And, You Know, That Too

Road accidents went down by 1.06% in the first quarter of 2009, according to a report from the Moroccan Minister of Transport.

This drop is due to a good "coordination between the different players at the level of implementation and the follow-up of monitoring, communication and education projects," said Ghellab, who was chairing the 51st general assembly of the national commission for the prevention of road accidents (CNPAC).

He went on to cite the modernization of commercial trucks and delivery vehicles, improved road maintenance, and education campaigns as contributing factors.

I might also point out that there was a transit strike, but you know, details.

Road Accidents Down 1% in 2009 Q1, Minister - MAP

It's My Scene and I'm Down With It

Its very rare that a PCV feels in-the-know. Even those of us with TV or internet can’t pretend to understand everything happening in the States; I’m only two days behind on Idol and I still don’t know what a Jonas Brother is. We can only hope to keep up, and to be ahead of the game is unheard of. Or, that is, until today, when the New York Times greeted me thusly:

I got a little bit excited. Sriracha and ginger ale are, with Reeses Cups, DVD sets, and free rides, Things We Get Excited About. People who take trips home usually carry at least a small bottle back with them, because in a land of largely bland and basic foods, spices are everything, and Sriracha is made of every single one. Ginger ale also doesn’t exist, but rather than carry an afternoon’s worth across an ocean, we make our own.

I eagerly clicked through to the recipe, hoping to compare it with the basic one we use and maybe get ideas for a new technique or ingredient to play with. The first step: 4 tsp fresh ginger juice, which can be purchased at “most health food stores and juice bars.” Said the PCV reading over my shoulder, “I’m writing a letter.”

Not only is adding ginger juice to tonic water boring, but the assumption that anyone need track down something as boutique and silly as ginger juice is ridiculous. (It should be noted I now make my own biscotti, hummus, and ginger ale, and generally think that anything that removes 12 steps from a process is against the point, but have you honestly ever heard of ginger juice before this?)

And so, in the spirit of cultural exchange, I give you the PC Morocco Ginger Ale recipe (all credit to MF).

Here’s what you need:
1 ½ L plastic water bottle
½ - ¾ cup sugar
1 – 1 ½ tbsp freshly grated ginger root
juice from ½ lemon
¼ tsp active dry yeast
pure water (let tap water sit uncovered 48 hr to remove chlorine)

Funnel sugar into bottle. Fill with water, leaving 2 in or so at the top. Screw on the cap and shake well until sugar is dissolved. Remove the top and add the ginger, lemon juice, and yeast. Now screw the cap back on – make sure it’s tight.

Let the bottle sit in a warm place 24-48 hours. In colder weather it may take 3-5 days. (Pay attention! The bottle may explode if you aren’t careful.)

The ginger ale is ready when the bottle is firm and no longer ‘gives’ when pressed. The bottom of the bottle may now be convex rather than concave. Stop the fermentation by placing the bottle in the fridge for a day. It can be kept for about a week until you are ready to drink it. Open it slowly (its quite bubbly), and pour it through a sieve or cloth to catch the ginger bits. Extra points if you add a couple springs of mint to your glass.

Best enjoyed with a scrambled egg, onion, and pepper pocket sandwich, heavy on the Sriracha, and the flavored popcorn of your choice. I recommend curry.

Sriracha - NYT
Ginger Ale - NYT

It's Curtains For You!

...and me. < /horrible pun> Made from two re-purposed scarves.

And Then the Bus Caught Fire

Last year the rear wheel came off my taxi. Understand; this is a fluke no matter where you are, and has gotten me plenty of mileage (woka woka!) at PC gatherings. I also thought this was going to be my Big Travel Story, that losing a wheel on a windy mountain road was as good as it was going to get. Please see the title of this post for what comes next.

Earlier this week I was in a bus heading to Tiznit for a meeting. The trip would take about 30-40 minutes, depending upon how many people we dropped off along the way, and I happily sat down and zoned out. About ten minutes or so into the trip I began to smell smoke. I glanced around the cabin – no one seemed to notice anything, or if they did they weren't all that worried.

We pulled over to let someone unload their bags, a few extras piling in as the bus idled. Moving forward, the bus had trouble getting into gear, and a nasty grinding sound came from the engine. The driver shut it down and rebooted, taking a peek at the engine well beside his chair and exchanging a few words with the assistant nearby.

I inspected the bus again – it was by no means new, but I'd certainly seen worse. Most of the interior paint was gone, a few windows cracked. The hard plastic chairs had all been worn smooth, even the graffiti rubbed away. The ceiling panels were thin, faux wood-grained plastic, warped. I thought of the Partridge Family.

About ten minutes later, the smell came back. I ignored it a moment, then glanced up to the front of the bus, which had filled with thick black smoke. Oh dear.

We pulled over and a few people near the door hopped out. No one seemed all that concerned, more annoyed than anything, but realized we wouldn't be moving anytime soon and began to move out to get some fresher air.

The back of the bus (represent!) was last, and by the time we made it near the doors enough smoke had cleared to see the open engine access panel beside the driver, and thus the engine, which was now sporting tiny flames.

My brain then said, "Holy Jehosaphat, the bus is on fire! Move move movemovemovemovemove!"

But the brain of the old man in front of me said, "Huh, fire. An area of my expertise! I should give them advice as to how best to approach this problem and perhaps solve it."

The man listened to his brain, as you do, and began to tell the driver and assistant (who at this point looked like they were ready to jump ship themselves) how they should attack the engine fire before them. It involved sand, I believe. He was also standing in the aisle, blocking access to the exit.

Not wishing to be rude, I tapped his shoulder, hoping he would take the hint or at least let me pass. He ignored me. Thinking fast, I began hopping up and down. My brain was now freaking out, calculating the probable blast radius and how the Bruins really were going to win the Cup now that I was dead. Finally noticing my apparent distress and/or need for the bathroom, he moved aside and I rushed out.

We were in the precise middle of nowhere (helpfully illustrated by the mile-marker beside us) without a single structure in sight. Most people sat down on the hillside, a few others walked up the road hoping to hitch a ride. I squatted beside an anthill, watching a small army dismantle a stray fruit peel as men rushed in and out of the smoky bus. A pickup truck eventually stopped and offered the driver a jug of water.

He doused the engine, the water instantly hitting the pavement beneath. He came out a few moments later to tell people the bus was, indeed, dead. We figured.

About 45 minutes later another bus arrived to shuttle us the rest of the way into town. After my meeting I met up with a few other PCV's for lunch. I completely forgot to tell them about the bus.

Pack Light

Because your bag is going to be full on the return trip.

Travel is often slow, exhausting, stressful, and if you are in a grand taxi reliably cramped. But it does have its benefits.

Maybe They'll Go Away

A few weeks ago I was on a bus when a woman tapped me on the shoulder. She pointed at my pack on the seat beside me, asking if she could sit down. I obliged, taking the bag and offering her the seat. She smiled and disappeared. A few moments later she came back with her bags. Her many large bags. Her many large bags filled with toys and clothing and other luggage and lunch and probably dinner for the next three weeks. I counted seven in all. Two were the size of those jumbo plastic bags you get at Toys R Us when you buy a Play Mo-Bil pirate ship and filled to capacity with other bags and boxes.

She started stuffing her bags beneath her seat and overhead, then handed me a Toys R Us bag to keep on my lap. I sat up a bit and looked around the bus. At least a third of the aisles were completely empty. She finally squeezed in, three bags on her own lap, and gave me a “Hey, what can you do?” smile as the bus started to roll. I tried to helpfully point out the many empty, fully functional seats behind us, but she ignored me, focused on keeping her stack upright. No one said a word.

One of the things you pick up on after coming to Morocco is the lack of personal space. People happily hold conversations inches from one another’s face and lean into and over one another to get points across at the dinner table. Those who live alone are regarded as both unfortunate (they have no one to talk to) and weird (why don’t they want someone to talk to?).

This same mentality follows in modes of transport. Six passengers squashed into a cab is the standard, which means you get to know your neighbors pretty well by the end of the ride.

You could ascribe a lot of this to the cultural significance of family and neighbors, and the focus in schools on conformity and group work. But what about a place where you get to choose your own seat surrounded by strangers?

Imagine you get on a bus. There is someone already on board. Where will you choose to sit? You’ll probably pick a seat that gives the other person a wide berth, but if you’re curious you might stay within earshot in case they pull out a cell phone. This pattern will more or less hold with every new passenger so the bus fills evenly. Now lets do this in Morocco.

Someone is on a bus. The next passenger chooses a seat directly beside or in front of the first passenger. So does the next person, and the next. No one wants to sit alone. Pretty soon one half of the bus is full while the other half is empty (except for the lone tourist or PCV, who is lounging across their very own aisle in their very own wing). It’s one of those bits of culture so ingrained that no one thinks to question it, even when it leads to seven bags and two people sandwiched together on a half-empty bus. If you asked a person from the States, I’m fairly certain they‘ve never given much thought to why they give a few aisles cushion. It’s simply what you do.

About an hour and a half later the woman disembarked. I smiled and said goodbye and set my pack on the seat beside me. I put on my headphones and stared out the window. A few minutes later someone tapped me on the shoulder. I pretended to sleep.

The Thrill of Victory

Happily, the transit unions decided not to hold another strike. Not so happily, the post office picked up their slack.