Catch 22

Last week, in a flurry to get a few boxes of tiles out to the West Coast, and somewhere between the post office and FedEx, my wallet was either lost or lifted. A frantic retracing of steps produced nothing. And the, "why don't you check back in tomorrow" offered by one of the clerks at the post office carried the sound of assured defeat.

Losing a wallet is never fun, and this mishap was compounded by the fact that just days before, our bank in the US had decided to upgrade Samuel's ATM and Visa card, and in the process cancel his existing card long before its '09 "good til" date. "But I never asked for an upgrade," he whined to the perky Wells Fargo voice on the other end of the line. "Well, I can cancel the new one for you, sir, and re-issue another," she offered. "But I don't want another," says Sam with mounting exasperation, "I want the card that I have to work!" "Oh, well that's impossible, sir, once it's de-activated, we can't turn it back on." Not a fun scenario.

At least, we figured, Lulu is headed to Marrakech in a month to take on a teaching post at the American School - high-school history (American, Moroccan and Islamic!). Our mail is already being forwarded to Rupert, so he can hand Samuel's new card over to Lulu when they meet up in Vermont before her departure. Slick. Or maybe not. With my ATM card now at-large, we are unable to draw out any money from our US account. Digging into our shallow pockets, we dredged up just 400 dirhams between us, or around $50 (damn weak dollar). We're frugal, but $50 for 3 weeks, or until we could get Sam's new card FedExed would be an uncomfortable stretch. Like two nihilists getting the bomb shelter provisioned, we headed to the grocery store for what we hoped would be enough water, coffee and wine to keep us going until the new card arrived. You see, the list of places in Marrakech that take AmEx is small, mostly just big hotels and touristy restaurants. You can't even pay to send something FedEx with a credit card!

The next morning, before I've even had a chance to cancel my credit cards, my cell phone rings. It's the guy I rent a car from ocassionally and he's just heard from someone who has found my wallet. "They went through your stuff and couldn't find a local number," he explains, "but they found my card and asked me if I had a client named Caitlin." Recovering from my incredulity, I get out a stream of "mercis" and "shokrans" and take down the number of the guy who's got my identity in his hands. Turns out he's a pharmacist in a tiny village on the route to Safi. His directions are not clear immediately, and we think he means he's just a few kilometers out of town. So, Hamoud and I hop on his motorscooter and head off to retrieve the wallet, passing a bank whose thermometer reads 52 degrees centigrade, or over 125-degrees F. "Motor scooter is better in the summer when it's hot," says Hamoud. "Perhaps," I gasp. But at a certain temperature the breeze of the scooter goes from cooling your skin as it wicks away sweat to acting like a convection oven. Fortunately, before I pass out, Hamoud has the good sense to suggest pulling over before we get too far to confirm the directions I've received to the pharmacy. Turns out the noble guy lives not a few kilometers from Marrakech on the route to Safi, but 60+ kilometers out. We turn back for the air-conditioned minivan that Hamoud is using to drive tourists around the country.

We arrive at the pharmacy after an hour-and-a-half's drive through barren countryside broken by insane stretches of development, including a completely vacant new town for 300,000 people who have yet to arrive. You've never seen so many cranes. The pharmacist greets us with a friendly smile and starts to pull out a loose items of mine - driver's license, various credit cards, the card from the car rental company. The rest, he explains, is in my wallet with the fellow who found it. He calls the guy, a young, rangey fellow with a grin that reminds me of the worker on our house who sabbotaged a drainpipe with cement, who arrives with my wallet peaking out of his shirt pocket. The two proceed to show me every card and old piece of paper in my wallet. Yes, I'm a packrat, or morbidly nostalgic, says the credit card receipt from our vet's office in LA. Oh, and there's a card for an appointment with my eye doctor. And a AAA card for roadside assistance.

Once they've shown me that everything is there, except, of course, the cash that was in it yesterday, I thank them profusely, hand over a nice tip for each, signaling to Hamoud that we can hit the road. But no, the pharmacist and young guy put up a fuss about my tip, saying it's not nearly enough for all the work they'd done finding me. While I appreciate that they made a call to find me, it hardly constitutes hard work and I've already given each a day's wage as a thank you. But I really am grateful to have my stuff back and figure it's worth a bit more, despite what I'll have to pay Hamoud for driving me all the way out here. Another 100 dirhams is handed over and still I'm getting serious head shaking and attitude. The pharmacist even gestures as if he's going to throw the money back at me, insulted. Now I'm angry. "I gave you money for your kindness," I say, "if this is business than you've already been overpaid." And I turn on my heels and march back to the car, which has been baking in the sun so that it, too, is like a convection oven. Hamoud remains behind. I wait. And I wait. And I wait some more. Finally, the gangly guy emerges and bangs on my window, saying everything is okay and wanting to shake my hand. The pharmacist emerges a few seconds later and wants to do the same. I'm still furious as Hamoud sidles into the driver's seat and we pull out onto the road.

I fuss and fume, saying for once it would be nice if someone would do something just to be nice instead of for money. I feel so taken advantage of, blah, blah, blah. Hamoud waits for my tirade to end and then explains in his ever wise way, that the only reason I have my wallet back is because they realized I was a foreigner and would pay money to get it back. They were obviously expecting a far greater windfall. "If you were Moroccan," he says, "they'd have taken the cash and thrown the wallet out. No trouble trying to find a Moroccan." As this sinks in, he asks, "You are happy to have your wallet back?" I shrug ageeement. "Well," he grins, "you are happy because you have been taken advantage of." Yes, Yoda . . . I mean Hamoud. Right again.

La Corniche

Yesterday, we drove the new highway from Marrakech to Casablanca with Hamoud for a few business meetings, a photo session at the beach (for the tiles) and to have lunch with friends. The fact that the highway is a toll road means fewer vehicles moving faster, and since you no longer need to struggle to pass overladen trucks lumbering along the old winding road, it's a lot more relaxing.

Like the last time we were here, we were thrilled to find the weather at least 25 degrees cooler than Marrakech, and this time we went straight to that tempering cause: the Atlantic.

The wide, sandy beach, which had a retro feel with its sun-bleached umbrellas, was packed with people, though it took us a while to find our way past the walls of private beach clubs to get onto it. We passed numerous soccer games as well as loads of kids braving the chilly Atlantic surf. When we set up the tiles in the wet sand and started snapping away, we created a stir, and soon there were parades of kids and teens angling their way into our shots, pretending to run for the surf just as our shutter was snapping.

Driving by the U.S. Consulate, we were happy to note that it is finally open again, having closed for six weeks for security enhancements after the April bombings in an Internet cafe in Casa. As a new precaution, the Consulate has blocked the sidewalk in front of the building with enormous dumpsters topped with flowers, a sweet attempt at making a massive security feature slightly more inviting.

And we finally got a peek at Tahir Shah's amazing home, whose restoration is recorded in his amusing novel The Caliph's House. With something like 16 bedrooms and 5 courtyards, it's too bad his renovation is complete and he's not in need of cement tiles.

Tongue Tied

We realize that the statute of acceptability on our living in Morocco without speaking Arabic is coming to a rapid close. While our "shwiya, shwiya" or "little bit" elicited for many months an appreciative chuckle from the locals when they asked us if we spoke Arabic, they now ask how long we've lived in Marrakech and when they hear it's been a full year, our lack of fluency gets a dismissive cluck. "Americans are usually very good at learning Arabic," we've heard on a number of ocassions, as if we're not only letting down the Moroccans, but our homeland, too. So, as we embark on year two living in Morocco, as well as a business venture here, we've vowed to step up our efforts to learn Arabic.

That said - and please don't take this as an excuse - we know how remiss we've been; we have had some curious encounters when we've tried to acquire and use new words. Our tile factory for popham design, for example, is located in a neighborhood out by the airport called Bouqaz Junction. On our regular trips to the factory, we instruct the taxi driver to go to "Bouqaz, aafak" (please). About half the time, we get a nod of understanding and off we go. The other half, the driver cranes his neck around to look at us and ask, "Ou?" "Bouqaz, pres de l'aeroport," we reply. "Ou? Quoi?" the driver asks again. "Just head to the airport, and we'll tell you where to go from there," we finally concede after about 10 more attempts: "Bouqaz, Bouqaz, Bouqaz . . ." Invitably, when we reach the neighborhood in question, we hear from the driver's seat, "Ah, Bouqaz," as if why didn't you just say do? No kidding, Bouqaz. That's what we've been repeating. But to the Moroccan ear, what we're convinced is a pretty spot-on pronunciation of the word has become horribly mangled. Or is it that when a person speaks in an unexpected foreign tongue, the native speaker cannot process the incongruity and so fails to recognize what's being said?

A similar thing happened just the other day with a new acquaintance. She's Moroccan, a Marrakshia born and raised, who is married to an Englishman and learned fluent English - infuriatingly - in just a few short months. Over lunch, we were talking about having gone out for eggs that morning, a Friday, only to find all of the corner shops closed. We headed to the chicken seller, figuring that where there are feathers, we should find eggs. And here Samuel throws in what we've been taught is the Moroccan Arabic word for egg, "bayda," which is pronounced like bed, but with a Sopranos-like accent. "What?" our multi-lingual guest asked. "Bayda," Sam repeated, "you know, egg." "What?" she looked at us as if we'd lapsed into Dutch. "Un oeuf," Sam explained, reverting to French, her 2nd language. "Ah, bayda," she happily replied. Exactly. Exactly what we'd been saying for the past few minutes, our attempts falling on deaf ears.



And these are just two quick anecdotes. We get these reactions daily to the handful of words that we have learned, use in correct context, and (she says with a sniffle) pronounce correctly, damnit.

So, I guess I offer a disclaimer as we throw the gaunlet down on learning Arabic this year. Will fluency even count if the native speakers we're talking to are not able to understand us? I understand even better why there is comfort in the default language of French, a second language for us and for the Moroccans, too. Neither side of the conversation comes with great expectations, or comprehension-blocking preconceptions. Moroccans expect foreigners to speak a bit of French, even if muddled, and the same goes for us of them. So, whether successful or not with Arabic, I guess we'll always have Paris . . . I mean French.

Vacationland

They don't call it Vacationland for nothing! From NH, we wended our way down east to Turner and then Stoneham, Maine. We paddled slowly down the Neizinscot River in a canoe and then zipped over Upper Street on someone's new toy. Sadie taught us how to climb a doorframe and Max showed us how to cross dress with aplomb!

Reunion in NH

After a frantic week running around in NY with 100+ pounds of cement tiles, it was off to the mountains of New Hampshire for a weekend reunion with college friends and their growing broods. Three "we're pregnant" announcements meant the minty mojitos were mostly virgin. We discovered that a simple broom can be the most fetching toy. And learned that ticks are partial to very private body parts!