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| Afternoon in December on my street in the neighborhood of L'Océan, Rabat |
I was lucky
enough to take a little over a week off from work to go home and spend
Christmas with my family in the US.
After spending about four months abroad since my last trip home this
summer, I found the cold bite in the air novel and waking up to the dusting of
snow on Christmas morning to be a real treat.
The biggest surprise Christmas morning, however, was receiving a new
laptop. I had been using the same laptop
since the beginning of college and it had really started to show its age.
Between its geriatric speed, my lack of internet access, and a new full-time
job, I had little time or motivation to keep up this blog. With this new
computer, I really have no excuse to not continue writing regularly anymore.
Here’s to hoping I can keep my own promise.
On Christmas Eve, my mom and I took a trip to the local
Whole Foods to pick up some last minute ingredients that we needed for our family’s
Christmas dinner at home. As anticipated, the entire store was a madhouse with
others in the same situation. The chaotic and almost claustrophobic atmosphere
instantly transported me back to my shopping routine in my neighborhood in
Rabat. After experiencing the natural “shock” of returning to American grocery
stores with their long aisles with well-organized products, beautifully
polished produce, and bright fluorescent lights, this experience made me ease
back into my usual shopping routine. I grabbed the shopping list and wove
through baskets, carts, and small children with ease. I aggressively wedged
myself through the crowd and up against the bin of tomatoes, taking a moment to
pick them up one by one and feel for adequate firmness and inspect for
blemishes. This kind of shopping
experience is the one I am now familiar with. I have traded physically
beautiful produce and well-organized shopping marts for the open Moroccan
market, filled with its squawking chickens, aromatic spices, bananas hanging
from cart roofs, and overflowing piles of vegetables spilling out onto the
street. I have my regular vendors who I like to patronize, partially for the
quality of their product, and partially because of the conversation.
In addition, rather than selling their produce in dirhams
(MAD), Morocco’s standard currency that has an exchange rate of approximately
8.5 to 1 USD, the vendors typically say the prices in riyal, a currency that dates back from before Morocco was a French
protectorate (which certainly says something about the history of this
neighborhood). Of course, when asked, the sellers will convert the price to dirhams,
but most locals naturally do the exchange rate in their head. At first, it can
feel very daunting when hearing that a kilo of vegetables will cost you “400
rial”, but there is no need to be alarmed - it is less than 20 dirhams, or
about $2 USD. The exact exchange rate still remains a mystery to me, but that
is part of the ex-pat experience, I suppose.
The area of the city where I live and buy my vegetables is a
lower to middle class residential neighborhood. It is a tight-knit community
where everyone knows everyone else. I constantly witness (and sometimes even
experience myself) the spontaneous crossing of friends, followed by obligatory bises in the middle of the street.
Unlike the more professional/cosmopolitan areas where French is king, the language
used on the street in my neighborhood is Darija.
Usually, when Moroccan shopkeepers see a western-looking foreigner, their first
instinct is to speak French. In my neighborhood, this is not the case. Not only
does Darija reign supreme, but the
socioeconomic bracket of the area would suggest that many of the people I
interact with don’t have even enough education to know any French.
I have become very accustomed to this environment. I can see
the ocean from my kitchen windows. In the summer, when the days are longer, I
enjoy watching the sun set over the Atlantic as I cook dinner. Being at home
made me consider the pro’s and con’s of the differences between the experience
of grocery shopping in the United States versus Morocco. In the United States,
we have long since traded out the small specialty vendors in replace of
convenient supermarkets that sell everything on our shopping list. In Morocco,
while there are small supermarkets that mimic this model, the majority of the
population still adheres to the weekly cycle of the souk, where once a week, typically Saturday mornings, new shipments
of produce, meat, chickens, and fish replenish the outdoor markets. Everyone
has their preferred vendor for every category, and they build relationships
with them. They will ask you about your friends and family. If you haven’t been there in a while they’ll
ask you where you’ve been. When Hurricane Sandy was all over the news, they all
asked me where my family is in the US and if they were safe and well. They take
personal pride in their products and are able to give you suggestions and help
you pick the best ones. They will tell you what is fresh and what you should
wait to buy. The bread vendor with carts piled high with khubz will direct you to the freshest bread. They will say “don’t
take that one, it’s from this morning. Here are the ones baked this
afternoon”. The corner store by my house
can even anticipate what I am going to purchase and even helps remind me that I
forgot something (“no Coca Zero today?”). Sometimes if you are buying a great
deal of things, they will even give you a small discount or throw in a small
item for free.
Of course, there are benefits to each system. By living in
Morocco, I have traded efficiency and order for chaos and value. While every once and a while I wish that I
could just go over to a Stop and Shop or Whole Foods, anonymously get
everything on my list and silently check out, my current situation has
consistently provided me with a loving (and necessary) nudge that helps me
interact with my community on a regular basis.
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