Color! Part 2

While I loved our time in Morocco, it took us a while to develop that love.  In the beginning, we wondered if we were doomed to being miserable for the entire 3 years, given the house we were assigned.

Let me start from the beginning...

In 2008, we lived in Virginia, but were preparing to move to Morocco.  We were very excited about this next adventure, as it would take us to another American Embassy community.  Being active duty military and assigned to an embassy is a pretty sweet way of life.  The embassy community is a group of State Department employees serving in the Foreign Service, all branches of the military, USAID, Peace Corps, among others, all representing the United States and the US mission to Morocco.  With that comes some very nice perks, in most cases:  embassy-provided housing and furniture and, best of all, the benefits of being a US diplomat in a foreign country.

Housing guidelines state that housing is provided based on the service member's job, grade (ie: rank), position held at the embassy, and family size.  Generally speaking, everyone usually gets amazing housing, more than adequate in size, and usually quite nice.  Nicer than what most would be able to afford stateside.  So with much anticipation, where we would live was foremost in our minds as we packed our belongings to ship to Morocco.

Date of arrival is of much consideration as to whether or not the residents can go directly to their assigned housing or spend time in temporary lodging until the residence is occupant ready.  The embassy strives to deliver new employees to their housing upon arrival so that the transition period can begin sooner rather than later.  Thankfully, we were taken straight to our home the day we arrived, after a long flight across the Atlantic and a lengthy layover in Paris.  We were more than ready to begin settling in. 

The weather was quite pleasant on July 1st, compared to what we left in the US southeast.  Warm, but with a pleasant breeze blowing off the Atlantic Ocean, we piled out of the van to enter the garden of our new home.  We were met by our sponsors, who provided a warm welcome and had stocked the pantry with some basic food items and ensured the house was ready for us by having sheets on the beds and towels in the bathrooms.  Thank you again, Dunkelberg family!

From the outside, the house appeared pretty nice!

It was very spacious, with 5 bedrooms, 5 1/2 bathrooms, kitchen, living, dining, common room and a full basement.  The possibilities were endless.....I suppose.  The kitchen was dismal, with the layout not being very user friendly, no dishwasher, and there were NO cabinets for dishes, glasses, utensils (you know, the things we take for granted in the US).  The only storage was a huge closet with sliding doors like a bedroom closet.  Strange......I thought!  Ok, just another hurdle in this foreign land.  I tried to remain positive and upbeat.

So we began life in Rabat, in a less than modern home, in a country where little English is spoken.  Ok...we can do this.  "It could be worse," we told each other. 

The only part of the house that possessed any "Moroccan charm" was the dining room where the ceiling was adorned with ornate stucco designs, very common with Moroccan architecture.

Less than a week after our arrival, my husband's job required him to travel to other parts of the country, leaving the kids and I to fend for ourselves.  Our gracious sponsors took us under their wing, taking us on tours of the city, showing us the kids' school, and introducing us to other families within the embassy community.  There were a few things that needed attention in the house, mainly hookup of the TV so that we had something to do.  (Remember, none of our things have arrived at this time).  Here, another great perk of working at the embassy.  There is a staff of Moroccan repairmen who work at the embassy and come to the house to fix things, or in this case hook up our satellite dish for Armed Forces Network (AFN).  This kind gentleman was quite generous with his time, and was a wealth of information about Rabat and things we should include on our "must do" list.  After some time, he mentioned that he felt bad for our family having been placed in this particular house. 

"Why?" I asked, thinking he was teasing.
"You and your husband seem like very nice people, and I feel you should know this house is known locally as the "maison du fete", or party house."
"Meaning.....?" I questioned, hoping he didn't mean what I thought he meant.
"Meaning women, and other things, were previously brought here for the pleasure of men." he explained.
I thought I would die! 

He finished his work and packed up his tools, but before he left he added, "Please be careful here, and please learn the phone number for the embassy in case you need to call them."

OH. MY. GOSH! was all I could think.  I was quite panicked, immediately locked the door as I bid him au revoir, and proceeded to call my husband to no avail.  He was not reachable.

Ok...deep breath....everything will be alright.....surely we aren't in danger.....after all, the embassy ensures all residences are secure and are deemed safe for the families that occupy them............right?

I calmed down a bit, and decided to watch a little TV with the kids.  After about 30 minutes, the doorbell rang.  I approached the door semi-cautiously.  Plus, it was broad daylight!  We were, however, still expecting other workers from the embassy to come by for other jobs in the house.    Thinking this was who rang, I opened the door.  All embassy employees have badges, even the repairmen that go to the homes.  They are to show their badges to the residents upon arrival so the resident knows they are cleared to enter the premises.

There was a man gazing at me over the top of my gate, smiling a goofy, toothless smile.  I anticipated him showing his badge as I approached the gate to let him in, but instead he proceeded to ask, still with his goofy, toothless smile, "Madame, est-ce que ce la maison du fete?"  (Ma'am, is this the party house?)

Now my French language ability was near non-existent, but I did hear "maison", which means "house" and "fete", which means "party"!  I quickly returned to the front door, hollered "Imshi min houna" which means "get outta here!" in Arabic, slammed the door, bolted it, and immediately called the security office at the embassy to report the incident.  Embassy security was dispatched to the house, but the man was never found.  I was assured that the roving security guards would make extra stops at my house while my husband was away.  Needless to say, I didn't sleep much until my husband returned home.

In hindsight, I could, and still do, laugh at this incident because the day before this happened, I stood in the front yard contemplating what I was going to do to occupy my time in this new environment, this new city with new opportunities.  Would I become involved in volunteer work, or women's groups, get a job at the school, or at the embassy?  I really didn't know what my options were, but I had no idea that those options could also include being the Madame of a brothel!!!!!



Just call me Belle Watling of Morocco!


PS:  As if things in this house couldn't possibly get worse, they did.  I have no other pictures of this abode, and regret that I didn't document with photographs, but I was still adjusting and trying to deal with all the interesting qualities the house possessed, so you'll have to use your imagination!

Stay tuned for Color!  Part 3