Sharing cabs

My friend C came back from a trip to Morocco a few weeks ago, sat me down, and bluntly asked: “Emilie, why did you not tell me it was normal to share cabs in Morocco?” I studied abroad in Morocco and am therefore C’s personal de facto expert on the country. Prior to her travels she asked me for advice and insight on where to go and Moroccan culture, which I gladly obliged and then wished her well. Apparently I had declined to mention the common Moroccan practice of sharing cabs with strangers, and she had been very surprised to find herself sitting in a small blue taxi with three Moroccan women on their way to the medina. Her comment prompted me to recall my own baptism to the practice, and for the life of me I could not bring it to mind. The only thing I thought of was how strange it felt to not share cabs upon my return to the United States.

Briefly, a summary of the practice. Cabs in Morocco can fit up to four passengers (more if you squeeze very tightly and bribe the driver a bit). Probability-wise, rarely does anyone ever travel with three other people, so there is almost always at least one open spot in each cab. When hailing a cab, it’s not enough to simply put up a hand and have on pull up for you. You must put up the number of fingers that corresponds to the number of people in your party, and a cab with that number of empty seats will come over and ask your direction. If it’s the same direction as the current passengers, you’re invited to squeeze in and off you go. The cabs are outfitted with fare counters that can handle up to three fares at a time, so you’re guaranteed to be charged a fair fare.

The system works well, and quite frankly, it’s much more logical than the private cab system found in most developed countries. Why drive around with empty seats when there are people trying to get places everywhere? It means fewer cabs on the road and fewer citizens dangerously standing at the side of roads awkwardly waving their hands (and trying to not look like Nazis “heiling” Hitler - does anyone else worry about this?).  

So why are we so surprised (and uncomfortable) when in a cab with strangers? In American (and European) culture, cabs are not necessity, they are a luxury. Urban centers are serviced with public transit systems that are much more reliable than those in Morocco, so cabs are for people going to special destinations, people in a hurry, and people with cash to spare and a desire to cut out the inconveniences associated with buses and trains. In Morocco, cabs are cheap, everywhere, and used by everyone. There wasn’t the same ability to rely on buses and trains to get you to your destination. Cabs are not a luxury, they are just another method of public transportation.

How does this fit into a larger cultural idea? The cab phenomenon is a result of different perceptions of luxury, and also a result of a different sense of privacy and personal space. Because a cab is not a luxury, it is not defined as a private space. In Morocco, where multiple generations live together and where home layouts are built around a common area, private space is not a given, it is a luxury.

The fundamental difference between cultures that the cab phenomenon illuminates is the differing conceptions of luxury and private space. In Morocco, private space is rare and therefore a luxury. Spaces like cabs are for the populace, not considered a luxury, and therefore not considered a private space. In the United States (and Europe), private space is engrained in the culture, considered a basic human right, and is very much prized and expected. Spaces like cabs are for the few, considered a luxury, and therefore considered a private space. 

As sharing services is quickly emerging as a trend that is defining my generation, I wonder if sharing cabs will become a thing as well. In the meantime, I’ll continue to take the subway. 

Day 63: Eid Mubarak!

Eid is a Muslim festival that celebrates the willingness of Abraham to sacrifice his son Ishmael, before God intervened and provided him with a sheep to sacrifice instead. Eid Mubarak is the traditional holiday greeting that translates into “blessed festival.” So with that background behind us, I can continue with my observations. 

In the days leading up to Eid, there are unmistakable signs that the holiday is approaching. Moroccan flags appear everywhere, adoring every government building, every avenue, every intersection, and many private stores and cafes as well. Knife sharpening services become available in the medina, and vendors selling bbq-ing equipment install themselves at every corner. Hay becomes available to purchase at the local grocery store, and my host uncle pops in every few minutes rubbing his hands together with a gleam in his eye and exclaims “Sacré BBQ. On va avoir un sacré BBQ!”

Three days before, two sheep appear outside our front door, cowering in the corner - they know what their future holds. Two days before, the number of sheep doubles to four. Every family (which is defined as a married couple and their children) slaughters their own sheep. My family has three “married units” which means three sheep. Those three plus the neighbors’ makes one hell of a barn yard in the kasbah. The day before, my host aunts spend an hour cutting up enough onions to make even Chuck Norris cry. They then marinate them for 24hrs in a sweet cinnamon, raisin and spice mixture to get them ready for the next days’ couscous tfaya. (That recipe calls for a 1/3 hr marination period. False. It has to be at least an entire day for the tfaya to be cooked the right way.) 

The morning of Eid, I wake up early (9am, oof) and get dressed in my new jalaba (traditional Moroccan dress). Maral and I have a special breakfast of chocolate cake, and just barely miss watching King Mohammed VI sacrifice a lamb on national TV. No matter, by noon the butcher has arrived and we get a front row seat to our own sacrificing. A quick prayer is followed by a smooth cutting of the throat, and blood runs thickly from the sheep across the concrete courtyard to the ocean. My aunts and the neighbor give celebratory yells “Lalalalalalala” and the sheep are dead. Within 20 minutes both sheep (two of the sheep have been moved to other family members’ houses) are dead and dressed, all the blood has been efficiently squeegeed into the ocean, and the BBQ-ing has commenced. 

Maral, ready for breakfast

Eating the sheep is quite a process. First, for lunch, we eat the liver wrapped in fat with spices. We also had a bite of lung each - spongy, not my favorite. The liver and fat is cut into little pieces and put on kebobs and then BBQd. It’s eaten with a big fancy moroccan crudités salad, olives (not for me) and onions.  

Making the kebabs

BBQ

The lunch table

Me and Chuckles

The big couscous meal came the next day, for lunch. Maral and I sat down with the entire family infront of the (second) largest bowl of couscous I’ve ever seen, with the marinated onion mixture, roasted almonds and stewed sheep meat heaped on top. لذيذ بزاف  Wednesday morning I left the house at 4:45 am to begin my 10 day trip to Portugal, Spain and England so I did not get a chance to eat more meat but the celebration laster all week and so the sheep.