkin pies. There is enough pumpkin left for pie throughout the holiday, I just need to figure the crust out. I’ve got a crust recipe from my friend Emilie’s mom on standby, and she assures me that she made it here in Morocco with total success.

Also to be loved is that one can find anything one needs in the medina. My nokia cell that I bought new in Jordan in 2007 still works like a champ and holds a charge longer than any phone I’ve ever seen. The downside is that after much use by me and friends who I’ve lent it to since I bought it, the numbers on the original keypad had completely rubbed away. Since I don’t text at home, and am thus no expert at limping through the keypad without numbers, not having the letters—both Roman but especially Arabic—was an annoyance. So on the same evening that I determined to buy 2 pie plates and a rolling pin, I also hoped to find a new shell for my phone. Prepared to bargain and ready for success I finally found a plastic knock-off shell suitable for my particular model. I drove the salesman from 30 down to 22 Dh, which is not a tremendous achievement, but slightly gratifying nonetheless, considering that even generic phone parts cost nearly 10 times that retail at home.

In addition to other lovely peculiarities of Morocco, it finally occurred to me that the guy I heard from the street a few times each day shouting "بيع" (transliterated "by3") might not be the simpleton I imagined, roaming the streets and yelling things. Indeed there are many fellows who ride around on bikes, shouting "selling," who will buy your 2nd hand items or sell you mint leaves or whatever else he might have on his bike cart. It is one of my favorite sounds of Morocco, and I am convinced there must be a training program, because all of the by3 sellers sound exactly alike.