De Perros y Limones

Near Miss

Dawn Walkies

Well, we’re still in Africa.  It still seems weird to say that.  Granted, we have mainly seen the coastal road of Rabat and its environs which means we have seen about 5% of the capital city, which means we have seen about 0.5% of Morocco which means we have seen about 0.005% of Africa.  Nevertheless, we’re in Africa!

So after the first few weeks of trying to figure out what the Hell we needed to do to survive i.e. get Wifi, we are now at that stage where we can look further afield and wonder what it is over that metaphorical horizon.  We are starting this task by going on school trips soon!   I am going with grade 8 to the Atlas Mountains for a week and Sonalee will, a week later, be taking grade 11 to somewhere else in the Atlas Mountains.

Yes, I’m finally working!  Okay, it’s only for a week but it is a start.  I’m also coaching again with the middle school and high school boys.  It has been great so far, a real fillip for me.  Of course, it has also been exhausting especially for Sonalee.  After so long off, we forgot just how demanding teaching can be and the stamina required to stand in front of a bunch of students and get them to learn. 

People think that, because they went to school, they know what you need to be able to teach.  Trust me, it is nowhere as easy as most commentators in the media would have you believe.  All of Sonalee’s colleagues have that same wild look when you talk to them.  Give it another month and she should develop that innate stamina that all teachers need.

In the meantime we still have much to learn about living in Morocco.  One major question we have is, of course, why you can’t find Halloumi cheese anywhere.  It’s bizarre!  We had naively assumed that Morocco would be like the middle east countries where Halloumi seems to grow on trees.  Here?  Not a block to be found.  We knew that getting hold of HP sauce would be nigh-on impossible and we resolutely steeled ourselves for the lack of brown condiments to accompany chips or sausages and mash.  But Halloumi!  Dear, salty solid Halloumi, hard cheese of the Gods!  What are we to do without you?

Arty Shot!

Anyway, the other question we are constantly seeking the answer to is:  Who are the most idiotic; drivers or pedestrians?  There is not a single day that goes by where we do not experience fuckwittery of the highest order on the roads.  The roundabout thing we are getting used to but each and every day brings some new amazement and yet another close shave.  Just off the top of my head, we’ve had babies in a pram being left in the road; pedestrians walking around the roundabout ON THE ROAD; a last minute cut back onto the road so close you could see the whites of the eyes of the bewildered sheep in the boot of the veering car; taxis overtaking you just so that they can stop right in front of you suddenly; a mother feeding her infant child whilst driving with no hands and countless drivers having animated discussions with passengers a-la Spain.

That was just the last few days.

Arty Shot!

Every day, without fail, we get back home with a feeling that we or those that we encounter on the roads are lucky to be alive.  And when you beep the offenders they either smile at you with a wave of ‘don’t worry about it’ or are genuinely puzzled as to what they have done wrong.  And Rabat is supposed to be one of the more orderly cities in Morocco.  What on Earth are the rest like?  I’m not sure we could survive driving through Casablanca.  What to do?

There are lots of things that we are getting used to though.  One of them is that we have a watcher outside the house at night.  An older gentleman, he has a small hut that he retires to now that it is getting a bit more chilly in the darkness.  We think that he just stays in there all night but we might be wrong.  He smiles a lot, loves the dogs and gets paid by us and our neighbours – about fifty quid per house per month – which is, apparently, quite normal for upper middle class households here.

Make no mistake, where we live, where Sonalee (and I ish) work are bubbles of wealth and privilege when compared to the rest of the city and especially the rest of the country.  It was this way in Sri Lanka and will be the way for the vast majority of teachers in international schools all around the world.  So, yes, we are the lucky ones.  Very lucky.  I think we know it and respect it.  I suspect most of the people who work in international schools also know it and respect it.  I also suspect most of the children we teach also know it.  Whether or not it is right is a question we have often discussed and, to be honest, we’ve never come up with a definitive answer. 

What I do know is that the children I’ve taught, the students of Sonalee that I’ve met and those at RAS that we are involved with now have been, in the main, really nice.  Some have been incredibly aware of their place in the social hierarchy and others less so but I would say that most of them have been a pleasure to teach or coach.  As we watch from afar as the UK is ripped apart under the rule of English private school spoilt bastards, we do wonder how to equate what we see daily and those we see on the news.

But, back to Morocco.  And the French.

Those damned Frenchies.  They colonise a place and, instantly, the quality of the bread goes up.  The bread-related products and desserts you get here are absolutely amazing.  Even better than the Spanish stuff we got used to, which is a high compliment.  The range of soft cheeses is, of course, wide and interesting as is the wine.  Those damned Frenchies! 

Seriously, you’re about to be colonised.  You know that it will be horrible and nasty for many years but you have a choice;  the British or the French.  With the former you get railways and cricket, with the latter you get romantic language and an appreciation of great food and wine.  What do you go for?  Flippant, I know but…

The sounds of the morning call to prayer; the gentle washing of the waves on the beach during the night; the easy smiles of people that we meet every day; the lovely house we’ve been given to live in; the willingness of people to help us as we struggle with the languages; the sheer number of cats everywhere and the fact that we’re on British time are all things that we are beginning to appreciate more.

The ‘toilets’ at the start of the beach. Urgh.

We have begun to miss our life in our village in Spain and the friends that we have there.  We miss speaking Spanish really badly and cheap beer (that may just be me) and we really miss Tango still.  We are very glad that we will be able to go back to what we now call home at Christmas and that we will be able to walk the campo with our pack of dogs.  And that we will be able to come back here to continue our adventure. 

We feel very fortunate.  Come and see us so we can show you what we mean. 

Hasta Luego.

Paul

PS:  Sonalee and I were trying to come up with song writers who really knew how to write a story.  George Michael, obviously.  The Beatles, Prince and a whole host of others.  Then I listened to OMD and their song ‘Enola Gay’.  Which then led me to this.  Oh, yeah, baby!  And, yes, I do dance like that.

Hi!

Paul

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