This transition from Morocco to Thailand has been smooth for the most part with an occasional rough tuk tuk ride. But mostly it has been therapeutic. Let’s just say, leaving Morocco has been akin to a bad break-up. And with any bad break-up comes the over sized, over weight, break-up baggage. It wasn’t always easy to see the baggage I was accruing during my two year stint in Ifrane, but after a couple of months in Thailand, it seems I have found the baggage claim and spinning around on the conveyer belt are some slightly damaged goods. I tend to travel light, but for this move from Africa to Asia, I toted one professional briefcase, a social duffle bag, and a personal carry-on. For starters, let’s finger in the combination on that professional briefcase and unpack.
I learned quickly, albeit slightly painfully, that at Al Akhawayn University in Morocco, hierarchy dictates everything. There’s the expected stratification of administration, faculty, and staff and the anticipated, but not so easy to accept prestige of the “old boys club” and the astonished faces as if a woman giving her professional opinion was similar to watching a dog speak. I can’t count the number of times I heard the joking remark “she just needs to get married” while discussing a female student having difficulties in class, and witnessed a bright female colleague of mine get hammered with inane questions as she presented her own research. And while fortunately not all of these hierarchical haps were gender-based, unfortunately I saw foreign colleagues of mine bow their heads, seal their lips, and look away when I was looking for support on a grievance we all shared. And now what does this all amount to in my new working environment? A sometimes overbearing presence when giving my opinion in a meeting (where shockingly everyone’s opinion is not only heard but valued), and an unnecessary dose of questioning and skepticism in an organization that has proven many times to be quite flat and transparent. So, I continue to shuffle through the professional paperwork I lugged with me from Morocco, but am grateful to have received the memo that reminds me of the happier and healthier work environment I now find myself in.
Now, we can unzip that social duffle bag. It wasn’t uncommon to wander through the medina of Fez or Marrakech in search for a traditional woven rug to bring home to mom or the leather slippers Rainbow Bright might have donned had she been Moroccan, and get charged ten or even twenty times the amount a local would pay. This we expected and personally, I often accepted if I was willing to pay that price. This blatant form of trickery (as some tourists would say) or economy (as Moroccans would put it) was so common that I often found myself bartering over a kilo of cherries until I had “successfully” talked the guy down a whopping 80 cents. But that’s just the way things were and well, after two years, I had it deeply ingrained in my head that everyone was out to rip me off. So, of course, by transitive logic, the market men and women of Thailand were out to get me for every last Baht. But I wouldn’t let those smiling faces pull one over on me. Nooo sireee! They had no idea that I had just come from the land of bartering boot camp and knew all the tricks. So, it all started and pretty much ended when I was biking about in search of bananas.
Bananas in Thailand are as common as stray dogs with mange. So as I biked past a dozens of stands, I was looking for the perfectly ripened ones (for me, that means just starting to brown). I pulled over to a small stand manned by a little old Thai lady and asked her in flawless Thai, “These, how much?” She replied, “Ten Baht.” Then, true to my Moroccan training, I gave her a gasp clearly indicating that I know those bananas are 8 Baht and that she’s trying to squeeze a whole 2 Baht (6 cents) outta me, but that I aint no lemon and won’t just pass over the extra cash cause I’m foreign. Then (as also learned in training), I turned on my heal and “showed her” by walking away and going to the next shop. Same thing happened there and eventually I went home with no bananas, only later to be informed by a friend that green bananas are 8 Baht and ripe bananas are 10 Baht. It seems the Thai don’t have quite the same “business sense” as Moroccans. Good for me, but maybe bad for business.
Finally, let’s see what the x-ray detected in my personal carry-on. So, one day I’m leaving the office on my bike when I hear a motor bike slowly approaching form behind. Now, I know some have compared me to Lance Armstrong on the bicycle, but it’s just fact that motorbikes can go faster and pass me. However, this guy was just lingering until he pulled up beside me and dished out my favorite pick up line, “Hello, how are you?” and this is how the conversation ensued…(please not that my personal thoughts are italicized)
Me: Yeah, I know where this is going “Fine.” (rolling my eyes)
Him: “Where you go?”
Me: Uh huh. Just as I suspected. Burmese men are just like Moroccans. Next he’ll be asking where I live. “Home.” (said curtly)
Him: “Where you live?”
Me: Yup…case in point. So, now I’m supposed to offer you a fun night with me in my home. Is that how you see this playing out? “I’m not telling you.” (while giving a mean laugh)
Him: “Oh…sorry. You work for World Education, right?”
Me: Now, this is a new turn??? How does he know this?
Him: I did Wide Horizons Program two year ago.
Me: Oh crap…the program I teach! He’s just like one of my students.
Him: “I just wondering how your classes is going this year.”
Me: Oh my god, I’ve turned into one of those women who thinks that every time a man says hello, it means he just wants to get her in bed. And here he’s just trying to be nice and welcoming and I’ve acted like such a b---- and perpetuated that stereotype of the “cold American woman” and… “What’s your name?” (said as sweetly as I possibly can at this point while sounding sincere)
Him: “George.”
Me: “Nice to meet you George.”
So, morale of the story…I need to abandon the personal defenses I have put up in the battle field of horny Moroccan men looking for visas, and just answer the man politely, “I’m fine…really, I’m going to be just fine.”
