De Perros y Limones

Choices, choices

The view of the North Atlantic from just outside the school

Here in Morocco we have an absolute monarchy.  The King is revered and must never be criticised.  It is one of the definites about life in Morocco.  Other examples include telling a man that his wife is pretty – you just don’t do it.  You should never refuse an invitation to dine or refreshments at someone’s home unless you do it in an intricate series of declinations that will not insult the potential host.  These are just some of the things that we were told about during our induction at  the school.

Lonely fishermen

Some of the other things we have learned the hard way.  The driving, obviously.  That cats are everywhere, literally everywhere.  That any salesperson in a rug shop will try to turn a 500% from you.  That the purchasing of booze has to be carefully co-ordinated around the odd hours that it is available.  That Public Signs of Affection are to be avoided at all costs.  To be fair, we didn’t learn the hard way by me being arrested but we were warned by many at the school.

The last one was difficult after living in Spain for a year where Public Signs of Affection is almost a law.  If you don’t kiss and hug your partner then people look at you strangely. 

Winter waves

It does, however,  explain the young couples on the steps of the entrances to our beach, hiding away on the dingy bottom step that must stink of god-knows-what (including our dogs) and trying  unsuccessfully to be furtive – everyone knows what is happening.   It was the same in Sri Lanka; witness the endless couples sat on Galle Face Green behind an umbrella trying to be loving to each other.  There they had special morality officers – usually women – whose job it was to separate amorous couples and make them stand at least a metre apart.  Here it’s the job of coppers to enforce the edict against bad morals and behaviour unbecoming unmarried people by arresting the male.

Winter is definitely here

Sri Lanka has been in our thoughts a lot lately and not just because we miss our friends there.  The country has just gone to the polls and elected a mentally unstable tyrant as their new president.  It does not bode well given his track record.  I can remember the last elections there and the groundswell of hope the new president garnered.  He screwed it  up, disastrously so.  Tragically so.  And that tragedy led to fear, stoked up by politicians.

But this is what politicians want from you, I guess.  Fear.  Fear of change.  Fear of the immigrant.  Fear of foreigners.  Fear of whatever demons they can dream up.  In the case of the UK at the moment it seems to be the fear of Socialism.  It looks as if the UK will be voting in an absolute scumbag as their new Prime Minister.  A lying piece of shit with a moral compass that went missing the day he was born, he has the support of Billionaire newspaper owners and businessmen with huge tax havens.  Each time I listen to this song, I am reminded of my despair of people in the UK who vote Tory.

What to do? 

Well, Sonalee and I emigrated.  We became immigrants.  We’re not expats.  We’re immigrants.  In fact we are the epitome of those immigrants so lambasted in the UK in that we don’t speak the lingo in our current home country.  Okay we got better in Spain but our efforts thus far in Morocco have been pitiful.  I do recognise the stop sign in Arabic – based upon learning  the hard way – but that’s all.  Inshallah, we will do better the longer we’re here. 

Some kind of standing stone along the beach road

It is weird being an immigrant at times.  It’s also exciting, of course.  Stepping outside of your own culture means that you have to think about everything that you say and do.  A quarter pounder with cheese will not be that here.  Things that you expect to be normal, like finding brown sauce in the supermarket, will definitely not be so. Or Halloumi cheese!  Seriously, Halloumi cheese!  Why can’t you get it here?  Why? 

Ahem.

Maypole?

I have to say that we have been made very welcome here in Morocco despite our pathetic levels of French and Arabic.  Just as we were in Spain.  People here are tolerant of the funny ways of the foreigner, perhaps because of a history that has involved much interaction with a variety of cultures over the millennia, including Europeans.   Apart from idiot drivers, I can honestly say that we have never been met with anything less than a friendly smile and  complete courtesy – it’s really nice.

Of course, for us, we have it slightly more difficult in that we also have to try to learn another culture – that of the Americans.  Sonalee and I work in an American school.  They say things weirdly, all Americanny.  They do things weirdly– Halloween was a real eye-opener for us both.  I’ve been trying to integrate by saying things like “Hell, yeah!” and other stuff like that.  I do lots of high-fives because this is, apparently, a thing in America, I think.   I still confuse them by saying words like ‘alright?’ which, to them, sounds like many other words.  Sonalee comes across better because she has a less oiky accent than me.  When I talk I notice that lots of our American friends smile that smile of utter incomprehension.  When Sonalee speaks, they listen.  I have, however,  absolutely banned the use of ‘soccer’ anywhere near me.  There are just some things that are beyond the pale. 

Scaryclaw is growing!

But it’s hard.  It’s hard being an immigrant.  Not knowing  the etiquette and the unwritten rules of any culture can leave you embarrassed and an object of pitying looks sometimes.  Witness when Sonalee tried to explain the name of our kitten to our vet.  To me, Scaryclaw is awesome and wicked.  To Moroccans and Americans it is, apparently, not so.  Who knew?

But it is at these times of political change in our home countries, including Spain who have just gone through their fourth general election in four years, that we feel the effect of being absent the most.   It can be argued that we have no right to have a say in what happens in either the UK, Sri Lanka or Spain since we don’t reside there.  That’s true but it cannot take away the feeling that we should be involved because, although we no longer live there, we have invested much of our life there, have friends and family there and love where we used to be – we naturally want the best for those places that we have called our home. 

One of the most popular beaches – in summer

This is one of the negatives about being  an itinerant immigrant.   We know this.  We had a meeting with the other new staff recently which concentrated upon the feelings of being new here.  There are patterns of behaviour that can be tracked, albeit loosely.  Sonalee and I have gone through phase one of feeling like tourists.  I think we’ve been through the homesickness phase a bit and are now on an upper trajectory where we feel more at home in Morocco.  One of the really strange things is to realise that in one year’s time we will be asked if we want to stay for another year.

Moon in Blue

Wow.   Time.  It goes so fast.  In one month we will have finished one term here already.  And we’ve only just started to get to grips with the place.  We’re already planning the summer holiday.  My mum was right, two years is nothing.  Where does it all go?  Does it seem to you that life happens when you’re not really thinking about it or is that just me?  I’m close to the point where I have to submit my first piece of assessed coursework for my PGC and yet it seems I’ve literally just joined the course.  Does time fly the older you are?  Answers in an email please – because postcards are so slow-mail. 

I’m finding learning on my course really difficult.  I’m hoping this is normal but it’s hard to tell because I have no direct interaction with my fellow students – it’s an online course.  I am also not sure if I’m a dullard compared to the rest of them, which worries me.  Is this normal?   Is this how my students feel when they’re in one of my classes?  Am I the student at the front of the class asking stupid questions?  Am I the sulky one wrapped up in his hoody at the back?  Am I the smart-ass one being all perfect?  Nah.  That’s never me.  You know that’s never going  to be me. 

I am enjoying it as much as I am enduring it, I have to say.  Never knock learning at any age. 

I’m off to Marrakech next week for our boy’s football tournament.  It has meant lots of umming and ahhing over whom we should select.  Scott, the manager, and I (the assistant manager) have see-sawed over a few boys.  That this will affect them for an awful long time is not lost on us since we’ve both been players desperate to be part of a team.  We know how being selected can make you feel on cloud nine for many months and we also know what being rejected can feel like.

Tired after a big day

Wish us luck.   It’s strange to think that I’ve come all this way, all those thousands of miles,  just to be consumed by football yet again.  What to do?

Hasta Luego

Paul

The answer to the question to ‘Why Manu Chao?’ is, and will always be,  ‘Because it’s Manu Chao’.  The man is a multi-lingual genius.  Enjoy.

Paul

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