De Perros y Limones

February has two ‘r’s

Honestly, it does.  My grade nine class actually had a debate about it when one muppet told me I had spelt it wrongly.  Even now, after being thoroughly explained to, I’m not sure he believes me or most of his class.

Blue

To be fair, many of the children that we teach are fluent in three languages but not necessarily fluent in their spelling.  The local kids will have a command of English ( the medium of the school) French and Arabic.  Foreign kids from Europe will also have good English, good French and good home language.  Canadians will also be proficient in French whilst the Brits and Yanks that we teach  tend to be mono-lingual in the main. 

I think this makes us lose out.  I know it does when you live in a foreign country and cannot speak the language.  This was true of my time in Sri Lanka, partly in Spain and definitely here in Morocco.  Language is the key to understanding everything in a new land.  The best travellers of the past knew this.  We saw the positive effect that learning Spanish had in our small village and in how people saw us.  Our friends Ken and Jan take a full part in village life because they can communicate with their neighbours and the many layers of officialdom. 

The trouble here in Morocco is that French is so bloody hard!  It’s not fair!  The French have designed a language that specifically embarrasses British people in particular.  I know this for a fact and is not something that I have conjured up from my imagination.  So many letters to not pronounce!  So many ways to add complexity to simple verbs!  And they have cheeses at the posh supermarche here that I’ve never even heard of!  And I love cheese!  It’s the Frenchies!  They’re deliberately mocking me! 

Ahem.

I look at pictures of my god-daughter and her siblings and shake my head at the thought that they know four languages – they’re born of a Basque and Brit and who go to school in France.  It makes Sonalee and I feel somewhat inadequate when we see them.  God knows how their dad feels because he’s as bad as me.  We can’t wait to see them this summer – 121 days till the end of the term – wherever they might be. 

Over Christmas we had a new tent delivered – it was about 300 quid.  300 quid!  I was okay with a cheap, nasty 20 quid job from Decathlon but apparently that’s not the style that we want to camp in any more.  Sonalee has a point;  it was either my head or my feet that stretched the tent the last time we toured Europe and which led to dampness at either end.  So this summer we intend to use the thing as long as we can get house-sitters for the dogs.

Its so lush and verdant around here at the moment

Which leads me to this long weekend where we have two extra days off.  My baby dun gone.  We didn’t get house-sitters.

This is where our aged security guard sleeps at night. He loves Luna.

Sonalee is in Ireland seeing Maeve, her best friend from many many years ago and who is going through tough treatment for leukaemia for the second time.  Maeve was the person who married us at our wedding in the UK, taking on the role of celebrant and she did it brilliantly.  She had done her homework, sorted the wheat from the chaff in terms of information to be conveyed, led us though the rituals of a ceremony and made everyone laugh and cry. 

At the wedding, she mentioned my step-father  who died over a decade ago in that month with two ‘r’s and who changed my life irrevocably for the better.  And, of course, the life of my mother, my sisters my step-brothers  and, after many years,  my nieces and nephews.   Without him, I would never have had the courage to go to university and to lead this life of an itinerant teacher that has enabled me to see the world and all of its attendant joys and sorrows. 

A typical Saturday morning

I miss him still.  He taught me to appreciate good and bad red wine and to never ever waste food* – if someone had cooked it, it deserved to be eaten.   He taught me the value of a good box full of tools (he was an engineer on nuclear submarines) and that, sometimes, not very often, you just need to beat the shit out of something until it works.

*except tinned Brussel sprouts, they are an abomination, trust me.

Dora looking after mummy

And Maeve is the reason why my baby dun gon.  And why I have four days on my own with four dogs.  My essay was due to be handed in this weekend but it has been extended by two weeks because of strikes and stuff by university staff indignant about the stupid hours they are supposed to keep.  Oddly enough, none of the fellow teachers on my course have said a bad word about this.

Four days of reading on facebook  about my comrades at school enjoying trips all over the place whist I was stuck here in Skhirat outside of Rabat with four dogs, one of whom likes to bark incessantly at horses, goats, cows, dogs, cats, carts carrying vegetables, people who look weird, plants that she doesn’t like the look of, cars, vans, hedges that have birds inhabiting them, waves, more waves and anything  that gets in the way of her being the queen of all she surveys. 

How can you not love this creature?

Truly, Luna is the pain in the arse that we all thought she would be.  She’s cute, we get that.  When she saunters over to the young couples on the steps of the beach, the male will demonstrate to his girl that he is in command of this loveable thing that is bounding all over the place and will laugh at her antics whilst the girl smiles at her beau who is so manly yet romantic and its yet another example of Luna being  the centre of bloody attention that she loves and it’s a pain in the arse when you have three other dogs who each have their own special needs. 

I’m calling this “Nature’s patterns” part one

That Luna jumps into the gardens of strangers and elicits slurred remarks that means you know the owners are very much into a famous Moroccan product makes it is easier to deal with but it is still a pain.  Dora tries to, in doggy language, get across that this is a pain for daddy to deal with but Luna just continues to be Luna.  Everyone around here knows who she is, just as they all do back home in Fuente Tojar.   Our dog is famous.  People smile at her antics.  Strangers wave to us from miles away that she is there causing unnecessary trouble and they bring  her back to us when she has caused a little bit too much mischief.

She is the reason why we have spent over 300 quid in bamboo fencing from the local bamboo fencing farmer (we’re his best customer) and why the local horse-riding stables bring extra-long sticks with them.  Teachers, parents, security, police and children from the school know who Luna is thanks to her time with me when I was a mere supply teacher and brought her on doggy joggies after depositing my wife for her daily work and when she charmed everyone she met. 

Our house. Note the bamboo fencing erected to keep Luna in. Note the fencing on the terrace to keep Luna from falling and killing herself because she gets a tad excited sometimes

Luna is, and I do not exaggerate, a complete pain in the fucking arse wherever she goes.  And yet she is so loving.  She is so loveable.  She is so good for the other dogs in that she gets them animated at trivial things like the trash collector doing his thing five times per day.  Of all of my best mate’s kids, Luna connected with the youngest and the naughtiest-yet-cutest.  That is no accident. 

What can we do about this?  Nothing. 

It is the way that it is. 

February is also the month that the weather changes in Rabat. Or at least it appears to be changing.  I haven’t put the heater on for a few days now and there seems to be less ‘wetness’ on everything in the house.  Hiring a maid for a couple of mornings a week may have something to do with that.  One of the reasons, aside from the obvious, for getting Milouda in was to have some company for the dogs especially on a Wednesday when our school day lasts 11 hours and she is great.  We know they aren’t exactly suffering by living here but they do appreciate someone to be with during the day, especially Dora.  What we need to do next is find out if she can help look after them on a weekend so we can explore Morocco a bit.  When my sister and her husband were here for three days, they saw more of Rabat and Morocco than we have during the past six months.  Yeah.

Beach life

Six months already.  Wow.  That went quickly.   And although we don’t really seem to have done anything, a lot has happened.  I have a job for starters.  There I was expecting to sip cocktails with the ladies with names like Charlotte or Penelope from the embassy at the yacht club but I find myself arguing with a 14 year old boy about how many ‘r’s this current month has and explaining what a longitudinal wave is – I had to look it up as well.

This is “Nature’s patterns” part two. Of course.

What to do?

Well, I await the return of my beloved tonight. School awaits in the morning. I have a huge pile of marking that I just cannot be arsed with and I still cannot quite believe that we are in Africa.

I’d better wrap this up.  There’s a big game on the telly later – Portsmouth vs Exeter in the EDF cup or whatever.  It’s the semi-final! 

Hasta Luego

Paul

PS  No other track will do for this blog.  I want what the drummer is on.

Run!

Paul

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