The internet is NOT working here more often than it IS working. School has proven the only reliable network. Because of the 4 hour time difference from here to New York, I am often logging on to Skype late at night. Fortunately for me, there's a cyber-cafe next to my house that is usually open late.
Last night, I had a moment of shock as I walked into the Cyber. The man at the counter said "broken. broken." It was indeed broken. The computers were all in a pile in the middle of the floor. Desks had been smashed to rubble. The glass windows of the cabinets had been broken and shards were splashed around the room. All three men who work there were milling around looking busy - a rarity! I picked up my jaw and asked what happened. "Broken. Re-decorating." The man at the counter said. ...I guess... But they shushed me out the door and told me to check back another day.
I still had about 15 minutes before meeting Steve online, so I wandered off in search of another internet cafe. I'm going to be really honest here, and admit that, since I thought I was only going next door (the internet cafe really barely counts as leaving my house) I had gone down in my slippers. Not Moroccan slippers. Bedroom slippers. Fuzzy ones. With leopard spots. Just make sure that's a part of your mental image of this whole adventure.
I found another cafe (about 2 blocks of slipper-walking later), but they were just closing for the night. The man informed me that I was out of luck, because this was the only internet cafe in the city. "I just came from one over there," I told him. "No," he said firmly, "there isn't one over there." ...yes. "No, one over there doesn't exist." He must've thought I was a tourist and hoped I come back to his shop the next day (or maybe he noticed my feet). I told him I lived over there. Well, he said, then you know that there aren't any other internet cafes over there. Sometimes you have to choose your battles, and my battle was to see Steve in about 5 minutes. I left.
I found another Cyber about a block away. Here's when the story really gets funny. It was a big cyber, spacious, looked quality. I greeted the man at the desk and he showed me to a computer. When I turned it on, it displayed an error message in French about the key board being disconnected. 'Oh, let me get that,' says the man. He reaches in front of me... and starts hitting the keyboard, smacking each key with terrible fury!!! Maybe he thought he could SCARE the computer into working for him. Big surprise, it doesn't work. He keeps hitting it, while I read the error message, walk around the machine, and plug in the keyboard. The man is satisfied when it starts working again, because he had hit it and fixed it.
The computer boots up, but the mouse doesn't work. I'm happy to troubleshoot my own problems, but the man is still standing there, and he picks up the mouse. He taps it a few times, a reasonable gesture. Then he takes the mouse in his hand and starts whacking it into the computer screen!!! I have to act fast before he breaks it! I race to the back of the computer and plug in the mouse.
The computer appears to be working, but it's yellow. It's the standard windows desktop, in all shades of yellow (which is surprisingly stressing). I push the button at the bottom to adjust the colors and start fiddling with the settings, but the man comes over and, with no warning, smacks my monitor! He grins at me, makes a fist, and starts jabbing the monitor. "Gently!" I say. "Don't break it!" He looks surprised, and laughs hysterically! He looks back at my yellow monitor, winds up his right fist, and all-out PUNCHES the screen dead center!!!
I expect him to put his fist through it. But instead, the second his fist shakes that monitor, the colours snap back to normal! Shows what I know.
I'll end my story there. Lather, rinse, repeat with the microphone, the webcam, and then the Skype program itself. At least I was comfy in my slippers. When I finally did get to talk to Steve, it was the sweetest victory of my week.
Which is just what it should be.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
For Real
Destinations are fun. Actually, more than that, destinations make TRAVELING fun. This is a great traveling story.
Instead of the usual weekend wandering of finding whatever adventure, fortunate or unfortunate, I could run into by walking around Fes, I set a destination. Destination: Algeria. Never mind that the border is closed. And has been since 1994. We've talked a lot as teachers about not lowering expectations for our students; I thought it was time to put the same in place for myself. What are laws when I have determination and a smile? Smiles get you anywhere in Morocco.
(Spoiler included for Mom: I didn't knowingly do anything illegal.)
I hopped on a night train for Oujda, and prowled around the city a little. It's bigger than I expected for being the only civilization this far east. Then the fun began - I started my frontier search! The frontier line, or border line, of Algeria is 12 kilometers from Oujda, and it took the involvment of 3 different colors of Taxi's and one swanky 5-star hotel, but I was finally in the front seat of a golden taxi on my way to Magrib-al-awsat: "The Middle West" from "The Far West."
Out of town, we encountered the typical barrenness between countries who have been known to claim each other's land, interspersed with Party Houses. Yup, they're really called Party Houses. In the desert wasteland, beautiful castle-like Casba's with neon lights proclaimed themselves "for rent," and possessing "a room appropriate for ANY party."
The taxi driver cautioned me about having my camera visible, and I stowed it in the folds of my skirt. 4km from the Frontier, we pulled up to a one-lane obstacle course. The signs indicated that it was a police checkpoint, but it looked like a stunt driver's test to me. Our mul-taxi swerved into the opposing lane to avoid the car laden with haybales that barreled toward us. We needed to be in the opposing lane anyway to avoid the first row of nails protruding from the asphalt. The taxi driver passed the first row expertly, skidding the taxi out on the way back to the right to avoid the next row of nails. He threaded the obstacle course like he could have done it in his sleep at 50kph. I have a reference for Hollywood's next stunt driver.
We arrived at the frontier. Though it has been closed since '94, none of the Moroccans here seem to know why, other than "Algeria closed it for political reasons." I didn't ask the Algerians their opinion. They were too busy telling me to get back to my side of the line.
Don't picture me fighting past trenches of armed men, or anything. There were plenty of barracades and barbed wire, but a clear path right through the border. Not seeing anyone, I figured the checkpoint must be on the other side, so I walked through.
No one there either.
Must be further up ahead.
I kept walking.
50m from the barracade, I realize nobody cares. I scout around for some officials, and go out of my way to talk to one of the policemen Gendarmes there. He tells me no, this is still Morocco, the frontier isn't for another 500 meters, at the foot of some cool looking mountains. No Algeria for Laura.
I was a little dissapointed, but had a great time chuckling at their security system. After all, I had known my goal was impossible from the beginning. I get back in the golden taxi, talking with the driver about the mountains. He doesn't really like them, but his sons like to go there. Go there? I thought no one from Morocco could go there. No, no one from Morocco can cross the Official Frontier. To get into Algeria, you have to go around!!!!
He offers to show me, not waiting for my answer as he swerves off the road into a cactus patch! Seriously, this guy could be the next 007 for the way he handles this golden taxi. We land in a tiny trail between the prickly pear and a concrete wall that hadn't even been visible from the road. There, he says, is Algeria. No more barbed wire; this part of the border is guarded on the Moroccan side by cinderblocks, and on the Algerian side by cacti!
We bump a little farther down the cactus patch - I will not call that spot a road. Nobody would.- until the borders open up. No more cactus, no more cinderblock. This is less than a kilometer from the fenced and baraccaded frontier where I talked with the Gendarme! Welcome to Algeria, Laura.
I got out and took a few pictures, tipped the taxi driver 100% (sill less than $1) and we were bumping back through the cacti and into Morocco, back to Oujda in the golden taxi.
Instead of the usual weekend wandering of finding whatever adventure, fortunate or unfortunate, I could run into by walking around Fes, I set a destination. Destination: Algeria. Never mind that the border is closed. And has been since 1994. We've talked a lot as teachers about not lowering expectations for our students; I thought it was time to put the same in place for myself. What are laws when I have determination and a smile? Smiles get you anywhere in Morocco.
(Spoiler included for Mom: I didn't knowingly do anything illegal.)
I hopped on a night train for Oujda, and prowled around the city a little. It's bigger than I expected for being the only civilization this far east. Then the fun began - I started my frontier search! The frontier line, or border line, of Algeria is 12 kilometers from Oujda, and it took the involvment of 3 different colors of Taxi's and one swanky 5-star hotel, but I was finally in the front seat of a golden taxi on my way to Magrib-al-awsat: "The Middle West" from "The Far West."
Out of town, we encountered the typical barrenness between countries who have been known to claim each other's land, interspersed with Party Houses. Yup, they're really called Party Houses. In the desert wasteland, beautiful castle-like Casba's with neon lights proclaimed themselves "for rent," and possessing "a room appropriate for ANY party."
The taxi driver cautioned me about having my camera visible, and I stowed it in the folds of my skirt. 4km from the Frontier, we pulled up to a one-lane obstacle course. The signs indicated that it was a police checkpoint, but it looked like a stunt driver's test to me. Our mul-taxi swerved into the opposing lane to avoid the car laden with haybales that barreled toward us. We needed to be in the opposing lane anyway to avoid the first row of nails protruding from the asphalt. The taxi driver passed the first row expertly, skidding the taxi out on the way back to the right to avoid the next row of nails. He threaded the obstacle course like he could have done it in his sleep at 50kph. I have a reference for Hollywood's next stunt driver.
We arrived at the frontier. Though it has been closed since '94, none of the Moroccans here seem to know why, other than "Algeria closed it for political reasons." I didn't ask the Algerians their opinion. They were too busy telling me to get back to my side of the line.
Don't picture me fighting past trenches of armed men, or anything. There were plenty of barracades and barbed wire, but a clear path right through the border. Not seeing anyone, I figured the checkpoint must be on the other side, so I walked through.
No one there either.
Must be further up ahead.
I kept walking.
50m from the barracade, I realize nobody cares. I scout around for some officials, and go out of my way to talk to one of the policemen Gendarmes there. He tells me no, this is still Morocco, the frontier isn't for another 500 meters, at the foot of some cool looking mountains. No Algeria for Laura.
I was a little dissapointed, but had a great time chuckling at their security system. After all, I had known my goal was impossible from the beginning. I get back in the golden taxi, talking with the driver about the mountains. He doesn't really like them, but his sons like to go there. Go there? I thought no one from Morocco could go there. No, no one from Morocco can cross the Official Frontier. To get into Algeria, you have to go around!!!!
He offers to show me, not waiting for my answer as he swerves off the road into a cactus patch! Seriously, this guy could be the next 007 for the way he handles this golden taxi. We land in a tiny trail between the prickly pear and a concrete wall that hadn't even been visible from the road. There, he says, is Algeria. No more barbed wire; this part of the border is guarded on the Moroccan side by cinderblocks, and on the Algerian side by cacti!
We bump a little farther down the cactus patch - I will not call that spot a road. Nobody would.- until the borders open up. No more cactus, no more cinderblock. This is less than a kilometer from the fenced and baraccaded frontier where I talked with the Gendarme! Welcome to Algeria, Laura.
I got out and took a few pictures, tipped the taxi driver 100% (sill less than $1) and we were bumping back through the cacti and into Morocco, back to Oujda in the golden taxi.
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