Update of Classes

We just finished a unit on 2-D shapes in 7th grade math, and so had a contest in measurement last week. Everyone loved it, but nobody was very accurate, so we had a rematch yesterday. The contest was set up scavenger-hunt style, where they had to find different measurements around the school and use them for calculations, like calculating the area of the glass windows in front of the office, or the amount of red tile used in the school logo on the front steps, or the diameter of the big tree in the courtyard. Instead of averaging about 120% off, the measurements are only about 50% off.

In sixth grade, the science class is learning about different types of energy. To demonstrate renewable, non-renewable, and indefinite resources today, the kids made three teams and drew small towns of four buildings. We played like a turn-based game, where each "month," they could add one more building if they wanted to, either a bank or a restaurant or a hospital, but they had to pay one 'resource' per month for each building they had in town. One town's resources was silly-noodle macaroni, and they only had a handful of it. The second town's resources was gravel from outside; they had each picked up a few pieces on the way in. When they ran out, one boy chimed in "Miss, can we just go out and get some more?" Good job, kid, yeah! It just takes time. The third city's energy resources were 100ml of water that they took from the sink next to them. indefinite. To top it off, their cities are works of art. Colourful, labeled creations with perspective and fountains and beaches... I was expecting that we would throw them out at the end of class. Instead, I am taping them on the wall.

In eighth grade, we threw barbies off the roof with specifically calculated numbers of rubber bands attached to them to make a bungee cable. Only one barbie died. Success.

Illegal Aliens

Sometimes the most ridiculous aspects of life make the best stories. Every day, I wake up a bit before dawn to do some work and have some quiet relax time, and because I like to hear the dawn call to prayer. I go to school early so I can use the only computer the school has with the finicky printer, and usually start the day kinda wishing it was over already. First period is Pre-Algebra, and that almost always puts me in the mood to actually start the day, and each class I spend with the students makes me pick up momentum as the day carries on, so I know I have a good job. After school I tutor and have duties and/or admin-type responsibilities until around 6-ish, when I often have an errand to run, or I just walk around the city and talk to my friends who are vendors.

For the last 6 months, one of the errands that I occasionally have to care for involves my residency paperwork. First, I needed to visit the police agency with my passport and diploma to have them issue all of our papers. They gave us additional paperwork to fill out - the teachers last year didn't have it, but it wasn't a big deal. It had basic information. They also wanted our resumes. We all went back to the police station several times, and were repeatedly told, "we're kinda busy, come back tomorrow." Finally, they gave a few people residency papers. But not me.

The remainder of us were told that, to acquire residency papers would require us to open a Moroccan bank account in US dollars. So we went to the bank, all with our passports. Suzanne and Candace opened their accounts, and thus went back to the police agency and got their paperwork. 3aisa and I were told that a passport was not sufficient to open a bank account. Strike 2.

We two returned the following day with our drivers' licenses, but we were informed that a drivers license also was not sufficient. In addition to our passports, we needed a piece of mail that we had received while in America from a company. An electric bill, a phone advert, a paycheck. Anything with our name and an American address. Why would we have brought this to Morocco?! Why is it necessary or important?! Most importantly, since we definitely did NOT bring such an envelope with us when we arrived 6 months ago, how are we to get one now, now that we no longer LIVE in America or receive mail there?!

Finally, my friend Malika, who also works for the school, and is married to a man of influence, spoke with the owner of the bank. It is no longer necessary to have an envelope.

3aisa and I went to the bank today, but he has had another problem occur in the meantime: his passport was stolen on his last Visa run to Spain. It's being renewed in Casablanca now. She informed him that she could not help him, so he returned to school. What we forgot today was that, when he returned, he had the money for both of us in his pocket! So, I actually had the opportunity to open the account today, but had no money to do so. Strike three.

Insha'allah situations coincide better tomorrow.

Chit-chat

I went to the medina yesterday evening to check on some pictures that I left with a friend of mine; he’s a painter, and I asked if he would get the pictures framed for me. Really, I asked him where we could get them framed, and he insisted on doing it for us. Last night, I didn’t make it there.

B’shwia.

On completely empty streets, it takes about a half hour for me to walk to his shop, and another half hour home. Around 5, I left my house to walk over, through the Mellah, where I had to stop to say hello to my friend who sells teapots. I then encountered the shop where I had left my boots, after having them break shortly after buying them, for the shopkeeper to repair the zipper. He hadn’t finished fixing them yet, but he had me come in and sit down while he messed around with them, and then he wanted me to try on a bunch of other shoes, ALL of which were the wrong size. Then I had to have an exchange with a homeless woman I know between two streets, and inquire as to the well-being of the caretaker of a hotel I scope out to defer guests to, since my place is not currently hosting out-of-towners overnight. I was delayed by the owner of my coffee-shop who saw me passing by, and wanted me to see how successful he’s been at chasing the cats away from his café, since I sometimes feed them when I sit. My favorite mul-malawi guy saw me, and the traditional mul-magasin in the medina streets wanted to teach me some business terms in Arabic.

By the time I got to Sidi Mohamed’s shop, it was late and everything was closed.

Just another evening in Africa. Typical. I love it.

There are some very specific rules about chit-chat, and it’s very prescribed. In my home culture, I am basically free to chat with anyone who feels like talking to me; this is relatively rare with strangers. Here, EVERYBODY wants to talk, in very direct ways. Strangers on the street run up to me and yell, “Are you from France? England?” It would be akin to waving down the next black person you see to ask if they were from Africa… so not p.c.

Although everybody *wants* to talk, the rules here are clearer about when chit-chat is appropriate. Navigating these social mores has resulted with my understanding of two very mutually exclusive groups of people: those with whom casual conversation IS appropriate, and those with whom it is NOT.

IS: For me, it’s appropriate to start conversations with virtually any females. I am also expected to talk with any foreigners, or anyone who looks foreign. Male shopkeepers are also appropriate to talk with, as long as there is the remotest faint possibility I may at some point be monetarily supporting their business.

NOT: Any local males who are not selling something. The only possible exception to this rule can be, sometimes, small children, very old men, men introduced to me by someone in the “is” category while we are supervised by said person, or someone with whom I am physically trapped for a period of time, such as a fellow passenger in a traincar or taxi. These conversations are had with a good show of trepidation.

I never cease to find this cultural distinction interesting, and from an insider’s perspective a bit amusing.

Tea with My Neighbors

I was skyping with Steve the other night, very late, when everything else was sleepy and silent. Faintly, I heard something like the slow cracking of breaking glass. I wasn't sure where it was coming from, but a moment later, I found out. Suddenly, behind me, the tiles on my floor split apart, rifting together like the Rocky mountains, and shooting sharp plaster bits all around the room. The entire length of my living room, two rows of tiles seemed to expand and pop out of the floor, leaving a little tile mountain range in the middle of the living room, that cracks menacingly anytime anyone steps near it.

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