Other Great Moments in Time

Recently, an old woman chastised me for pouring tea like a city boy. Too much flair and risk, she said, and not enough consistency. The whole thing reeked of a hackneyed comedian, spitting out lines like "white people do their taxes like this..." Unsure of where I could have picked up such metropolitan habits, living in a town of 4000 people, I pressed the matter and realized that by "city" she meant "the part of town that has more than two stores." You know that saying "In the land of the blind the one eyed man is king?" Well, in a backwards-ass piss ant foothills town, the part where stuff is open past 7:30 is developed.

The other day I revealed my discovery of the mudir's status as "that guy" in a perversely high percentage of photographs. This week, however, a new facet of his unbearably puzzling persona made itself obvious. As ridiculous as it may sound (and it shouldn't really considering all the other weird shit this dude is into), he is also a crazy cat lady. While eating lunch at his place last Sunday, we began to be approached, slowly at first, by the various kinds of animals which call his little enclosed dirt-patch garden home. Cats, chickens and toddlers alike came to investigate the food scenario, and all were shooed away save for the former. At the height of the meal we were engulfed by an small symphony of meows. Since meals at this dude's house typically cruise tohigher degrees of disorder, such a stagnation, however eerie, was bound to dissapate into further chaos. Enter the mudir's youngest son, aged two, wielding flailing kicks and erratic verbal outbursts. Those little pussies were no match for the terrible-two fueled insanity of little Sa3d who capped of his Van Dammesque performance by snatching a box of tea and hurling it at the last straggler. He then grabbed an apple slice out of my hand, licked it whole and placed it back on the table, never to claim its saliva soaked nutrition.

By this point in our lives, most of us are aware of the all too common, not-so-secret pastime of champions and pervs alike, facebook stalking. Well, earlier I spent a good hour listening to a married friend of mine scour the annals of the world wide web ogling a particular girl who, surprise, he has never met and is actually the equivalent of a junior in high school. Interestingly enough, my initial thoughts were nowhere near the expected "wow this just got creepy" or even the acceptable "ok he's got a point this bridget is smokin." Instead, I couldn't help but be stunned at how someone who types with only one index finger figured out the intricacies of proper online creeping. Remarkable what the man can do when he puts his d to it. This interaction was then followed up by the totally sincere plea to go along with him on a nearly 400 Kilometer trip to Agadir and pose as a wealthy tourist so together we could connive his acquaintance into showing us a pair of gold, diamond inlaid binoculars he had found in the sand but wouldn't exhibit just to Moroccans because of their inability to put in a serious bid for such an item. That last sentence may run on, but it is accurate. Such is my life.

On the day of 3id this year I witnessed the greatest holiday tradition in the history of organized celebrations with my very own eyes. No, not the religiously sanctioned, semi-controlled mass sheep genocide. Old dudes playin' soccer. Apparently, this town has a yearly tradition of gathering up a bunch of old bros and having them scrimmage each other in front of a large percentage of the town's male populace. Honestly, it's absolutely spectacular. These peeps are way past their playing days and have become pretty much sedentary in their later years, but on Independence Day (which happened to coincide with 3id this year) they squeeze into some short shorts and throw down on the dirt pitch. The style of play this yields can best be described as frantic hacking accompanied by crude jokes and constant debate. The entire ordeal was a majestic comedic show put on by some of the town's more respected individuals so that all could come and revel in their bygone fitness. Score and basic rules were barely important as showmanship and misguided attempts at bicycle kicks reigned supreme. Imagine watching the Harlem Globetrotters, except just the opposite. It was truly remarkable to witness so much effort being put forth with such little quantitative outcome. As I watched, I figured those dudes had to have been defying the laws of thermodynamics, energy was clearly being destroyed. By the time the game ended, the official score was pretty fuzzy. But, most in attendance felt that witnessing three missed PKs, a slap fight and countless old men falling was enough reward.

3id Free Agent

At this time last year, my 3id related worries centered mainly around the most plainly obvious obstacle. The whole sheep deal. Who would clean the blood out of my only tie? Would throwing up while eating undercooked sheep lung and heart kabobs hinder my attempts at integration? And lastly, Why did the man carving up a medium sized mammal in our entryway, who did not wash his hands after going to the bathroom and before plunging them into the insides of my extremely raw lunch, just chastise me for coughing into my hand? In short, I was a fool to be concerned over such petty manners.

This year, however, the stakes were much higher. Due to my in-site host family's high rating on the weak-sauce0meter, my plans for the most important holiday of the year were wide open heading into the stretch. I was a break-week bachelor, a religious independent, the Catfish Hunter of 3id in Morocco. I was a free agent. Notice the past tense.

This rare scenario did not bring liberation, but thrust me into the miserable disarray that is Moroccan social life. Only now do I realize the importance of heeding the Spiderman Corollary, "with great power comes great responsibility." Instead of being able to blaze my own trail, my excess of freedom was quickly mopped up by a flurry of invitations (closer to subpoenas really) for any and all of the many sheep filled days. Resistance was futile. Let me tell you something, if there is one thing Moroccans cannot be beat at, it's guilting guests into eating, or more accurately overeating.

So as I look out over my schedule for the next few days I no longer feel like Catfish, chilling as offers poured in, thinking about which ridiculously awesome offer to accept. I feel a lot more like a poor sap who got lit up after entering the wrong side of town thinking how neat and ethnic it seemed. The week now holds a series of commitments which, if broken, will lead to me getting yelled at by lots of fat old ladies. Seriously though they are really good at guilting peeps.

Great Moments in Time

1. I was mercilessly mocked earlier today for not having shaved in over a month. What sort of barbs were people hurling at me you ask? Well, basically it came down to me starting to look like a Muslim extremist. It is becoming an oddly common occurrence for me to walk down the street and have a group of dudes point at me, make a fake beard motion with their hands around their chin, and then laugh uncontrollably. Yes, that's right, Muslims are making fun of me for looking like an Islamist. Clearly these people have never heard of no-shave November.

2. Recently, while visiting one of my favorite families, the resident eight-year old boy decided to gleefully explain the entirety of the 3id AdHa festivities to me while acting out all of its intricacies. As I watched, it seemed spectacularly similar to kids that age back in the states, overcome with joy at the thought of Christmas. The only minor difference, of course, was that instead of being pumped about presents, this little bro was wielding imaginary cutlasses and slicing sheep throats left and right. Then came the Tarantinoesque depiction of blood pouring out of the thing's neck and splashing all over the butcher and any unlucky bystanders. The show, however, did not end there. Interpretations of involuntary spasms and organ harvesting were still on the young thespian's agenda. As is often the case with people here once they discover something which makes me laugh, the stunt was repeated ad infinitum throughout the meal we were having. On the plus side, he did pretend to wash his hands before reaching in for the invisible animal's fresh flesh. And that, my friend's, is what I call youth development.

A Quick Pair of Characters

My mudir- Barely tolerated by the large majority of locals, the director of the town’s youth center is a loud, illogical and rash man who trusts few people and lives by the law of absolutes (everything is either one way or its complete opposite with no in-between). Despite all this, I know that he is a good man; a fact most people have not discovered because the truth only reveals itself after dozens of brutal one on one conversations (something which I would have never participated in were he not the person in charge of my workspace). Being privy to this information, I always felt like I knew the mudir better than most people but recently, I discovered one more thing. In addition to all his aforementioned absurdities, the mudir is also “that guy” in most of the pictures in which he appears (or cameos). After examining the pictures in his office, the evidence was overwhelming. Every picture featured him either sneaking in from the side or creeping up behind a group of people with the same “I'm trying to be super serious and professional but instead I look like a constipated curmudgeon” face. Keep in mind; all of these pictures are the ones he chooses to display, meaning this is the best he’s got. Before I leave I think I may have to take some legit shots of this dude so he doesn't have to show off depictions of people trying to exclude him. That is if he doesn’t drive me up a wall first.

Drama teacher- Locally “famous” for his appearances in various Amazigh plays which air on the national Berber channel (like Moroccan BET except with less viewership and more dramatic close-ups), the High School’s drama teacher is liable to bust out into a semi-rehearsed monologue at any time. In a previous post, I discussed the formulaic and blatantly stereotypical style of overacting employed here in Morocco. Well, with that information in mind, think about the fact that this man is considered among the best in his craft and thus takes himself very seriously. Now imagine him with a shaved head and thin soul patch, slamming his fist and pausing intensely at the injustice that is a temporary lack of milk at the coffee shop. As I said, this guy takes his work very seriously. Since great acting is supposed to be undistinguishable from genuine human emotions, it always seems as though this bro is trying to close the gap by making real life more like the ludicrous plays he performs in, instead of actually attempting to refine his acting techniques. That, however, would require realizing that such a (huge) chasm exists, something which I’m not sure computes. One thing is for sure though; it is never a dull moment around this dude.

The Little Similarities

After living here for a year, the massive, undeniable differences one encounters on a daily basis seem to fade into the background of the subconscious without much fanfare. Without exposure to daily life stateside, a new standard for normalcy creeps in, steadily budging out old expectations for how things are supposed to run. Fact: it is normal to open one's door and find a herd of sheep and goats munching on the garbage left by neighbors. Fact: sour milk is delicious. Fact: river water is better for you. This is how it works over here.

So, after being entirely engulfed by such a different set of norms, and embracing what used to seem like a strange set of daily expectations, the things that remind me most of the States are similarities I was too overwhelmed to notice last year; namely, the whole back to school mess. With the beginning (sorta) of school this week kids here have begun to behave just like their peers in the States, especially the recent High School graduates.

Kids, who only three months months ago were taking their final standardized tests, walk around dispersing advice to their slightly younger peers as if there was some sort of chasm of wisdom between them. One group of friends went around saying goodbye to some of their old teachers, despite the fact that they would still be living at home for the next few years. Others took their new found status as graduates to mean that they could complain to me about "these kids today."

My favorite reoccurring source of entertainment, however, are the interactions between three best friends who decided to live together as they attend middle Morroco's version of the University of Binghamton. It's big, it's not too far, and everyone you know goes there. I could listen to these kids discuss the unquestionable awesomeness that awaits them for hours on end.

These conversations are precisely the things that make me feel closer to home. Bootlegged movies and pirate download TV shows don't do the trick because the whole time the cultural divisions between the actions of my computer screen and those outside my window are strikingly obvious. The people in these two scenarios do not seem like they could ever agree on anything, let alone be part of the same society. When these kids discuss their future, however, I recall dozens of nearly identical conversations that occurred not only the summer before college, but also the summers before study abroad and senior year. While this realization may seem obvious to most, it is comforting to know that such youthful idealism is not a western trait, but a wholly human one.

When they joke of how they might put in a hot tub just to attract girls I usually just laugh and silently hope their experiences will not disappoint. I think of how my expectations of college life were initially crushed and then exceeded and wish that they enjoy the next few years. Because while I know that they do not honestly believe that they will have parades of girls rolling through their house on a daily basis (this is Morocco after all), they do have an anticipation that whatever awaits them will be much better than what they've already seen. They believe and hope that this is only the first step to a life that doesn't involve the ennui they as 18 year-olds perceive in this town. They don't really know what they want, they just know they want to get the fuck out of the BZ. If there's something more American than that I don't know what it is.

Seriously?

A couple of weeks ago ESPN declared that Isiah Thomas would be added to the Knicks front office as a consultant of some sort. Clearly, James Dolan is now operating on the principle that Knicks fans are total masochists. Only when you start with the idea that the entire fanbase is a glutton for punishment could you possibly come to the conclusion that this team needs to relive the glory days of the Isiah era. Either that or he must have Alzheimer's and think that Thomas is fresh off his championship seasons as a point guard for the Pistons.

I mean, it's not like his inaugural season as coach for NCAA powerhouse FIU (7-25, second to last in Sun Belt Conference) has boosted his resume in any way. To be fair, however, it is hard to compete in a division that pits them against juggernauts the likes of Arkansas State, South Alabama and Middle Tennessee.

Why anyone would want advice from the man who brought us Eddie Curry, Zach Randolph and Jared Jeffries (played for about 12 minutes total) is a total mystery. He can't coach, he can't broker beneficial deals, and he is a terrible judge of talent (Anucha Browne Sanders? come on man you can do better than that). Not only did his tenures as President of Basketball operations, advisor and coach yield miserable seasons at the time, the effectively crippled the team with salary cap obligations which forced us to spend two seasons shedding contracts just to enter the LeBron sweepstakes.

A few days later, the deal was mercifully nullified and Thomas was relegated back to Florida where he will continue to pretend he wants to coach. If Donnie Walsh has his way though, you can rest assured Thomas will slink his way back into the Knicks organization within a few years. I can't wait.

Summer Chronicles

It is hot as balls. With air temperatures reaching a moist 50 Celsius (look it up, it's hot), water failing to come out of the faucet at any given time, and people generally refusing to leave the house between noon and 5pm it is safe to say the dog days of summer are in full stride. It's pretty telling that one of the most common comments I've been getting these days is commendation for buying a fridge last January. Around here, the benefits of keeping food fresh are entirely and definitively secondary to cooling down tap water to a drinkable temperature.

While I spent much of the last month and a half working at camps at the beach or up in the mountains, the last weeks of in site living have given me enough heat to last a lifetime. Too bad there's still two months left of this crap.

With the only reasonably cool hours being shrouded in darkness a particular pattern of semi-nocturnal man-chilling has developed. Since women are not really allowed outside after dark, my summer scene is a complete and unadulterated sausagefest (up from the normal, year round semi-sausagefest). Highlights from this all-male, all the time atmosphere include a two-part hour long discussion on why poop floats, being treated to coffee by someone who paid with hash, and (my personal favorite) watching that same someone steal a porcupine while high and bring it back to his house.

Also, as I may have mentioned some months back, a friend of mine has a particular penchant for acquiring random, worthless, electronic gadgets and bringing them to me for a class on their use. So far I've dealt with various alarm clocks, an illegal cable box, two beepers, a heart-rate monitor and, most recently, a portable digital picture printer. Those last two, which might stick out as not only pricey but also potentially useful were gifts from my friend's brother who works in Spain.

Nice gifts, you may think. Now that family can not only monitor its cardiac health but also print out all of their pictures and make sweet ass collages n shit. Well sure, except the former is broken and the latter will only be useful once they get a digital camera, a computer, a USB key, photo paper, ink and an adapter to plug it into to the wall. Awesome.