Snails and Orange Juice

A Few Observations about Daily Life in Morocco.

I suppose I will start this post with an explanation of the title. Based upon my experiences thus far, I do believe I will be returning to Morocco later in life for the sole purpose of drinking the orange juice. I don’t even like OJ in the States, but here, you cannot lose. It is the wonder drink. My most common source is a French Pattisserie near the hotel where we stayed the first week in Rabat. After a long day of classes, my friend Emily and I often retreat to this safe-haven (one of the few cafes that is not only male clientelle) for a nice, tall glass of heaven. Unfortunately, the other most common treat for Moroccans is served on the street outside our café around 5 – boiled snails. The odor that drifts along the sidewalk near these vendors is one of the most unique and unusual I have ever experienced. I have not yet discussed with any locals the draw of such an odd commodity, but the people come in droves to these stands to get a bowl of steaming snails, which they pick from their shells with straight pins or safety pins. The strangest part of this all is that the same vendors that sell orange juice during the day switch over to selling snails at night. I can honestly say I will never get orange juice from said vendors. For now, I rejoice in the refreshing glass of OJ I find in my little niche in the big city of Rabat.

Harassment. During the orientation week, while explaining what we have to look forward to this semester, our academic directors cited only one negative experience that is unavoidable and most irritating – street harassment. Apparently, in this society, it is acceptable for men to call out to women in the streets, or even follow them. Granted, the cliché American construction worker can occasionally be a bother, they couldn’t hold a candle to these Moroccan men. I have seen a man walking in a manner that indicates a determination to reach his destination – until he spots a foreign woman or a woman in less clothing than full cover. At which point, the man turns a full 180 and seems to have no other business than to follow this woman. Because we’re easily identified as foreigners, the girls in our program are particularly victimized. Now, I have personally not experience a moment when I felt threatened, but I have had several occasions where I had to change my course or plans because of the irritation of men following me or trying to get me to speak to them. Some of them go so far as to come up beside us and talk right into our face. The problem here lies in the fact that if we respond, we grant them the permission to continue heckling us. The only advice the program advisors could offer was to ignore them unless they physically touched us, which they will rarely do. Now that I have become comfortable with the city, I find that the harassment is not a huge issue. In fact, a few of my girlfriends and I have made a game to see who gets the most creative responses. These guys will try every language and every catchy phrase they can (although their language skills in general are so limited that they are not quite like American pick-up phrases.) One of my personal favorites was when an older guy, perhaps in his late 60s, passed by Emily and me and responded with “Alhamdillilah” (meaning “praise be to God”) in quite a skeezy voice. Although this does contribute to one of the few frustrations I have with my lack of independence here in Morocco, I find that I am not phased by the harassment as long as I am not alone.

Traffic. In the past three weeks, I’d like to think that I have re-mastered the art of crossing the road. Unlike the States, where we usually wait for both sides to clear completely before making our way across the street, in Morocco, one doesn’t have that much time. The locals here do what we call “halfsies” in which they go halfway once the traffic from the left clears then wait in the middle until traffic from the right clears. Often, to achieve this in adequate time, one has to step out nearly into a car. Should said car decide to veer a little to the right at just that second, one’s foot could very well be run over. In addition to the peril of crossing the road, navigating the roads in a vehicle is equally dangerous, and the drivers here are quite creative. Most of the cars here are tiny little Fiats or something of the like. On the main roads, traffic is just thick and drivers impatient. There seem to be no rules regarding passing or maintaining lanes. In the small alleys in the medina, in which most of my life here is centered, cars are allowed to come, although most cannot fit. The few that do have the guts to enter the medina often come with little regard of the people walking around the area. As an alternative to the cars in the medina, many people have motor bikes. These guys are dangerous. They really do come winding around corners and shooting through straightways without hesitations at major crossings. In honesty, if I am to obtain an injury while here in Morocco, it will probably come from a motorbike. Our program guidelines require that we do not ride motorbikes while here, a guideline which I am thankful to obey. For now, I am happy wandering the streets of the medina and dodging the traffic.

Mint Tea. Moroccans love mint tea. And by love, I mean they have it whenever they get an opportunity. Every afternoon, when I come home from school, we have tea. And it’s not your standard hot tea—it’s sweet, sweet, sweet hot mint tea. They like sugar here, which is nice, until you have it constantly every day. When guests come, we have lots of mint tea. When we go to cafes, the most ordered drink is mint tea. When we eat out, the meal ends with mint tea. Throughout the suqs, vendors sell the trappings of tea – several varieties of mints, multi-packs of beautifully decorated tea cups, stacks upon stacks of tea kettles. Although I may get sick of the tea while I am here, I do believe it is one of the habits that I will try to apply to my life at home. Tea after classes? I think so.