Attack of the Blue Vests and Blind Ass Buses

In keeping with my trend of avoiding any and all scholarly discourse in my blog, I'd like to relay a few interesting occurrences from the past few days. I've just finished a lovely and wonderfully normal evening with three adorable Moroccan friends who came to visit me with hookah and cookies in hand. I suppose it put me in the mood to review all the less than normal times.

Attack of the Blue Vests:
Recently, as always, there have been a number of protesters on the main street (Mohammad V), right in front of the Parliament building. The protesters du jour are young college graduates who've been unable to find work and are particularly interested in government jobs. They are easily identified by bright blue Wal-Mart-employee-esque vests with their mantra proudly displayed on all sides. Today, while en route to see an apartment with my friend Mehdi, a flash of blue came pouring down the street as a stampede of the vested disenchanted fled from police backlash. I would have stood, deer in headlights, to see what happened had it not been for Mehdi's urgent insistence that I move quickly in the opposite direction so we wouldn't be beaten. Good call, Mehdi. Thank Allah for the many Moroccan angels that have protected me thus far. Police brutality is not my fave. But it makes for some excitement!

Blind Ass Bus:
I was jabbed in the ass by a blind man. That's right, my tush and his cane made distinct, harsh contact as we attempted to force our way onto a bus two days ago. Have you ever seen these types of buses? Where people are shmushed cheek to cheek (double meaning intended) until no further human cargo could possibly be sardined into the aisles? It's great. I love the buses, seriously, a rare absence of sarcasm here. They're cheap, effective, and a great way to see they city. Plus I get strange looks and make friends whenever possible. But I don't love blind people shoving their canes in the general direction of my buttocks. Bus shmushing or no.


One more anecdote before bedtime...

Laughter, the Universal Language:
The stamps lady at the post office evidently thinks I'm hilarious. Or more to the point, she thinks my arabic is hilarious. Our conversations so far have gone something like this-
She (in French)- What stamps do you want?
Me (in Moroccan Arabic)- 8 to America, please.
She (in French again, despite my display of linguistic prowess)- That'll be 124 dirhams.
I give her a 200 dh bill...
She (in French)- Do you have 4 dirhams?
Me (in Arabic still)- 4? Yes, ok, here... thank you.
She (now finally in Arabic)- WAHAHAHAH!!!! She said 4!!! She said 4!!! hahahahahah!
I'm glad I can bring humor to her little postal counter, anyway. Even at the expense of my dignity and confidence.

Ok, safie, that's it for now. More to come, for sure. Each day is another chapter in the misadventures of Moroccan Rachel. And I'm loving every single moment, from the beautifully average to to the fascinatingly bizarre.