前途: A Year in Morocco

I’ve felt the need to blog as often as possible lately. It’s probably due to the fact that my time here is rapidly dwindling, and in the face of that, I want to get some ideas “out there” for anyone who has been reading my blog or has stumbled across it.

I’ve mentioned before that I am frequently mistaken for a Moroccan by taxi drivers. As you go further and further north, you find an increasing number of pale, redheaded Moroccans who are descended from the Northern the Amazigh tribes (the Amazigh, or Berbers [this is a mildly non-politically-correct word] are the rough equivalent of Native American tribes). In one of my classes alone, I have at least 5 or 6 redheads. So my physical attributes are not altogether alien in a Moroccan context.

On top of that, I know enough “Moroccan sign language,” which is how you communicate with a taxis whizzing by in their characteristic, weaving, erratic manner. The sign language streamlines things because then he doesn’t have to stop and talk to you, you just indicate which direction you are going in. Moroccan sign language actually gets more complex—I’ve seen whole conversations take place as a combination of lip reading and hand gestures from across the street, from the train to the guys in the station, or through the windows of classrooms between friends.

So, at 9:33 a.m. this morning, I made the hand gesture at a couple drivers before a passing mul taxi pulled over, with two women in the backseat. I checked with him to make sure my destination was on their route, by saying “La Fac?” which is the local abbreviation for “la Faculté,” referring to the university in French. He tapped the seat, and I hopped in. “Do you have class at 10?” he asked (twice). “Yes,” I confirmed for him (twice).

He then launched into a lecture, in Arabic, about students who don’t leave early enough for class, get in the taxi, and want him to drive faster/crazily to get them there on time. I’m not really sure what most taxis could do to drive faster/crazier, but I nodded sympathetically in answer. But then at the end, he asked a question which I did not understand.

At this point, I tried to get myself out of it by smiling and nodding some more, which usually works pretty well. Today, it did not, and I was finally forced to admit that I was actually an American who teaches at the university, and we had the (now scripted) conversation about how I find Morocco, how long I’ve been there, what English words he knows, whether or not I’m married and why, etc etc.

At the end, he wanted to exchange phone numbers, so if I ever needed to, I could call him for a ride. This is a fairly commonplace thing to do, but as a rule, I don’t give out my phone number to males, so I refused politely, saying I didn’t have a cell phone.

No students showed up. Wednesday is usually slow, and midterms are looming on the horizon, so this is not too surprising. I waited half an hour in an empty room, then left early for Rabat for lunch with a friend. Later, I stopped by the Fulbright office to exchange books at the library and news with my American boss.