Did I really just see that? Taking the bus to work.

I have been taking the organised transport to work at ASM since September now, and sights still surprise me. At first the route to the school was a little exciting, maybe even exotic for some. Now, after 10 months of riding on the bus, I am spying more of the weird and wonderful from the windows every day.

Some sights are found every where in the world. Some, I am certain, are specific to Morocco. We start off in the villle nouvelle, Gueliz, where most of the other teachers live too. Here it is common to see mopeds carrying non-helmet wearing drivers and passengers, speeding on the wrong side of the road and men starting their day with thick black coffee while watching the world wake up. When we exit Gueliz and make our way past the medina, the sights really begin. A poor kitten convulsing in the middle of the road after being hit by a speeding car, a slender stray puppy playing with a waste paper basket while a trendy young man walks his healthy dog by, and aged homeless people taking shelter outside the unkempt graveyard. There are weathered men and women selling their wares - popcorn, colorful baskets, candy and rattan stools.

Next to the graveyard is a dried river, and graves sit precariously on the dried banks. On more than one occasion I have seen the banks being used as a toilet for the humiliated homeless. Opposite the graveyard is the 'chicken souk' selling live chickens, turkeys and rabbits, jellaba wearing men crouch down over some mint tea. Traveling on the route de Ouarzazate we come across an old large pipe that was made into a rustic see-saw for local children, Moroccan children wearing white coats walking to school and the large gated Jenna community for the wealthy.

The route to the school makes me feel sad most of the time. People look helpless. Usually domesticated animals look starved and alone. The communities look neglected. But I am an outsider looking in. I will never fit into Marrakech and I really don't think I would want to. We are chaperoned to a private school each day, teaching the wealthy and privileged, only to be visually reminded of the real world and state of affairs each afternoon, on the ride home.

Don't p#ss on my street!

Eww! So Marrakech is full of ups and downs. One thing I do enjoy is walking out of our building and hearing the starlings in the green trees, seeing the cats leaping from planter pots, and saying Salaam to the street guardians. One thing I cannot stand however, is the disgusting smells that make their way up into your nose. Today for example, upon leaving the apartment, the street guardian was washing down a tree with a bottle of water. The tree needed to be washed because some filthy man decided it was a toilet.

Also, at the weekend, about 4pm I noticed a well-dressed man urinating on the first tree of our street! Out in the open. I saw everything! Disgusting, I know! As well as the fact that I live on that street, I thought that behaviour, especially at 4pm, was appalling. So I yelled at him. Loudly. I caused a scene so that other people would notice, and perhaps be able to shout at him in a language he would understand. Gross. He yelled back as I threw lewd hand gestures at him and walked into my building. I got everyone to notice. I hope when he is sober, or perhaps on another inevitable drinking binge, his conscience clicks and he feels some urge not to use the trees as a urinal.

Eww.

Sights in the Souks

I love walking around the souks in the medina for the different sights and smells. If you take your time you can see some amazing colors, textures and patterns. I particularly like the souks for their rich brightness. Although the crowds may be noisy and the constant haggling is tiresome, I still like to wander.

I wonder if Dr Seuss was here before me?

Disrespectful tourists and the Waterman

Jeff and I sat at our favourite cheap eat in the Jmaa El Fna (main square in the medina), watching the tourists and locals walk and ride by. I love to sit there and people watch from the table with the unobstructed street view of the square, but which also says ‘don’t approach me’. I love to watch the veiled women hold their photo albums of hennaed hands to the western women as they walk by, to see the well dressed young men unsuccessfully selling balloons, wooden snakes, watches, glasses and recycled cola bottles filled with Argan oil.

On one particular day a colourful Berber Waterman caught my eye. He was being swallowed by his outfit of mammoth red and green hat and faded red tunic. His weathered skin and dark moustache made him look very grandfatherly. He was trying to talk to the tourists who walked by, camera in hands. No one wanted any water. No one wanted a chat. So I was feeling sorry for the Waterman, thinking I would soon go over for a glass of water. Then two blonde women approached him, lifted their cameras, and took a portrait shot. He held out his hand for some obligatory coins and the women rudely shook their heads, ignored him and walked away. Not a smile, no permission asked for the photo, no courtesy.

So I went and asked the Waterman for a photograph. He smiled politely showing his browned and missing teeth. He lifted his tongue and made that high pitched ‘lalalalala’ noise and Jeff snapped away. He was also very grateful for the coins that landed in his hand.

Chilly in Marrakech

So my Australian blood must be resurfacing, as I am finding the recent Moroccan weather quite... cold. After coming back from a recent trip to lovely London, I am feeling the chill more than ever. Although I have a fabulous new travel mug, purchased from my favourite 'Lilly Whites in Piccadilly Circus', which takes the chill off the morning bus rides to school, it is not enough.
I do not want to be like one of the locals, who I admit to laughing at, wearing winter gloves, faux fur coat and a beanie. No, I refuse to look that ridiculous when it is really 20 C out. So I guess I will remember what winter cold was like in Canada and suck it up.
I am going to get my summer fix soon enough. 10 days in Australia. Then hopefully upon my return, I will bring the summer sun with me, so along with everyone else, I can complain about the stifling heat instead.

Fresh meat - an inescapable experience in Marrakech.

Peering from the window of the bus on the way to work, I see naïve chickens, feeling the cool breeze in their feathers as their heads jolt out of the cracks in the crate. They are passengers of a donkey sprinting down the road getting ready for the market.

I see nonchalant turkeys tethered to a bolt in the dirt, beady eyes scouring the air for commotion.

Fluffy bunnies huddled in cages, munching on limp lettuce, ready for the sizing up by hungry human eyes.

Fresh food takes on a different perspective in Morocco. Choose your chicken. Look for plumpness, healthiness and baraka. Watch as the skilled butcher drains the blood from the neck, de-feathers and delivers the comatose chicken to you by the feet.

Skinned carcass’ hang from the butcher's hooks in the tiny storefronts. The entrails sit in glass bowls on top of strips of astroturf in the glass counter. Brains, liver, heart, kidneys and all other kinds of unidentifiable objects. I like the idea of nothing going to waste. A use for everything.

It doesn’t bother me as much as you might think. To be honest I am more annoyed with shrink wrapped sausages and meat amalgamations in Western supermarkets. At least in Marrakech you know exactly what you are eating and its journey to your plate… or tajine or couscous.