normal people

Intimidated by the excess of free time suddenly granted to me, I have been stumbled by exactly what is to be done with this extra time. For the past several years, I have come home from my office, eaten, changed, and sat down to work on my PhD. I worked until well into the evening, then directly went to bed. So now what?
Still clearly addicted to research, I decided to conduct a survey, with the aim of establishing exactly what “normal” people do in the evening.

J, 25, bookseller: I try to go to a gallery once a week, play the piano, sometimes a bit of flute, once a month or so I go to the theatre. Read.

A, 27, CityBoy: go out and get drunk, mate! Fuck man, last Saturday, right, I met this girl in a pub and then we went back to my place and did some drugs, and then like, I fucked her like 10 times, and then in the morning, the bitch said it was like date rape, and I was like, whatever, get the fuck out of my house!

K, 35, secretary: yesterday evening I ironed 7 shirts and cleaned the living room. Normally I watch TV and do chores.

M, 30, Account executive: go to the pub.

HS, 15, student: WIFI makes time fly!

P, 37, Salesman: I go to the gym and then I go over to my mother’s house for dinner. Then I go home and watch Big Brother.

F, 39, manager: go to the pub.

H, 35, Manager: go to karate with the kids, then get Chinese takeaway on the way home.

A, 30, banker: I get home around 2 am and go to sleep. I see my children at the weekend.

A, 27, trader: go down the boozer, go on a date, meet my mates, watch some footy.

T, 45, head of ops: meet up with friends, take salsa lessons.

A, 32: go for walks, go to the cinema, watch TV.


Preliminary results of research: the British working public spends a lot of time drinking and watching television. They are not that into cooking and rarely read books.
Conclusion: I will have to dedicate serious time and effort in reshaping my life if I ever imagine I will fit into this mass. Otherwise, it may just be that I am not normal.

taste of freedom

I began university exactly twelve years ago this month, an excited teenager in a foreign city, looking perhaps more for adventure than intellectual stimulation. Over the past 12 years, I have held a variety of odd jobs, moved flat and country more times than I can remember, and visited libraries around the globe. I have done four degrees in four countries. To be sure, I took some years off in between degrees along the way, but generally with the intention of saving money to continue. Then, yesterday, I went my current university’s student record office, and I handed in my doctoral thesis. I then went home, stared at the four walls around me, and wondered what to do. It was then it all sunk in: for the first time in 12 years I don’t HAVE to come home and do anything! I have worked to support myself throughout my studies, which has meant, especially in recent years, that the studying always got done at night time, after I got back from the office and ate dinner. I tried to imagine what “normal” people do with their time after work. I know what most of my colleagues do: they take cocaine, go to the pub and frequently end up screwing each other in unfortunate places. Or at least so they tell me every Monday morning. But then no one exactly holds up city bankers as role models of constructive use of free time. I am told other people watch TV. There is one in the corner of the flat, but when I walk over to it, I realise I don’t know how to turn it on. So I sit down on the sofa and open a book, a nice, delicious, uninformative novel. What an incredible sense of freedom!

on the Berber trail

Apparently the Berbers are the original inhabitants of North Africa, occupying the region for at least 1000 years before the Arabs began moving West in the 7th century. There is even evidence to suggest they were already in North Africa in the Upper Palaeolithic age. Most converted to Islam when the Arabs moved in alongside of them, but entire villages of Berber Jews remained in the Atlas mountains until the establishment of the state of Israel. The Berber villages that remain in the High Atlas are something to see, and certainly give a new meaning to “upward mobility.” Like the favelas of Rio, they are constructed seemingly on top of each other at the most incredible angles. They are constructed with a variety of materials, but earth appears the most common. When I am taken into the villages to meet the Elders, I feel a bit uncomfortable, as though an incredible show is being put on. Everyone comes out to greet me. The women don’t meet my gaze, and it is only the children I manage to communicate with- they all want to touch my nose ring, attempting to verify if it is really part of my nose or not. It is the start of Ramandan, but in every village they want to serve me mint tea, or Berber bread dipped in Olive oil. I am trapped by a combination of my own thirst, their hospitality, and a sense of guilt at eating in front of people who cannot. They poverty is stunning- there is no electricity and the women labour all day in unlit, tiny kitchens which seem to reach 50 degrees at this time of year. Yet they certainly have some of the best scenery in the world, with nearly every village looking out at deep ravines at winding rivers. The geography is hard to navigate, and I wanted to close my eyes more than a few times as the driver swerved around the winding roads, giving me a stunning view of the cliff side we just might go crashing down. If the children want to go to school, they would often have to navigate these roads, which are often snow covered in winter, for 3-5 kilometres both to and from school. As a result, not all make it. Yet, they are all seemingly capable of greeting me in French and asking me where I am from. The answers get me blank stares, however, and I am left feeling like an alien who descended from his UFO at the wrong stop.

Ramadan

My arrival in Morocco happened to correspond with the beginning of Ramadan, but there was nothing that could be done to change the dates. Of course Ramadan is practiced by many in Europe as well, but things are different here, where it is part of the life of the majority of the population. My Jewish guides decide that, especially at this time of the year, it was important I see how the majority of the people live. So it was decided that we would go to the house of one of the family’s business associates, so I could see what a traditional Muslim house looks like, and see how people break the fast as dusk falls. Although the guys escorting me about are Jews, they grew up fluent in Arabic, and as their community is so tiny, obviously most of their friends and business partners are Muslims. So we went to the house of one such man. M told me it was an “average middle class house” but I struggled to believe him. The neighbourhood was not particularly attractive, although the buildings were solidly built. But inside, the house was lovely, with spacious rooms spread out over two floors. Like most of the places I have seen here, the floor was tile or stone, with carpets placed strategically around the flat. One thing that astonishes me is that when we arrived, the door was not locked. Theft is rare apparently in Morocco, and people seemed shocked that I even noticed such a thing. The smell of delicious food hit me as we entered the flat. I was taken to the kitchen where I could see the women cooking an enormous meal. I was then introduced to all the children, who each wanted to give me a tour of their bedrooms. We then sat down at the table to eat. In such households, the men and the women eat the same food, but separately in different parts of the house. However, as a special guest, it was decided that I would eat with the men. The table was set, with a huge bowl of lentil soup in the middle, and numerous plates of delicious food surrounding it. We sat down and waited for the magic minute to break the fast. Over the radio, we heard the prayers beginning in Rabat, the capital, where the fast breaks about two minutes earlier. Then it was our turn. The minute was upon us, and all the men immediately reached for their glasses of water and began gulping, all of them downing the whole glass in one go. Next we all moved on to the soup, which was delicious. The hospitality here is incredible, and I was expected to try and give my opinion on every dish put in front of me, with the result that after a couple of hours I could barely move. The desserts were the most visually spectacular part, little sugary balls in an assortment of vibrant colours. Each one I tried was lovely, but there is a limit to how many one can digest! The dinner lasted a long time and we sat around the table and talked. I was quizzed about the economic crisis in Britain, and the cost of housing. The father proudly told me about his children’s many accomplishments: one of the girls had just got back from working in Dubai, another was studying medicine. When he heard how many countries I have travelled to, he asked, with a smile if I worked for Mossad. I assured him that I am not even Jewish, but he laughed, exclaiming “but they all say that!” As we left he pointed out that whilst he wore traditional Muslim dress, his children all wore modern, European clothes, and although his wife covered her head, his daughters did not. “We Moroccans are tolerant people, make sure you put that in your report!” he giggled as I got back on M’s motorcycle.