My 3rd international television broadcasting experience

Somehow I've made it once again onto international news. My first ever appearance was on Al Jazeera English the night of the US presidential elections (November 2008). Or rather the morning of. I had a class until 7pm, and I then waited for my friend to finish with his class. At around 10 pm the media was finally announcing VA, which then lead to the overall declaration of Obama's victory. Together my friend and I drove across the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel in persistent rain to little Phoebus VA (or rather Hampton). When I got to Phoebus, a friendly woman did my make-up and I waited with my pals till they were ready. Sometime after 3 AM Al Jazeera English was finally ready for our little live bit at the pub, whose name I've forgotten. Anyhow, since it was broadcast live, and Al Jazeera English doesn't play in the US, there was no way for me to see it until I got the DVD in the mail from the folks that put the piece together. You can read an interesting piece here on Al Jazeera English's election coverage.

The second time was this past summer (27 July 2009) when I made it onto footage shot by BBC Arabic when I was in the audience of a press conference for the Egyptian Organization for Human Rights in el-Manial in Cairo.

And now the third! My friend Nora Fakim, a journalist with the Iranian agency Press TV, had me do a bit for her piece available here. I come on at exactly 1:00 into the piece. Nevermind my misspelled name and not-quite-right credentials. I'll let it speak for itself. Enjoy!

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.

+++

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.

Part 2: At long last I have returned to finish the story!

After walking in the rain the required 7 or so minutes across the border, weaving between approaching vehicles and border entrepreneurs enticing passersby with last chance purchases, I arrive finally at the gate that will release me back into Morocco. But alas I was not allowed to pass because I hadn’t gotten my passport stamped. After asking several bureaucrats (all the while it is STILL raining) I make my way across several lines of slow moving automobile traffic and back, still not finding the elusive window. Eventually after wandering around for nearly an hour and without the help of a single border guard (NOT one of them could direct me to the ‘putain de guichet’

like this, but in the rain and without the hats...

to get the form and the stamp), I finally was able to obtain the customs form at the drive-up window, but I couldn’t convince them to service me since I was on foot. After completing the form, and trying futilely to keep it dry, I join the nebulous mass of people that characterizes all bureaucratic transactions in Morocco. In a refreshing twist, the bureaucrat refused to acknowledge a woman who jammed her arm past mine under the narrow window aperture. He took my passport and wet customs form, stamped as necessary, and off I went finally to emerge back into Morocco.


But alas the adventure was only beginning. Ever still in the rain, by this point I was soaked through my hoodie, cardigan and shirt down through to my padded bra. At the entrance where the grand taxi had deposited me a few hours earlier, there was total chaos and no Tetouan-bound vehicle in sight. After scoffing at a ridiculous offer of transport for 200 Dh (I paid 15 Dh to get there), I stood amidst the hordes without a plan or a clue. Before entering Spain I had switched my phone off to avoid fees should I receive any calls or texts. So standing bewildered and stranded in the rain I searched through my thoroughly wet bag filled with 2 wet books and my grocery purchases for my phone. It occurred to me that I might call Alaina, have her commission a grand taxi and come fetch me. However tragedy struck when I couldn’t turn my phone on because I had forgotten it requires a security code. It’s such an incredibly, infuriatingly reliable piece of archaic Norwegian technology that I never switch it off and am thus unhabituated to entering the code. There I was, wet and utterly screwed—I had no phone numbers and no notion how to get back to Tetouan. Happy Thanksgiving.

I do not imagine that I can remit the complete desperation of the situation, but like any good Muslim would, I surrendered. I submitted—after all Muslim means one who submits—to the situation, bereft of a plan. Eventually I started asking people shyly if they were headed to Tetouan. None of them were remotely interested in assisting me, despite how pathetic and clueless I was. After watching 2 or 3 wild hordes overtake the few incoming Tetouan grand taxis, I noticed a woman over wrought with bags. I approached her and said, “You need help. I help you.” And I took some of her bags, of which was a large package of adult diapers. Oh the dignity. A young man, whose name I would learn is Radwan, had also come to her assistance, and I followed them without thinking and without a notion of how we would proceed, knowing only that they would provide. I heard the woman, whose name I’ve forgotten, say the Moroccan word for public bus. I agreed, assuming that she was suggesting we make our way for the next town over, Fnideq. So Radwan arranged a grand taxi to take us a few km away into town. We then walked the rest of the way (still in the rain) to the bus station, which is really too sophisticated a term for the location. There we waited still more, me with my own small bag and two of the woman’s bags (I hope the diapers were intact when she got home). When the bus for Tetouan approached, it was Bedlam! Radwan was the first of our troupe on board, and he dutifully saved seats for us. I managed to fight my way through, triumphing over the diminutive but nonetheless ruthless Moroccans, and boarded from the back door (that’s what she said). In no time the bus was excessively full, yet another miracle of flaunted but practical (contextually speaking) lack of safety standards. Radwan was a pleasant and well-mannered conversationalist and the woman generously offered me water, which I drank, from the communal bottle.

grand taxis next to Lovers Park in Tetouan

We reached Tetouan after about 90 minutes, but my duties didn’t end there. Radwan and I followed our 3rd companion into the Tetouan medina, handed over her wares, wished Eid Mubarak and parted. Radwan kindly accompanied me back to Alaina and Mary’s apartment with the inept directions I was able to offer in Arabic—they live next to a flower shop and you can see the mountains from the balcony.

It occurs to me as I write this that I owe him a thank you text, which I will dispatch shortly. On this Thanksgiving 2009, I am thankful for selfless reciprocity, vaccines, raincoats, and Spanish wine. I spent a pleasant, dry Thanksgiving with Alaina and Mary, enjoying my Thanksgiving shawarma and Spanish wine.

Thanksgiving in African Spain, Part I

As an American in Morocco I am obliged either to obtain residency through an arduous, non-descript process, or to leave before the end of three months. I held out for a while, gathering paperwork here and there. But eventually I gave in, realizing that leaving Morocco is less of a hassle than staying and navigating the bureaucracy. It is thus that I came to the brilliant idea last week to leave a day earlier than planned for the Eid el-Kebir celebration. Instead of departing on Thursday with my friend up to her family in Tangier, I decided to leave on Wednesday to Tetouan. My friend Alaina lives there—we studied beginning Arabic together in Jordan on the Critical Language Scholarship program in 2007.

On Tuesday 24 November I took a cab from my Arabic school to the CTM bus station, which is inconveniently located a ways from the city center, but convenient enough to where I study. I felt pretty good after my Arabic conversation with the taxi driver, but when I arrived to CTM I realized I had forgotten to bring enough cash for the ticket. Luckily when it was my turn I noticed a sign informing me that they were equipped to accept credit cards. Unluckily when it came my turn to pay, the handheld card swiper was out of receipt paper. In between I failed utterly to understand in Arabic a complication in the ticketing, eradicating the taxi conversation success. It took over an hour for someone to locate a ‘technicien’ (defined in French as a professional who has mastered one or several techniques—I’d like to know what the training program entails) to change the receipt tape in the machine. Buying the $20 bus ticket took almost 3 hours.

The next day I appeared at the bus station a bit over an hour before the scheduled 11 AM departure despite knowing the bus’d probably be late. Eventually a woman asked me the time, and after I answered her she began questioning me about my stay in Morocco. It all really felt like it was leading to a plea for money, especially because she told me almost immediately that her husband had slept with her best friend. There were also several interjections about her lack of money after the purchase of her expensive bus ticket. Since she informed me that she resided in Spain, I willingly gave her my contact information when she asked. It turned out to be a good decision, because just as I handed her my calling card, another woman sat between us and noticed the heading said “International Political Economy.” She joined and eventually hijacked the conversation, and I am expecting a call from her tomorrow to talk about some projects to work on together on economics and IPE in Morocco.

The bus ride from Rabat to Tetouan was uneventful. Alaina met me at the bus station and we spent a lovely, calm evening in her amazing apartment downtown with a fabulous view that she shares with a fellow English teacher. The next morning, Thanksgiving, I set off to find a grand taxi (shared ride to a specific destination) to Ceuta (Sebta in Arabic), one of the Spanish administered enclaves of Morocco. Getting there and across the border was a breeze. Not a single Spanish authority even bothered to look at my passport beyond a quick glance to establish that I wasn’t Moroccan. The no. 7 bus was waiting for me, and for €.70 I was schlepped to the city center. I wandered the city, taking copious amounts of photos and buying presents for myself like Spanish wine, nutmeg and a €22 sausage. It began to rain so I sidled into the Da Vinci Café on Calle Real for a chorizo and manchego bocadillo. That little grilled sausage and cheese sandwich was tremendously delicious. I finished it off with a café con leche, which I savored while staring at a very unhappy little boy who would have rather been anywhere else. There was a short pause in the rain allowing me to reach the bus back to the border in relative comfort.

The real adventure began in no man’s land between Spain and Morocco. TO BE CONTINUED...

“imagine yourself a dirt-poor (male) peasant 50 years ago…”

I first read Malthus in my 2nd year graduate class on population and development with the wonderful professor, Dr. Yang. Malthus and his poor-people blaming ways made such an impression that I even worked him into the lectures I gave when I taught Intro to International Politics the following year. So I was tickled to find not one but two Economist articles referencing Malthus this past week. The first, while interesting, didn’t move me but informed me (and unnerved me with baby photo and its creepy eyes). The second, though, not only moved me (quite literally, as I was answering nature’s call while I read it), it also inspired me to post this blog.

The article, titled “Go forth and multiply a lot less,” drolly discusses men’s incentives for having smaller families as their socioeconomic status increases from peasant-level to middle class. While the articles primary point, that falling fertility rates lead to a larger, more political active (and effective) middle class, misses an important implication for women everywhere: what does this mean in terms of women having a say in their own fertility? Eventually the article does indicate that a man’s wife might become unwilling to bear so many children. But that assumes that all pregnancies are intentional and wanted…and that his wife had a choice anyhow. Clearly, though, the article suggests indirectly that women’s lack of control of their fertility is a given, and thus explores the issue through the prism of men’s incentives for offspring. Indeed bipedal incubators might only get a reprieve if they have the good fortune to bring in a salary. By avoiding a direct acknowledgment of the general lack agency that women have in their fertility in developing countries, the article misses a great opportunity to discuss an interesting aspect of development—economic and otherwise. The example of Iran, with its superlative literacy and education levels, is deceptive, considering that women may not even choose how they dress in public. Thus assuming that Iranian women have access and agency in terms of family planning may not be the whole story. There may be unknown factors behind Iran’s decreasing fertility rate.

The Economist’s take is interesting but predictable. A more interesting question might be, how might control over their own fertility empower women to hasten all forms of development, instead of waiting on development to lead to her empowerment? Why in the media must women remain subjects of the (positive and negative) consequences of development, instead of active, empowered components in the greater process? The article’s mention of family planning and access to it completes the avoidance of the issue of whether access to birth control or even just information is useful in cases where male partners are uncooperative.

The article declares that slowing fertility makes it “easier for women to work,” because bearing, raising and tending children is not work, nor is maintaining a household or catering to spouses and other household members. Again, a predictable perspective that perpetuates the devaluation of women’s work that within households. She doesn’t get to choose how many children she has, AND she doesn’t get any prestige or value added to her efforts unless they draw a paycheck. Since when do writings on economy only include quantifiable movement in currency?

In closing, I suggest a re-write to the concluding sentences:

Original: The bad news is that the girls who will give birth to the coming, larger generations have already been born. The good news is that they will want far fewer children than their mothers or grandmothers did.

Better in the world according to Melodee: The bad news is that the girls who will give birth to the coming, larger generations have already been born. The good news is that they might be able to choose the number of children they have, unlike their mothers or grandmothers did.

Here comes the rain again…

Today was only the 2nd time in my life that it rained on me in Morocco. Certainly in the last 6 weeks it has rained while I was in Morocco, but today I got rained on. Naturally my umbrella was in my room and not in my bag, but that didn’t disturb me because I was too amused by the memory of the first time it rained on me in Morocco. It was late May 2007—my first time in Africa. I was studying a geography field course with Dr. Gander (an unnecessary pseudonym, but I’ll use it because it’s clever and amuses me). The geography course took me and a dozen other ODU students from Casablanca north to Rabat, onward to Meknes and all around the 3 massifs of the Atlas mountains (Middle, High and Anti), dipping into the stereotypically silky, golden folds of the Sahara near Erfoud, down to the less visited Tafraoute, back up the Atlantic coast to dreamy Essouaira and northward. We skipped Agadir because Dr. Gander INSISTED that it was too new, having been rebuilt after the 1976 earthquake. Anyhow, toward the end of our trip, in our last big city visit—Marrakesh—it rained. And despite the thorough packing list provided, umbrella wasn’t on it. That didn’t mean that Dr. Gander, at least, wasn’t prepared. Oh she was, and how! As we walked from the Koutoubia Mosque toward the Oliviers and reflecting pool (complete with palm tree-shaped cell phone towers), Dr. Gander donned the most epic, outdated and fabulous rain jacket the 21st century has ever seen (and might wish to forget). The chintzy, plastic debacle was trimmed in black at the neck and wrists, but the most wonderful part was the multicolor outdated map of the Eurasian continent on the back—complete with USSR, East Germany, Czechoslovakia and myriad other countries that do and don’t exist anymore.


That first trip to Morocco has had a tremendous impact on my research and ambitions in general. The memories are traumatic and pleasant—Dr. Gander, for example, worked harder trying to win my soul for Jesus than any credulous Muslim ever challenged my non-belief. She also tried to make me debark from the standing bus to gather orange slices I’d flung out the window, despite our guide insisting they’d feed the goats (he was the one who suggested I toss them anyhow). And finally, and most traumatically, she gave me my first graduate school B+. On the other hand, I am in Morocco now for the 3rd time. My interest has only increased since that initial trip, and I am happier here than almost any other place I’ve lived outside of my homeland (and perhaps including it.) So Dr. Gander, thank you. She came to Morocco just for me 2.5 years ago, and it has made my life.

Fun with scribbly, part 1.

أَفْعَلَ



form IV

the root is ل--ق-ي


ألْقى--يُلْقي--الإلقاء


It literally means to discard or fling, but you can use it as in...

1. to pose a question أُلْقي سؤال

"إن كل ما تقدم بمجمله يلقي السؤال أمام النظام العربي وأمام الواقع الفلسطيني"
[All of this poses the question to the Arab system and to the Palestinian reality]


2. to lay eggs

فهناك دجاج يلقي بأشياء غير البيض

'for there is a chicken laying things that weren't eggs'
[this is a totally real sentence from]


3. lend your ear to someone

القى السمع اليه


4. strike fear into one's heart

الله يلقى الرعب فى قلوبهم
God strikes fear into their hearts.


And others depending on the preposition--Just ask Hans Wehr!