Across A Great Divide (subtitle:Let the Lying Begin)

A few steps up the street from Simo, the only man to purchase your hand-crafted leather belts from as far as I'm concerned, is a long stretch of high wall that holds a large array of striped bed throws or coverlets. A number of vendors claim their portion of wall and with long handled hooks, hang the weavings on nails so that as you pant your way up the Tala'a Sghira or amble on down it, your eye is greeted with this rainbow wall. Nabil has his portion of wall and over the past weeks since my arrival, we have chatted often. He offers me a seat and advice. Advice is plentiful here in Fez and seemingly free. The advice on French grammar and vocabulary is welcome. Some of the other advice is less than welcome. He began a number of weeks ago by asking if I was married and then launching into a litany of qualities that I am supposed to look for in the man who will be my husband. Note: there is to be brooked no question of a husband. It is a fact. Accept it. Shut up. (Now once again, why hasn't anyone informed me about the rules of my own life before? What have all of you people been doing? Leaving me in the dark of ignorance for so long thinking that I was allowed to make my own decisions!)

I was so very happy one day when he began one of our conversations talking about travel. I'm sure that I let out an audible sigh of relief that at last, long last, we were going to talk about something other than marriage. (Who knows, maybe there is an official list of topics that are acceptable for conversation between Moroccans and tourists?) I was busy vigorously nodding my head in complete agreement while he was extolling the virtues of the education that travel provides. He was saying that schooling was of great benefit but that it was travel that gave the best education, the education of life. Yes, yes, hallelujah, amen, wait a minute, what was that last part? ...oh the best education for when I became a mother and my children could benefit from everything that I had learned during my travels....Uh huh. It was then that I looked down and noticed the yawning chasm that stretched between us into the untold depths. I could toss every unmarried female without children in the world into that chasm and it would still never fill up enough for the two of us to be standing on the same ground. He went on to say that he hopes that his children and my children (again with the unquestionable certainty) will be friends one day. I know, you wait here and I'll come back with mine to visit. Just wait right here. Blog after blog, please do not think that I am not pro-marriage or pro-children, procreation LOL, but rather the tone in which all of this is delivered. (I can think of one perfect, sun-glassed baby as I write this.) Nabil is just shy of shaking his finger in my face. Don't we all know how well I react to being told what to do.

The other day my dose of advice was regarding the pricing of goods in shops for tourists and that everyone is trying to cheat me so I'd better bargain. Did I mention that I had naive tattooed across my forehead in Arabic prior to arriving in Maroc? Though my boots may be splattered with medina mud, I have not just arrived from a farm in Outer Hicksville. Perhaps if rather than being generally in a good mood about this trip, I ought to adopt a scowl and find some grey dye to streak into my hair. He then segued into a lecture about the Moroccan male. He informed me that though I seemed nice and all the men that I said "Hello" to or smiled at in response to their greetings every day seemed nice in return, they all saw me and assumed that I was here for sex. Okay, stop everything. Aren't we taking this uncovered hair equals degenerate, hedonistic, woman of ill-repute, easy virtue etc. Western female seeking Bacchanalian diversion assumption a bit too far? Nabil went on to say that he had met the Japanese woman to whom he is affianced towards the end of her trip to Fez and had asked her if she was here for travel or for sex? Hmm, now let's lay aside my indignation and my derisively curling upper lip at being painted with a rather large, all-encompassing stereotype paintbrush for a moment. If I were the type of woman who sat at home and pondered "where could I travel to for a no-strings attached fling?", would I choose a Latin American country with a long stretch of white sandy beach and an Adonis with a six-pack, tan and long locks striding out of the surf? No, obviously not. What would I be thinking? The only obvious answer is a third-world, impoverished country whose holy book forbids sex before marriage and whose police force can and routinely does arrest locals for being in the company of tourists! Obviously. Boy, that naive tattoo sure is accurate. I wonder what the Arabic word is for harlot?

Nabil has said that his wife-to-be arrives in a couple of weeks and that he will introduce us. He expressed his luck and good fortune that his architecture trained future spouse is a traditional woman both in her mind and her heart. Bully for him. Which country do you think that they'll live in?

Though I am happily holding my ground on my side of the chasm, I am going to learn a little bit more French just as Nabil has repeatedly instructed. It is specific French though. The other day while sitting on my, now, habitual seat in the smoothie stall and enjoying a fragmented conversation with Driss and the young man who owns the stall opposite, the young man smiled at me and said in French that my nationality was Moroccan. I asked him to repeat himself in case I was mishearing him. Driss chimed in and said that in the year 2010 I would be Moroccan. I responded with a firm no and that my nationality was Haida. They both took my words in a joking fashion and insisted again. I repeated myself. Interestingly, the lack of a smile on my face did not seem to register nor did my tone of voice. Now to look up the French phraseology for "Not in this lifetime would I give up my Haida nationality for this, albeit interesting, diverting and colourful, culture. Nor in the next lifetime if you happen to believe in that."

So, suffice it say, I am a bit lecture-weary. Whether it be that long long loooong day with P. from France, Nabil or every other person who regularly informs me of what I "must" do while here, these are all moments of time that I cannot rescind. What opens the floodgates is my honest responses to the following questions: "Are you married? Do you have children? Do you speak English?" and also the, bangmyheadagainstthewall, I AM NOT JAPANESE every time (daily) that I am greeted with "Konichiwa". It is time to nip all of this in the bud.

Returning to the subtitle of this post: Let the Lying Begin....I am Japanese. I don't speak English. I am married. My husband is working in Rabat. He is a consultant. He is consulting with the Moroccan government on the fundamental importance and necessity of importing and incorporating Maple Syrup into the daily life of all Moroccans. We have two children. Two boys, two girls, one of each, one and a half girls and half a boy - I haven't decided yet. It might be a floating variable. I am in Fez because my mother-in-law arrived in Rabat to care for our measles/mumps/H1N1 suffering children. As I have not ever had/been inoculated for measles/mumps/H1N1, she thought it best that I take a relaxing holiday in the Imperial City of Fez until everyone was returned to the best of health.

All of you memorize the above paragraph. If anyone asks, stick to the story. If not, you're coming along for the lecture series...

p.s. if I return to Canada and I'm ten months pregnant with triplets, don't be surprised. Repeated drilling into my brain about what I'm here on the planet for might just result in an immaculate conception.