The Travails of CNSS Ctd.

This morning I visited the offices of the CNSS. After waiting 20 minutes I received my social security card. My favorite employee was curt as always.

Now I must return next week to resubmit my request for an attestation.

Scenes From Morocco: Sdader

I recently bought these "sdader" (singular: "sdari"). These traditional Moroccan couches still vastly outnumber Western style couches here. The Moroccan home is the site of many important social events, from weddings to memorial services, and so enough sdader to seat dozens of people line the walls of many families' homes.

The Travails of CNSS, Ctd.

Today I returned to the CNSS office to obtain my Moroccan Social Security card. After waiting 10 or 15 minutes, I entered the room with the two men I had the pleasure of meeting last time.

I sat down in the chair at the desk of the man who told me to return on Monday. I said, "Salaamu Alaykum."

He continued working. A few seconds he turned to me. "Oui," he said as if he was surprised anyone would possibly want to talk with him.

I attempted to hide my strongly-held belief that no normal human being would want to talk with him if he didn't have this job, "You told me my card would be ready on Monday." I handed my carte de sejour (residency card) to him.

He looked at it for a second and then, without looking in any files or searching through any papers or checking my name against anything at all, he replied,"No, it's not ready yet. From now three days."

I will return on Thursday, Insha'allah, to see if it is ready then.

The Travails of CNSS

As is often the case, Morocco sees cause to regulate those who work within its borders. It has a wonderful little organization called the "Caisse Nationale de sécurité sociale" (CNSS) or "National Social Security Fund". Like all those who work here officially, I am required to register, and my paycheck is deducted every month for the benefit of the retired.

Today I had the pleasure of visiting the Meknes CNSS office, located just across the street from the Al-amir Train Station (colloquailly known as "gare sghrir" or "small train station"). My objectives: get a new CNSS card and get an attestation that I have been paying my CNSS dues in order to renew my work visa.

At first things went splendid. The woman in the back office listed all the documents I would need. I returned home, got them, and revisited the labyrinthine offices of the CNSS. The woman was content. She paper-clipped everything together and took it into a second office to gave it to a man who, she assured me, would take care of it. As I walked with her toward the same office (conveniently the same place I needed to visit for my attestation), I thanked her, "Blessings of God be upon you. God preserve you."

After a wait timed to provide me an adequate opportunity to contemplate the meaning of my existence, I was beckoned into the second office. The man behind the next began speaking to me in English. For the next five minutes he regaled me with tales of his English studies at the University a few decades earlier. They had read "Absalom, Absalom". Who was the author? Ah yes, Faulkner. Thank you. You lose the language so quickly when you don't practice it...

"You speak English well, though," I flattered him. When we eventually got around to the business of my attestation he asked for a copy of my ID card. I explained that I had given it to the woman who had given it to the man right over there. I pointed to the man at the next desk over.

"I'll need to see that for a second."

I walked over to the other desk and politely asked for the paper. "He would like to see it." I said pointing back at the other desk.

"Insha'allah," he replied.

He said nothing else. And while I was up another man had filled my much coveted spot across from the other desk. So I waited standing. After a minute, the gruff man with my needed paper told me to leave the office. I got the attention of the man who just minutes before had been personably sharing tales of his studies in English. When I explained the situation, he turned to the other man. I breathed a sigh of relief. The two of them will communicate and sort this out, I thought.

Of course, that's not how things work in Morocco, where power trips, petite obstructionism, and plain old lying rule the roost. My erstwhile friend suddenly backed the line of his curt co-worker. He had been assured the paper could not leave the desk for even a second despite being unused. I needed to leave the office now and come back on Monday.

"But you just needed to look at that piece of paper, right?"

"He can't give it to me until he finishes. That will be on Monday Insha'allah."

Gritting my teeth, I said, "Blessings of God be upon you. May God preserve you." And I left the office.

A New Apartment

After a post-Ramadan holiday, I am settling into a new apartment. I now have a fridge, a stove, and a water heater. And after an awkward first week of eating, I can now dine comfortably off of a plate resting on a table while sitting in a chair. Plates, tables, chairs...the small joys of life!

I'm still missing couches and a television, and the walls are rather bare. There is no washing machine, and it may stay that way. But slowly by slowly it is becoming my home.

This is the first time that I have had my own place. Adjusting to the solitude and responsibility has given me cause for reflection. When a mess builds up in the kitchen or some part of the house begins to stink, I have no one to blame but myself. When I can't find something, it's not because someone else borrowed it or didn't put it back where it belongs. The toothpaste in the sink is mine and the coffee grinds on the floor came from my carelessness.

I begin to establish routines. Every morning after eggs, baguette, and fruit with coffee, I wash the dishes and wipe down the stove and counters. Afterwards, as I sit down at the computer there is a certain satisfaction. I am ready for the day and my kitchen is too.

And in the evening after cooking dinner, I repeat the process, washing up again (if the water is still running). I go to bed with a full stomach in a clean house.

Having efficient appliances is very much an American preoccupation. For instance, I have only ever had a dishwasher in the United States. Each time I have lived abroad I have washed the dishes by hand. It takes more time. It is less efficient. And I am told it is less sanitary. But the routine that it creates gives me a connection with my apartment, with the food, and with the people who share that time with me. Most of the time that trade-off is worth it for me.

In fact, I consider it one of the great things about living abroad. The slower pace allows me to create peaceful, regular routines to order my life. It is not just a mad rush through the day, with the iron rule of efficiency commanding my every action. Life is so much more than completing each day as quickly and efficiently as possible. And here in Morocco I have the leisure to indulge in the in-between.

Scenes From Morocco: Dumpster Diving

A homeless man sorts through trash in an upper class neighborhood

Seen From Above: A Return From Vacation

Seen from thousands of feet above, France, Spain, and Morocco don't look all that different. There are greener patches and more mountainous stretches, particularly in France. And especially south of Madrid and in large parts of Morocco there are barren flatlands. But all have farmland, houses, roads, cities, villages...and so one can't help but wonder at the great variety in human culture from one country to another and one region to another.It's also strange to to ponder the sort of pull Europe exerts. So many desire to live and work and breath on the land north of the Mediterranean.

As I was taking the train from Muhammed V Airport to Casa Voyageurs a well-built young man from Côte d'Ivoire began to talk with me. He thought I was French, so I clarified that I wasn't, going on to tell him, though, what a great vacation I had had there. Just a few minutes later he explained how he wanted to get to Europe, to play soccer professionally, any way possible. He said he hoped some of his contacts in Morocco might know someone who could help him out.

Then today I was sitting in a cafe reading the newspaper when a Moroccan friend a little younger than me sat down next to me. He asked where I had been, why I had absented myself. So once again I launched into an explanation of my great vacation. He replied, "I want to go to France." But, of course, he doesn't mean that he wants to bop into the Louvre to see the "Routes de l'Arabie" special exhibition or visit The Institute of the Arab World library, or go down to the Seine and spend time drinking with friends. He wants to get out of Morocco. He wants to find a real job. He wants another life.