Things We Leave Behind to Move Forward: Reflections on Two Years Living in Tangier, Morocco

Sometimes the formality of a real blog seems restrictive, so in honor of the fact that Tangier has been restrictive and, likewise, freeing in many ways, let’s go to the list of what I learned, or experienced while living in northern Morocco over the last two school years.
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These are in no particular order; again, these are just ramblings and thoughts based on one expat's life existing in Tangier.

• There is no rhythm to this city, which is both frustrating and fascinating. One would think we would cross the same people at similar times of day, especially on daily walks to and from school, but it doesn’t happen here. Instead, it’s like a Dungeons and Dragons game, rolling for a random encounter. Truthfully, you never know if you’ll pass no one, another person in a hurry, or someone who is eager to take advantage. It’s a weird place for sure.
• The loudspeakers and the mosques, on what seems to be every corner, appear to do battle as to who can be louder during the call to prayer. Every night, every morning, it’s a symphony of cackling speakers, sometimes with very soulful voices, and at others, not much better than a McDonald’s drive-thru.
• I knew of the city’s reputation for artists, musicians, and writers who paid their respects to this place. For the first five months, I didn’t get it, one bit, save that it’s loud, chaotic at times, and downright hostile for an introverted soul looking for a bit of respite after a day spent in the classroom. The hammer of Tangier, though, became a calling card, a means to an end. The only way to find peace was to force myself to write, to go into my head, to new worlds, characters, and situations. Tangier taught me how to write through the chaos, and for that I’m thankful. The writer, the storyteller, returned because it was the only way for me to survive this assignment.
• Tourists suck. I’m sure the locals would say the same when they aren’t bending over to be hospitable to them, hoping for a handout. Really, it’s not just the Spanish tourists who take the ferry across to spend time in their second homes, but the Brits, Americans, and Russians, who find themselves here, and let’s not forget the French, who seem to have a chip on their shoulders. I still can’t unsee the French guy with his arm clutched tightly around his piece of eye candy at six in the morning, making sure that she wasn’t going to run away back to their room without him. Then again, he reminded me of the local men who seem to think it’s perfectly normal to lead their women around by holding on to their necks, like a bloody vice grip. Wish I were joking, but someone needs to instruct these tools on how to treat the opposite sex. No, it doesn’t mean following women around, propositioning them for who knows what, and certainly not dictating their movements with your fingers firmly attached to any parts of the other person’s body. 
• Clothing is questionable. At first, I wanted to make sure I was presentable at all times, a collared shirt and pants, dress shoes too, but all it did was make me a daily target. Throw in a tie, and anyone and their friend thinks I’m the perfect person to help them, give them a handout, or simply cover a bill. I’ve had to wear a coat even in the heat, to hide my semblance of what it means for me to dress like a teacher, simply to avoid the hassle. Then again, my colleagues seem to know better than I, donning sandals, shorts, whatever is comfortable. As for the locals, pajamas seem to be the order of the day. It’s really different than life back in the States. Sure, it gets warm here, but people have no qualms wearing leisure clothes all the time. Personally, I dig the slippers, especially on the women who are completely covered up in their hijabs, while their spouse looks like a slob one would find at Walmart on a Saturday afternoon. 
• Animals are everywhere, and I’m not talking about the people urinating on the side of street buildings at all hours of the day, but the fact that cats appear to rule this city. Yet, they aren’t revered like they are in Turkey, Greece, or Italy. Sure, some people leave out food for the little guys, but then again, it seems to be fairweather as to what’s considered general acceptance. For the number of cats getting a free meal or a cardboard house with water, there are an equal number, in rough shape, fighting to live. I understand it’s survival of the fittest, but having seen even the 180 at my school, from generally allowing staff to feed the cats to now only tolerating one long-term residence, it seems duplictious at best. Now, for dogs, these four-legged friends are treated even worse, still kicked and beaten by many, especially the ridiculous scooter and motorcycle owners who seem to think any sidewalk, street, or alley is their right of way. If I had known the treatment of animals, generally speaking, in Tangier, prior to moving, I’d never have come in the first place.
• Bureaucratic stamping is the norm in this part of the world. I truly don’t understand why. People can have appointments at the clinic for illnesses and pain, but those needing a stamp to be medically cleared to work can simply show up, bypass the lines, and see the same doctors for a visit lasting less than three minutes. It’s that fast for the doctor to take your passport, fill out the form, collect your money, and boom, you have been medically cleared to work. The same goes for every other stop in the process: go to this place to get a stamp, go here for another, wait, rinse and repeat. A colleague recently got into a car accident and needed to get a police report to expedite the insurance claim. Could they simply go and get the necessary paperwork? No, it can’t be that simple, even late at night when things should be slowing down. It didn’t matter to the person on the job who already decided they had filled out enough paperwork for their shift and wanted to spend their last thirty minutes on the job having a joyful conversation with another blowhard. Only on the second trip, after another runaround and people not wanting to do their jobs, with whispers of talking to a supervisor, did anything get done to process this claim. That’s some crap if you ask me. 
• Noise and time. It’s 3 in the afternoon, and for the first time today, I actually hear the sound of a saw outside my apartment window. Why it started at three and not nine in the morning is not worth finding out, because construction in Tangier, much like the rhythm, has no order to follow. The saw noise can go on for five minutes or an hour; one never knows. There can be silence for hours on end, and then at nine at night, it’s time to get started, or in lieu of construction, the traditional drummers decide to lead the charge. My favorite is the Rembrandt Hotel. I believe there’s a special place for all of them when they depart this world, simply because no one wants to take responsibility as to who is in charge and what madness they have planned that day. We will save that story for another day, but let’s just say, having a construction team dismantling your pool at all hours of the night while your guests are trying to sleep is ingenious. Then again, it’s about as smart as saying you have no control over the bar and the music when it’s your bloody hotel. 
• Sheep go anywhere during Eid. I didn’t realize this during my first year living in the city because it was forbidden, but game on for year two, where the residents decided to embrace the tradition, which meant sheep were brought in by the thousands. Some were kept in parking lots, parking garages, inside apartments, or, my favorite, on rooftops without water or food, because that’s humane. 
• Soccer is an obsession. I thought it was more so in other parts of the world, but honestly,  I was wrong. Where else can the people protest the African Cup finish, cry foul, and then months later celebrate with impromptu parades because the title was given to them? I’ve seen students get chippy with each other at other schools, but across grades, it’s no-holds-barred on a daily basis. No one seems to care either, save hey ban them for a week, and maybe they’ll get a clue, but shhh, they really won’t. 
• Tangier Bay is a tease. This is the first place I’ve lived where I have walked the beach but not gone in the water. I can’t tell you why that is, save for the lack of resonance. Only when the wind shifts and the cold air rushes in with a hint of salt does it feel remotely familiar and comforting. Otherwise, the water is a sham, a pretty view to look at and take in, but even the locals are fair-weather about the entire waterway. And the ferry to Spain might as well be five hours, as opposed to one. I can see Spain, but it’s honestly another world away. I didn’t expect it to feel that way, but the prohibitive costs, whether traveling there or staying, continue to rise, and the value isn’t there. 
• Masculine energy is in overload mode. I still can’t put my finger on this pulse, save that either there are just more men in this country, a lot more men, or they are the only ones that frequent the streets when I’m out and about. I’m not a woman, but if I were, the hungry eyes, the wanton glances, and the group mentality are off-putting even to me. I’m sure the tourists get a different feel, safely in their groups, meandering the kasbah and a few other hotspots, but those who live here get a different feeling. If I experience one more guy who tries to walk through my friends or me, or, for that matter, won’t cut to the side, when I clearly have the right of way, we might have trouble. Then again, my cutting remarks and vulgarity have done nothing thus far, because they don’t care. There are no rules; people just do what they want and live with it. Even during Ramadan, it was the same temperaments, but amplified, because many had to pretend they were going clean, when really it was just a countdown until sunset to indulge their vices.
• Crossing the street has been brought up in previous blogs, but it is worth mentioning here, too. The drivers think waving as they swerve around you in the crosswalk is perfectly acceptable. If Frogger were reality, this would be the place. Just be ready for horns, especially if you delay a car from getting behind a ten-car standstill at a traffic stop. No one cares about pedestrians, and the sad thing is that the longer I live here, the less I care about the traffic rules because they are rarely followed to begin with. Three mornings ago at 5 am, I watched one yahoo make circles and spinouts on the main drag just because they could. It didn’t matter about the other drivers, and the police were busy sucking their thumbs. When the one driver crashed into my first apartment building, destroying the entrance, the police didn’t even show up for five hours, and that was only after I got someone to call them. No one cares, that’s what this place is. Someone could have died, and no one would have known the difference. Oh yeah, I’ve seen that too…
• I thought apartment living in Italy was a chore, but here it was different: people came and went at all hours of the night. Banging doors is the norm, not gently shutting them, trying to be aware of neighbors who might be sleeping. Sheesh, having jazz clubs underneath apartments, and not mentioning this until moving in, is another great thing. My favorite memory, though, isn’t the kitchen that had water flooding the floor for weeks on end, my first January in Tangier, and a landlord who didn’t do anything about it, but the neighbors next door who complained about my air conditioning unit being run intermittently from 5 pm to 7 pm for a week in September. I still see the woman with the security guard who actually left his station to get me to turn the air off because it was making too much noise. I explained to the older bitty and her college-age daughter that it wasn’t my unit causing the fuss, but the three other units in close proximity keeping her awake at night, especially since my unit only came on for a few minutes a day in the evening. Is it my fault that your kid’s bedroom is next to all the AC units? Apparently, she felt it was. But that’s the mentality here, rather than looking at and listening to all the units; let’s lash out at the first one that came on. 
• Running here sucks. I thought living near the water would be a godsend, but cobbles, tiles, and cement are the worst combination for my body. From a string of calf strains over the last two years, I learned the importance of indoor activities and of picking my spots to enjoy the water. Note to self: rollerblading flamed out after impaling myself on a meter stick, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take up ice skating again in a colder climate. ​
• This is the first place I have lived that has felt truly transactional, across the board. As a result, I’ve learned to be even more inward, to focus on what works, what doesn’t, and of course what serves. While I know these last two years have been hit-or-miss, both professionally and physically, I’ve learned what I need to do going forward to achieve a better life balance and how I want to treat others.

I’m sure I have more to share, but the point is, Tangier and I were not the best of friends. I sucked it up and amazed myself by staying two full school years. Honestly, I didn’t want to. There were several options waiting for me in Maine. 

I had days, more than I will share, where I was ready to pack things up and head home to the States. Still, in the back of my head, I knew that if I retreated, I would close the door on future international teaching gigs, especially on returning to schools and areas that resonated more with my soul. The heavy lifting was needed, a hardship posting if you will, where I found my writing voice once more, and survived the grind, the wear and tear that was the hammer of Tangier. With my service medal proudly earned, it’s time to close this chapter and start a new one.

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