Just a short thought, the rest I’ll keep to myself. Travelling alone, especially as a female, has its definite pros and cons. Which I feel are pretty much unavoidable and thus simply need to either be accepted and taken in stride, or just don’t travel. Aside from missing certain people, and being condemned to the solitude of my mind, I have to be somewhat careful where I go and who I talk to and how much I talk. I can’t really explore the night life so I really only get an idea of what the place is like during the day. I’m not staying in hostels so I don’t have a network source with other tourists, nor do I run into many during the day to buddy up with. I’ve gotten more used to it, being in a hotel alone doesn’t quite have the same emptiness that it used to, nor do long train rides feel as unproductively pointless and I can’t really tell if that’s a good or bad thing. It certainly helps make the travelling less exhausting but maybe I’m lowering my standards. Who knows. Doesn’t matter much I suppose. What has been good though is having to step up and take charge of every situation I’m in; I have to, I don’t have anyone else to fall back on. It is also a good practice for self-initiative; if I don’t get off my duff and go do the things I think would be cool to do, then it ain’t gonna happen; so, just do it.
I was sitting in a café today; inside, behind a floor to ceiling glass window and watching the people outside. From behind the glass wall, I saw friends sitting and talking in groups, groups of kids playing, husbands and wives walking…these people have their lives here. I’m just…here. This random, disconnected person who just happens to be here for a short period of time. This fact has been more accented this trip as I’ve been a TRUE tourist for the first time; doing the city to city thing, public transportation, public housing….all of that is relatively new for me. And somewhat unsatisfying. I feel more aloof, more like an invasive tourist, and less like I’m getting a real experience. But…maybe it’s just different. Who knows. Not complaining, just sayin’.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Barter like a Berber: An newly optimistic view on hagglers
At one point in time, I dreaded going anywhere that involved bartering. Firstly because I hated bartering: it involved manipulation, which I knew I could be really good at, and thus felt guilty and didn’t want to condone anything that encouraged that side of me. Secondly, because I hated hagglers, hated being bothered and didn’t like the idea of having to associate with people who were there to deceive and take advantage of me.
But then I sort of realized it’s just how things are. By going someplace where things are sold, you are signaling possible interest in buying things. The seller is there to sell things and thus reads that signal. It’s their job to bother you; it’s not personal, it’s business. And while they may be people doing their job, they are people. People with lives and wives and kids and stories and problems and thoughts and feelings.
So rather than avoiding the bartering that I previously saw; one where the seller is trying to rob you and you are trying to rob the seller, I came to see bartering as more of a way of negotiating to reach an agreement that makes both parties happy. Diplomacy at its finest. And in a way, it’s an interesting art form, it involves language, stance, tone of voice, body language, eye contact: it’s a dance. In Uganda a lot of it involves intimidation; cross your arms, keep your voice steady, step away when you don’t like a price, stare them down. Morocco is similar but seems to involve less intimidation (they aren’t scared of white people here, obviously) and more friendliness. Let them talk for a bit, get to know them, smile, laugh, show interest in their lives and their craft. Get to know the person behind the dirhams. They’ll ask you to sit down, show you the things they made that they are proud of, tell you about everyone they ever met from the states, and how much they like Obama. I suppose this leaves room for concern that they’ll expect a sale or ask for a higher price because you took so much of their time. But surprisingly, I didn’t find this to be the case. In one day in the Fes medina alone, I was offered tea three times, was given a free trinket, walked away from several sales, and got prices I was ok with. Sure they weren’t the lowest prices known to mankind but if I wasn’t comfortable with the price, I wouldn’t have bought it, that’s the point of bartering.
Another thing I realized was conversation makes a great distraction if you need to weasel out of a situation. I was taking pictures of some hanging blankets and the owner came up to me saying he expected a few dirhams for the pictures. As I started explaining I had asked permission from someone else he was so shocked by my French he started asking questions; are you French? American! That’s so good you know French! (I had a lot of shopkeepers actually THANK me for speaking French, some seemed exasperated at all the English speaking Americans walking around) What state are you from? What’s the weather like there? Do you like it here? It’s such a beautiful land, is it not? Why are you here? Are you studying Arabic? How long are you here for? And before you know it, I was walking away, being wished good luck, all my dirhams still safely tucked away. Just one of several similar instances.
Overall: lesson learned, shopkeepers are people too, treat them as such and it could be immensely rewarding, not only for your pocket book but also for having a positive and enriching experience.
But then I sort of realized it’s just how things are. By going someplace where things are sold, you are signaling possible interest in buying things. The seller is there to sell things and thus reads that signal. It’s their job to bother you; it’s not personal, it’s business. And while they may be people doing their job, they are people. People with lives and wives and kids and stories and problems and thoughts and feelings.
So rather than avoiding the bartering that I previously saw; one where the seller is trying to rob you and you are trying to rob the seller, I came to see bartering as more of a way of negotiating to reach an agreement that makes both parties happy. Diplomacy at its finest. And in a way, it’s an interesting art form, it involves language, stance, tone of voice, body language, eye contact: it’s a dance. In Uganda a lot of it involves intimidation; cross your arms, keep your voice steady, step away when you don’t like a price, stare them down. Morocco is similar but seems to involve less intimidation (they aren’t scared of white people here, obviously) and more friendliness. Let them talk for a bit, get to know them, smile, laugh, show interest in their lives and their craft. Get to know the person behind the dirhams. They’ll ask you to sit down, show you the things they made that they are proud of, tell you about everyone they ever met from the states, and how much they like Obama. I suppose this leaves room for concern that they’ll expect a sale or ask for a higher price because you took so much of their time. But surprisingly, I didn’t find this to be the case. In one day in the Fes medina alone, I was offered tea three times, was given a free trinket, walked away from several sales, and got prices I was ok with. Sure they weren’t the lowest prices known to mankind but if I wasn’t comfortable with the price, I wouldn’t have bought it, that’s the point of bartering.
Another thing I realized was conversation makes a great distraction if you need to weasel out of a situation. I was taking pictures of some hanging blankets and the owner came up to me saying he expected a few dirhams for the pictures. As I started explaining I had asked permission from someone else he was so shocked by my French he started asking questions; are you French? American! That’s so good you know French! (I had a lot of shopkeepers actually THANK me for speaking French, some seemed exasperated at all the English speaking Americans walking around) What state are you from? What’s the weather like there? Do you like it here? It’s such a beautiful land, is it not? Why are you here? Are you studying Arabic? How long are you here for? And before you know it, I was walking away, being wished good luck, all my dirhams still safely tucked away. Just one of several similar instances.
Overall: lesson learned, shopkeepers are people too, treat them as such and it could be immensely rewarding, not only for your pocket book but also for having a positive and enriching experience.
First sights and sounds of Casablanca
Slowly sipping a Coca-Cola in a café next to a busy intersection. The clamor of dishes in the background. Cars roll by in the foreground with only a little honking. A covered, protected feeling from the dark, tall valance covering the tables. The evening sun bright and warm on the sides of white cement buildings crowded more closely and helter-skelter than that of Fes. Pedestrians walk by, mostly dressed modern, carrying big colorful shopping sacs. To my right a huddle of three dark heads tuck into a greasy, messy pile of frites and sandwiches washed down with Arabic printed glass Coca-Cola bottles. To my left a man pours a high stream of steaming mint tea from a silver kettle that lands in the small glass below in a waterfall-esque rush of yellow bubbles with a vigorous swirl of green flecks. Pour high. Dump back in kettle. Pour. Dump. Pour. Dump. It’s rhythmic. A few children run by, followed by their father who slaps the waiter on the shoulder and stops for a cheery hello. An older man stops in the doorway and yells something friendly in Arabic and touches his hand to his heart, laughs at the return greeting and walks away smiling. All the noises and rush of a hustling and bustling city, coupled with the Moroccan patience and hospitality has me observing with fascination and curiosity. Maybe a day and half alone won’t be the solitary confinement I was worried it would be. In fact, I might just really like it here.
Journal Excerpt: Rooftop sunset in Fes
Journaling on the rooftop at sunset. I can’t help but smile. The bright orange sun is sinking behind the dark outlines of hilltops in the distance. The air is filled with squawking blackbirds and the streets flow with cars. White rooftops at eyelevel abound with a weed patch of satellite dishes and colorful clothes lines. In the distance the tops of buildings and mosques glow a slight orange with the light of sunset. A solid breeze fills my lungs with fresh air, fills my ears with the rush of wind, fills my shirt with the playful spin of air, fills my hair with fluid life and volume. And now the sun has dipped behind the hill, leaving a glowing afterthought and hint of creeping darkness as the moon grows persistently brighter over my shoulder and the trees begin to blend together in a shadowy monochrome. Amazing and dramatic. There is life here. No dullness or stagnancy; rather a subtle vibrancy as I overlook the city and am reminded that I am somewhere great; that I am in Fes. A place where the thick whitewashed buildings with a random patch of color seems not unlike the modestly flowing fabrics of the women here with the occasionally flashy sandal or painted nails. A place where the intermingling of French and Arabic tongues seems symbolic of the unique position of Maroc; poised somewhere between the African, European, and Middle Eastern worlds. A place where the call to prayer winding its way through the streets and ringing off building walls reminds one of the sacred religiosity that rings in so many hearts here. A place where a single frozen scene of a rough, wrinkled elderly hand being aided by the young and strong seems indicative of all that Morocco has been through over the ages, the hospitality that dominates, the strength that prevails, and the importance of family and respect so culturally ingrained in the society. It is at once both different and marvelous.
And now the sky has darkened and the shadows dominate where light was so shortly ago. The colorful city lights crop up brightly and mystically through random dark patches of trees…
And now the sky has darkened and the shadows dominate where light was so shortly ago. The colorful city lights crop up brightly and mystically through random dark patches of trees…
Spinning between worlds
My thoughts aren’t fully formulated because obviously I haven’t had anywhere near the cultural immersion in Morocco that I had in Uganda, but I have been finding it fascinating what a completely different world it is here compared to Uganda/East Africa. I found it interesting the other day when Jason remarked that this is pretty much as he imagined Africa would be. This is pretty much the exact opposite of the Africa I’ve known, thus far. Uganda has more of a…whimsical feel to it. More dense and lushly tropical. Dirtier. Denser population. More subsistence farming, etc. Even driving out of the city to the rolling crop laden hills feels different, more spacious, organized. Which I think really drives home the point just what an immensely diverse continent it is. And even more so, the huge contrast between the Maghreb and Sub-Saharan Africa. I remember talking to people on the train the first day and they struggled to understand where Uganda was located (“north of Rwanda” helped), and more than one person boasted how much more “modern” Morocco was and how “undeveloped” the rest of Africa was. One girl referred to it as “black Africa” which a bit of a snarl and talked about how many of “them” were coming to Morocco. Interesting stuff that I could go on a lot longer about, but I’m pretty sure no one would continue reading (if anyone is) if this got much longer.
Rabat
Between waking up late and the train taking longer than expected, I only had about 4 hours to wander Rabat. I think I’m still in Uganda mode time-wise because I keep feeling the anxious urge to start heading back around 6pm because Uganda gets pitch dark around 7:30. Yet here, it stays light until around 8:30 and people wander until late. My bad. Regardless, in the short time, I was amazed how much I was able to see and do. I wandered the Nouvelle Ville a bit, stopped for a leisurely lunch of hommus and babeganoush (or how ever the heck you spell it, apologies for the cultural-linguistic insensitivity). Then I breezed through the small and afternoon-ly deserted medina and headed for the Kasbah. I ended up stumbling on the Atlantic ocean (you’d think I would have noticed something like that on the map) and thus headed for the beach to explore for a bit before heading back up to the kasbah, which merited only about a half an hour wander. I wandered through the lush local garden for a bit and headed back to the nouvelle ville for some ice cream, wandered a bit more, and caught the evening train back. And that was Rabat.
Chefchaouen
I love Chefchaouen. But maybe that’s because I got so small a taste, it left me wanting more. Trains aren’t an option and there’s only 2 buses a day. What was supposed to be a 4 hour bus ride turned into 7 hours, which is another story altogether (involving sitting in a 94 degree bus without water for 2 hours, Andalucían piano players, cocaine, and a general test of patience and endurance). I finally arrived around 7pm, found the hotel the travel book had recommended, dropped off my bags, and began to wander in the evening hours. My first thought was that it’s the perfect place for a romantic weekend get-away. It’s tucked away and charming, but bustling enough to not feel completely removed. The tall white buildings throw around the light in the winding, labrynthian, narrow alleyways that glow with all the shadows and shades of blue walls, blue shutters, blue doors…
The main road is lined with shop after shop overflowing with touristy goods which has its pros and cons. The con is that its touristy. The pro is that it’s mostly local artisans who make their wares on cite and are not only super eager to talk with you, but also take pride in showing off their shop and the quality of their goods. It’s a lot more laid back than the big city medinas and doesn’t have the hagglers or the nick-nacky junk you’ll never use. The shop keepers are friendly and patient; one leather sandal maker pulled me into his shop, sat me down, introduced me to all his workers, talked for a good 10-15 minutes, offered me tea, and actually bartered down to a pretty sweet price on a pair of sandals. Which I ultimately declined. You can get pretty good prices here and more variety than some of the city medinas.
Disclaimer: I was thrown off by a kid that walked up to me and said, “hola!” and at first thought maybe just that word had crept into the local tongue. Then a shop keeper gave me a desperately confused look when I approached him in French. Some people speak French here, but about 80% know only Spanish or Arabic. So, if you speak French, good luck bartering. If you speak Spanish, it’s your lucky day.
Around dusk I wandered into the main square to grab a couscous dinner (which was…ehhh) and people watch as the evening call to prayer brought in droves of old men greeting and talking together. I stole a couple shots (just couldn’t resist) and felt like no one cared in the least.
I had to leave early in the morning so I didn’t get much more time to wander, but overall, it’s an extremely quaint (and photogenic) little city perched on the hillside with a huge local presence despite the touristy bits. Kids playing football in the alleys. Old guys talking across shops. Teenagers running to the community water tap. Women hollering across clothes-lines. It’s impeccably clean, well kept up, feels incredibly safe, chill, and encourages you to just breathe, relax, and wander.
The main road is lined with shop after shop overflowing with touristy goods which has its pros and cons. The con is that its touristy. The pro is that it’s mostly local artisans who make their wares on cite and are not only super eager to talk with you, but also take pride in showing off their shop and the quality of their goods. It’s a lot more laid back than the big city medinas and doesn’t have the hagglers or the nick-nacky junk you’ll never use. The shop keepers are friendly and patient; one leather sandal maker pulled me into his shop, sat me down, introduced me to all his workers, talked for a good 10-15 minutes, offered me tea, and actually bartered down to a pretty sweet price on a pair of sandals. Which I ultimately declined. You can get pretty good prices here and more variety than some of the city medinas.
Disclaimer: I was thrown off by a kid that walked up to me and said, “hola!” and at first thought maybe just that word had crept into the local tongue. Then a shop keeper gave me a desperately confused look when I approached him in French. Some people speak French here, but about 80% know only Spanish or Arabic. So, if you speak French, good luck bartering. If you speak Spanish, it’s your lucky day.
Around dusk I wandered into the main square to grab a couscous dinner (which was…ehhh) and people watch as the evening call to prayer brought in droves of old men greeting and talking together. I stole a couple shots (just couldn’t resist) and felt like no one cared in the least.
I had to leave early in the morning so I didn’t get much more time to wander, but overall, it’s an extremely quaint (and photogenic) little city perched on the hillside with a huge local presence despite the touristy bits. Kids playing football in the alleys. Old guys talking across shops. Teenagers running to the community water tap. Women hollering across clothes-lines. It’s impeccably clean, well kept up, feels incredibly safe, chill, and encourages you to just breathe, relax, and wander.
First medina
So I really enjoyed the medina. At first I felt a bit ridiculous just randomly wandering around a place for sheer personal amusement…but then I got over it. I intentionally kept my camera and wallet in my bag. I wanted to just wander and see what I saw without putting on the lenses of looking for things to buy or take pictures of. It was really busy in the morning and you got pulled along with the crowd. To avoid getting lost I started stopping to write down where I turned marked by nearby landmarks (before red dress, after dried fruits) but after a while gave it up. I was also going to attempt the walking tour from the guide book, but upon failing to find even the first turn to the first landmark, gave that up too. But I still saw everything in the tour and more; I had a running commentary in my head as I passed souq after souq (“you can watch the metal workers as they finish platters frequently rented out for weddings”…“ the shaded trees in the henna souq”… “the tanneries make themselves known by scent long before you arrive”). There is EVERYTHING in there. Gorgeous leather work, gold and silver, dried fruits, fresh fruits, candies, spices, rices and beans, henna, pottery, beaded jewelry, fabrics, clothes…seriously, if it’s not in the media, it doesn’t exist. And all stuffed in tiny little shops in narrow little alley ways, each alley a little differently constructed than the last.
The hagglers weren’t too bad, relatively speaking. Sometimes they tried to follow me, but at least they didn’t yell at me and/or grab me. Walking around was sometimes exasperating and I had to remind myself to chill. Moms with little kids going at a snails pace. Teenage girls walking slow in conversation. Old ladies hobbling along and stop randomly right in the middle. Two friends stopping for a handshake and a hello….right in front of you, in the middle of the walkway. I could tell I was still in Uganda mode because my first inclination was to push and shove my way through, but I realized even though the personal space is small, they won’t just brush by people if it requires brusque bodily contact….so I wasn’t sure what to do and ended up waiting a second or two and then shimmying my way past. I got pretty lost in the top end of the medina and after wandering the same area for an hour (which seemed to all be steeply uphill…even when I back tracked) finally gave up and exited through a gate I had found earlier rather than the gate I came in by.
The hagglers weren’t too bad, relatively speaking. Sometimes they tried to follow me, but at least they didn’t yell at me and/or grab me. Walking around was sometimes exasperating and I had to remind myself to chill. Moms with little kids going at a snails pace. Teenage girls walking slow in conversation. Old ladies hobbling along and stop randomly right in the middle. Two friends stopping for a handshake and a hello….right in front of you, in the middle of the walkway. I could tell I was still in Uganda mode because my first inclination was to push and shove my way through, but I realized even though the personal space is small, they won’t just brush by people if it requires brusque bodily contact….so I wasn’t sure what to do and ended up waiting a second or two and then shimmying my way past. I got pretty lost in the top end of the medina and after wandering the same area for an hour (which seemed to all be steeply uphill…even when I back tracked) finally gave up and exited through a gate I had found earlier rather than the gate I came in by.
First medina
So I really enjoyed the medina. At first I felt a bit ridiculous just randomly wandering around a place for sheer personal amusement…but then I got over it. I intentionally kept my camera and wallet in my bag. I wanted to just wander and see what I saw without putting on the lenses of looking for things to buy or take pictures of. It was really busy in the morning and you got pulled along with the crowd. To avoid getting lost I started stopping to write down where I turned marked by nearby landmarks (before red dress, after dried fruits) but after a while gave it up. I was also going to attempt the walking tour from the guide book, but upon failing to find even the first turn to the first landmark, gave that up too. But I still saw everything in the tour and more; I had a running commentary in my head as I passed souq after souq (“you can watch the metal workers as they finish platters frequently rented out for weddings”…“ the shaded trees in the henna souq”… “the tanneries make themselves known by scent long before you arrive”). There is EVERYTHING in there. Gorgeous leather work, gold and silver, dried fruits, fresh fruits, candies, spices, rices and beans, henna, pottery, beaded jewelry, fabrics, clothes…seriously, if it’s not in the media, it doesn’t exist. And all stuffed in tiny little shops in narrow little alley ways, each alley a little differently constructed than the last.
The hagglers weren’t too bad, relatively speaking. Sometimes they tried to follow me, but at least they didn’t yell at me and/or grab me. Walking around was sometimes exasperating and I had to remind myself to chill. Moms with little kids going at a snails pace. Teenage girls walking slow in conversation. Old ladies hobbling along and stop randomly right in the middle. Two friends stopping for a handshake and a hello….right in front of you, in the middle of the walkway. I could tell I was still in Uganda mode because my first inclination was to push and shove my way through, but I realized even though the personal space is small, they won’t just brush by people if it requires brusque bodily contact….so I wasn’t sure what to do and ended up waiting a second or two and then shimmying my way past. I got pretty lost in the top end of the medina and after wandering the same area for an hour (which seemed to all be steeply uphill…even when I back tracked) finally gave up and exited through a gate I had found earlier rather than the gate I came in by.
The hagglers weren’t too bad, relatively speaking. Sometimes they tried to follow me, but at least they didn’t yell at me and/or grab me. Walking around was sometimes exasperating and I had to remind myself to chill. Moms with little kids going at a snails pace. Teenage girls walking slow in conversation. Old ladies hobbling along and stop randomly right in the middle. Two friends stopping for a handshake and a hello….right in front of you, in the middle of the walkway. I could tell I was still in Uganda mode because my first inclination was to push and shove my way through, but I realized even though the personal space is small, they won’t just brush by people if it requires brusque bodily contact….so I wasn’t sure what to do and ended up waiting a second or two and then shimmying my way past. I got pretty lost in the top end of the medina and after wandering the same area for an hour (which seemed to all be steeply uphill…even when I back tracked) finally gave up and exited through a gate I had found earlier rather than the gate I came in by.
Lessons from the Medina
1.) PASS ON THE LEFT! I swear I had to remind myself 20 zillion times in the medina today
2.) Don’t focus so much on spacing out hagglers that you space out everything and almost get trampled by passing mules.
3.) Take allergy medication BEFORE entering medina. Not after.
4.) Memorize all French numbers. Immediately. (for some reason I never learned past 10)
5.) Avoiding walking up and down the same road multiple times; the “guides” will recognize you and approach you more since doubling back makes it look like you are, “lost.”
2.) Don’t focus so much on spacing out hagglers that you space out everything and almost get trampled by passing mules.
3.) Take allergy medication BEFORE entering medina. Not after.
4.) Memorize all French numbers. Immediately. (for some reason I never learned past 10)
5.) Avoiding walking up and down the same road multiple times; the “guides” will recognize you and approach you more since doubling back makes it look like you are, “lost.”
A new way to learn French
Just ride trains in Morocco all day. Seriously. I’m pretty sure I got more practice listening and speaking and actually conversing on a 5 hour train ride than I did in the two weeks I was in France before Uganda.
On my first train, a mother and teenage son in the adjoining car (yep, they were yelling across cars) almost immediately started asking about me and insisted that I move to come sit with them and eat their food with them. I declined and struggled to explain myself, my luggage was so cumbersome, I didn’t want to cramp them, and my stomach wasn’t feeling well (really, it wasn’t) so food probably wasn’t a good idea. I felt bad, I think I insulted them. A girl across the aisle saved me by starting up conversation and when we got off the train, stood and talked with me about her life and views on Muslim women in Morocco for a good half hour and finally parted with a hug and two quick cheek kisses.
The second train had the cars divided into compartments so it was basically me sitting there and talking to different people as they came and went. When I first sat down, I stepped into an intense discussion between a Congolese expat (and former national soccer player) and older female about how lazy the youth in Morocco are. I started nodding along, trying to keep up with the conversation until suddenly he turned to me and goes (in French, of course), “so what do you think? What are the positives and negatives?” Uhhhhh……..I’m am American, and I just got here. So then the conversation turned into how good it is to travel and all the things about culture you can learn, which then turned into a discussion on people’s perception and value of money in different cultures. The second wave of people brought a VERY heated discussion on Americans perception of Muslims and Moroccan sentiments about the war in Iraq (if you haven’t guessed, everyone here thinks Bush was a fool). And the last wave brought a sweet mom and her shy 3 year old daughter who talked with me about EVERYTHING for a good two hours and ended in an insistent invitation to her mother’s house (whom she was visiting) in Fes for a couscous lunch on Friday. And I might just take her up on it.
They told me the Moroccans were hospitable, but this was ridiculous.
On my first train, a mother and teenage son in the adjoining car (yep, they were yelling across cars) almost immediately started asking about me and insisted that I move to come sit with them and eat their food with them. I declined and struggled to explain myself, my luggage was so cumbersome, I didn’t want to cramp them, and my stomach wasn’t feeling well (really, it wasn’t) so food probably wasn’t a good idea. I felt bad, I think I insulted them. A girl across the aisle saved me by starting up conversation and when we got off the train, stood and talked with me about her life and views on Muslim women in Morocco for a good half hour and finally parted with a hug and two quick cheek kisses.
The second train had the cars divided into compartments so it was basically me sitting there and talking to different people as they came and went. When I first sat down, I stepped into an intense discussion between a Congolese expat (and former national soccer player) and older female about how lazy the youth in Morocco are. I started nodding along, trying to keep up with the conversation until suddenly he turned to me and goes (in French, of course), “so what do you think? What are the positives and negatives?” Uhhhhh……..I’m am American, and I just got here. So then the conversation turned into how good it is to travel and all the things about culture you can learn, which then turned into a discussion on people’s perception and value of money in different cultures. The second wave of people brought a VERY heated discussion on Americans perception of Muslims and Moroccan sentiments about the war in Iraq (if you haven’t guessed, everyone here thinks Bush was a fool). And the last wave brought a sweet mom and her shy 3 year old daughter who talked with me about EVERYTHING for a good two hours and ended in an insistent invitation to her mother’s house (whom she was visiting) in Fes for a couscous lunch on Friday. And I might just take her up on it.
They told me the Moroccans were hospitable, but this was ridiculous.
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