He rinsed out the small intestine and put his lips to the tear. With the carcass hanging beside him, he took a deep breath and blew into the organ, I watched the fecal matter and water spin through the digestive tubes like a gumball in a gumball machine, around and around and around. It emptied onto the ground beside a swollen colon and the gall bladder which was a fluorescent dark green. I was in anatomical heaven. A bit perturbed regarding the homemade colonoscopy, I made a quick promise not to eat any intestines today or tomorrow, (that couldn’t be helped, and low and behold! I have raging diarrhea! And I can picture what my intestines are doing, thanks to my informal lesson earlier) I thought there was going to be more of a ceremony before the slaughter, but they simply stated, “Allah akbar,” and slit the throat of the sheep. First off, I imagined more blood and secondly, I know it is one of the more humane ways to die but it is difficult to imagine the nerve synapses fire from the brain and spinal cord and watch as the sheep tries to get up or kick at its slaughterers. And then I think about the meat packing industry in the States and all of those feelings disappear immediately seeing that the sheep lived a full, long and healthy life. Which is another reason why I ate the meat later on, and by meat I mean we ate everything: stomach, liver, kidneys, and shish kebobs with intestine pieces wrapped around meat. We are programmed as evolutionary beings to enjoy and crave salty, sweet and fat and those shish kebobs nailed it. They were delicious and the preparation would have made the FDA shit themselves. I won’t go into details but my head was screaming E. COLI and ripping in two between the typical American Lysol commercial friendly germs will attack all counter surfaces and the other half, which watches 2 years play outside unattended, bathed infrequently, and wash our hands with water (only!) before meals and they are fine. To contradict both points, my family was never germ-freaks and we never once bought Lysol and had numerous conversations about the super germs and their proliferation and mutation brought about by my peers and neighbors because of this commercial and industry pushed fear of the common cold. At the same time, when you ask a family how many children are there replies are usually follow this pattern: There are 4 boys, 3 girls, and 2 died, or something like this. Most families have suffered the loss of a child or two. I do not ask why these children died, not because I do not care, but because I am afraid of the frustration that I would experience if I heard, “It was God’s will,” I experienced this before regarding the death of a teenage boy in the village the first month I came here and had to take a few deep breaths before my reply.
Today is Leid Kabir, a huge Muslim holiday where a sacrificial sheep is killed just as Abraham did a long time ago. This holiday has some similiarities to American holidays: everyone gets new clothes (they are not wrapped in gaudy wasteful paper), everyone eats a lot (you killed a whole ram, that’s a lot of meat), and you visit each other saying the appropriate greetings for this holiday (“Mbruk Leid!” which means pretty much ‘Happy Holiday!’) and women usually get glammed up (for us that means the charcoal eyeliner and henna on our hands). There are no greeting cards sent out in the masses, there is no overzealous spending (as much as I can see in my village, things might be different in a town of 10,000), there are no decorations. Everyone cleans their house and themselves the day beforehand. I recently bought a hot water heater and the whole host family came over to bathe, you should have seen the little one fight to not get a bath! Reminded me of Maddie back in the day…
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Swunfu ("Relax")
We are all going to have different experiences. I forget about that sometimes and am reminded when I come into contact with other PCVs. I recently spent the better part of the week with Titrit in her site. Her village is much larger than mine, and I got easily confused trying to find her house. Since Thursday, October 15th, was Global Handwashing Day, I had text her earlier in the month asking her if we could do a program together in her site and then spend the weekend together. We had talked about a trip to Merzouga and this was supposed to be a great time of year to trek there.
Titrit had set up programs with a few different schools in her site, the association and possibly the Dar Tilibab (youth hostel just for high school girls). The first program we had at her association with preschool age children. There were about twenty and they were adorable. Titrit had worked with her tutor to put together a bit of a talk and explanation for our presence and then followed up with a handwashing scenario with everyone involved. I wanted her to take the reigns, since she had been practicing the language and I wanted people to recognize and give credit to her. I was just there to help things along, explain when needed, take pictures and help. We hadn’t even started when we got the first tears. One little boy, looking at us, burst into full-blown tears. And like a domino effect, one by one starting crying. There were about five kids crying at this one table. We hadn’t even said anything. The tutor, who had come along, explained to us that the kids thought we were going to give them shots. That our bag of “microbats” (microbs/germs) actually vials of glitter, were actually needles. Poor things. After settling them down, Titrit got into her truest form, the thespian, (she went to school originally for acting) and put a small amount of Vaseline and glitter on her hands. She then went around and shook hands with each of the kids, distributing the glitter amongst all of their cute little hands. They loved it! Everyone loves glitter and watching Titrit was a lot of fun. She is incredibly animated and funny. We all washed our hands with soap and got rid of the “germs”. We did this another 10 times for other classrooms and around 60 high-school age girls at the Dar Tilibab that day and the following morning. By the time we had talked to the 5th classroom or so, Titrit had it down to an art!
We left that afternoon for the next largest town, Tingrir, to get transportation to Errachidia. Titrit had made a friend about a month ago and he had invited us to stay with his family and then the three of us would travel to Merzouga. We were on the souq bus headed to Errachidia when Titrit gets a text message saying that her friend, Ali, was on his way in his dad’s car to pick us up. We got off the bus just in time and waited about an hour for Ali to get there. He was with his older brother and his wife. They were all Arab and only knew a few words in our Berber language. Luckily, most of the family spoke some English. Like in most, if not all Moroccan families, we were greeted like long lost friends and exteneded the warmest of welcomes. The family consisted of a short, portly mom, a tall limber dad, 4 sons and 3 daughters. Two of the children were married and had their own houses, 3 were still in school, one was a doctor and Ali worked as a guide for tourists. There house was finished and tiled, there was lots of furniture and decorated, very different from typical Berber houses that I encounter in the bled. The three of us took off to go to the hammam, once again, I implore you, when you come to visit me, you have to go to the hammam. It was clean and hot and empty. Titrit and I had it to ourselves, unfortunately, it was late and we were a bit rushed.
Titrit always the best unusual and awkward encounters at the hammam. One of the ladies who worked there came in, asked us if we wanted our backs scrubbed, (sometimes there is a fee involved). We replied that we were fine and could take care of things. The woman then bent down and squatted in front of Titrit, I think she might have asked her another question or two but she sat there on her haunches for a good 5 minutes, not saying anything and just watching Titrit. Titrit asked me if I knew what was going on, of course, I didn’t and just was giggling to myself. This has happened each time we have gone to the hammam together. She has a few choice piercings that usually get attention, but this time there was no mention about them, just staring. Haha! Love it.
Next morning we got up and got started, we had to stop by one of the sister’s house to say hello to her and family. She had married a berber man from the Azilal province and so we could communicate some with him. Let me take a second now to talk about race relations here in the good country of Morocco. There is a hierarchy here that was a shock to me when I first came. Reading a book now called, Lords of the Atlas, The Rise and Fall of the House of Glaoua 1893-1956 by Gavin Maxwell has provided much needed insight and history into Moroccan customs, ways of life and things that my language has prevented me from asking. I understood that Berbers do not care for Arabs (generalization). I understood that the Arabs came into Morocco around the seventh century and brought Islam with them. The Arabs were powerful and imposed their religion on the people here. Different tribes conquered different areas of Morocco. These tribes enacted taxes and tariffs from the people living on the land. Berbers were strictly monogamous, women held positions of power, their clothing was different, exposing their arms and legs, they would elaborately braid their hair and put henna or a mix of spices in it. They wore jewelry their tribe made and had beautification tattoos on their chins, foreheads and wrists. They had their own system of laws and policies. When the Arabs or French came in to conquer these people, they fought fiercely and with guerrilla-like tactics, sneaking into their camps at night and stealing weapons from them. It wasn’t until later, that the Caids or khalifas had amassed huge armies to show their strength and might that some of the tribes adhered to their demands. Some of these demands were gifts of crops, money, and daughters. These girls were either added to the caid’s harems or given as gifts to other men in their family or intimate circle. It was later, after these men with their money, huge Kasbahs, harems consisting of 30 or so women that Berbers started resemble them and want the same things. Then they started to take on multiple wives. I see Berbers now who follow and adhere closer to Muslim law than most Arabs. Berber women are more conservative than their Arab counterparts. A hundred years ago this was not true. I suggest you read the book and others like it to truly understand Morocco’s complicated past.
After visiting for a little, Ali’s sister and husband decided that they wanted to come along with us. Why not? They had the weekend free and they would take the toddler with them. So now we had a full car. Ali, his sister, her husband and child, Titrit and myself all crammed into a car that resembles a Geo but made by Renault. We take off from Errachidia headed for Merzouga, slightly south and east, a solid 2 ½ hour drive. We stopped in a small town for lunch. This area of Morocco is infamous for a speciality dish that resembles our “fat bread” but has much more meat. Fat bread is a common dish here that has the shape of a pizza but in the middle is spices and pieces of fat from usually sheep or goat, it is mighty tasty! This bread was similar except it was full of pieces of meat, whether it was sheep or goat, I couldn’t discern it and Ali’s sister told me there were 44 different spices in it. I couldn’t taste distinctly any of them. It was a fine meal but for poor Titrit, who does not eat red meat, she reluctantly picked through it. There has been a bit of a communication problem between her, Ali and the family. They praised me for eating the meat from cous cous the night before and just couldn’t understand that Titrit does not eat red meat. She doesn’t like it. She hasn’t ate red meat for the past 14 years and doesn’t plan to start anytime either. When we were deciding on what to eat for lunch, Ali had asked if we wanted a tajine, but was concerned because Titrit wouldn’t eat the meat. She explained to him that she would eat the vegetables and sauce that comes with it. Somehow we still ended up with meat bread pizza. Ah, such is life of different cultures and communications.
We were joined by more of Ali’s family for lunch: his brother, the brother’s wife and another sister. So now there was a total of 8 of us and 1 half person. We arranged transportation to Merzouga and the rest of the family, including the new additions, clammered into the Geo. We met at a hotel on the outskirts of the desert there. It was beautifully decorated. We barely had enough time to use the bathroom and get reacquainted with the family when Ali was beckoning us over to the camels. They were sitting down, their legs tucked underneath them. They are huge beasts. They have huge eyes and long eyelashes. Their fur is neither soft like a well-groomed horse nor coarse like a goat’s. More like a mixture. Their hooves were probably my favorite and to come across their footprints later on in mud, they resemble dinosaur tracks. I was waiting for a camel to spit at me or try to bite me, having remembered their notorious unpleasant disposition towards their riders. Our camels did neither, but instead seemed to be suffering from a bout of indigestion and kept burbing up their lunch and making tremendous gurgling sounds from the depths of their stomachs. I couldn’t wait to get started!
Because we had wanted to go and spend the night out in the desert, we had to get started ASAP because it was getting to be about dusk and we had 9 k to go to get to the oasis. In all honesty, I didn’t need anything in my bag except a few things like my toothbrush and maybe my camera. We were a caravan of silliness. The three of us, perched atop our camels, leashed together from ass to mouth, with our guide, Omar, leading in the front, on foot. We sat on top of saddles that could have made even the fattest of women wince in pain, they were uncomfortable to say the least. We traveled up and down the sand dunes, sliding forward and back, the camel lurching as it finds its step in the shifting sand. I was surprised at how green the area was. In the lower areas there were some shrubbery and grasses. It ruined my expectation of sandy desolation and I was a bit disappointed. We shared the area with dirtbikes and ATVs, which disturbed our camels when they buzzed too close. The flies covered our beasts and ourselves, hopping along for a free ride. The stars came out quickly in the black night, we had chosen a weekend with no moon. I could only imagine what the desert looked like lit up in the middle of the night.
We finally got to our oasis. There were a few flashlights wandering about and we could hear a multiude of different languages. We got off our camels and trudged through the poop-riddled sand to our tents. They were of basic design and the various guides kept them all the same, a few blankets and thin mats. We lit a candle and opened a bottle of wine. Ali and Omar, our guide, spoke to each other in Darija, while Titrit and I complained back and forth about our camels. She had the good mind to put in her Ipod and experience the desert that way, while I had quietly daydreamed. We ate another delicious meal of meat pizza bread (poor Titrit!) and finished off another bottle of wine. Soon enough, we retired to bed. I decided to sleep outside, my usual preference, under the stars.
I awakened in the middle of the night to someone rubbing my back. It was an odd sensation and I groggily awoke, expecting Titrit to be kneeling next to me. It was not. It was our guide, Omar, telling me that it was getting cold and to get inside the tent. I sat up and he started collecting my bed things, the mattress and blanket. I followed him not into Ali and Titrit’s tent but into his small tent. He set up my things and I laid down. At this point I was confused and more awake. Omar then tried to hug me. “What are you doing?!” my immediate response was. He said that it was ok and I rolled over, wanting to relinquish myself back into my heavy sleep and vivid dreams. Then I felt something on the back of my head, did he just try to kiss me? Ew, gross. “Omar, you have a wife and a baby, stop,” I mumbled to him. I did not feel threatened or in danger, just annoyed. He replied that it was not a problem, great, so this is a usual habit of his on these treks. Out of nowhere I hear a voice, “Hanna! Hanna! Where are youuuuu?” It was Ali, coming to rescue me, my hero! “I’m here Omar, hold on,” and I scrambled out of Omar’s tent. “What are you doing Hanna? I am responsible for you,” He went and grabbed my blanket and we walked back up into our tent, I laid down and told Ali how thankful I was for him right then. “I am responsible for you,” was all he replied.
Sidenote: All PCVs I dare say, have seen this in their respective towns, souk towns or bigger cities. Foreign women with Moroccan men, either they be guides or not, with the men lavishing their affections and holding hands and sometimes, in line to get papers for marriage. Often times these women are miskin (berber for unfortunate or poor thing), these women are frumpy with dyed hair and lipliner. The men are half their age and beautiful. A settlement is reached, she finds some love and attention and he gets access to her money and possibly citizenship abroad. It works out. So for Omar to come onto me, like some of his patrons might have had to him, is not unusual. Possibly he read my inquiries into his life at the edge of the desert as interest, but trust me, I had no interest besides understanding his culture and way of life. I pay homage to all the foreign women out there who have paved the way for me and other female PCVs as being seen as desperate and lonely. Thanks a lot.
The next day I told Ali and Titrit about my nightscapades and they were a bit appalled and felt bad. I thought it was funny and once again thanked Ali for interrupting. I forsee the future of that night warding off Omar’s advances until finally getting up to leave for the other tent. Ali just cut out that uncomfortable time inbetween. Ali had asked Omar on the way home what had happened and Omar gave Ali a completely different story. Omar said that I had gotten up in the middle of the night complaining that it was cold and if I could please come and sleep in his tent. HA! Oh how our memory confuses us…
We woke up early to watch the sun rise on the border of Algeria and Morocco. It was not spectatcular but had its fair share of purples and reds. I climbed back on my camel like a novice cyclist mounts her bike on the second day of a 100k journey. I wish I had some painkillers, maybe some of the green stuff, maybe a bottle of gin. Anything to keep my mind off Carl. (For those of you who don’t know, Carl is my nickname for my upstairs, ref. story “Upstairs”). We headed out early and arrived back in Merzouga around 9am or so. After showering and breakfast, we hailed a taxi back into Errachidia. It was Sunday and Titrit had made arrangements for us to stay with her friend, Lahu, a shop owner in Tinghrir, that evening seeing as it was too late for us to get a transit back to her site.
Once again the lines of communication seem to be lost in different languages and cultures. Once we got back into Errachidia we let Ali know that Titrit and I wanted to go costume shopping for Halloween. We wanted to go to the souq area and house around. He wanted us to first meet up with a friend to grab some coffee. He made a phone call, and about 5 minutes later his friend shows up in a car, and as we are getting in I say to Titrit, “Hey, do you think that’s a prostitute?” pointing out a woman walking towards us wearing a tight, shiny jellaba with heavy makeup and high heels. Then she got into the front seat. I got a better look. She had on bright red lipstick and a thin line of an excuse for eyebrows. She had on lots of face makeup and a bright smile. Titrit and I sat back in stunned silence as we pulled away from the curb. We then made another stop for Ali to pick up some of the stuff that Morocco is known for, hash. We had no idea until he returned into the car with a small brown brick of the stuff in his hand. Awesome. We are riding around Errachidia with a prostitute in the front seat and had just stopped to make a drug deal. We were not in a professional setting where we would talk to the woman in front about the dangers of STIs and the importance of condoms, nor were we going to talk to Ali about his hash use. We were just uncomfortably there along for the ride. As we headed out along a main road the car suddenly cut off. The electronics of the car just died down and the car was slowing down. We were headed out to a gas station/coffee shop/tourist trap in the middle of nowhere. I told Titrit I hoped the car died. She looked it me in complete confusion and shock. I told her, “Just think how funny this is going to be later on, hitching a ride in the middle of nowhere, two PCVs who speak Berber with a prostitute and your hashed up friends, it’s going to be SO funny,” She did not find the humor. I secretly wish the car would die. What the hell would we do? Just then the car started up and we resumed speed. Maybe next time.
At the gas station/coffee shop/tourist trap (this is where Ali goes sometimes to find work, he is a guide,) Titrit was clearly upset with the situation and went off by herself. I talk to the prostitute and answered her questions, which are the same ones everyone else asks us. She told us she was a prostitute (duh!) and I should have dived right then and there into a health lesson but wanted to go talk to Titrit about our predicament. Luckily we sorted things out quickly and was back on the road. Titrit then explained again to Ali that we wanted to go to souk and shop around. He said that was fine, but first we needed to stop at home. We did not want another family visit, we were ready to go and do our own thing. Before we knew it we had pulled up at his house. So much for our desires.
Titrit had set up programs with a few different schools in her site, the association and possibly the Dar Tilibab (youth hostel just for high school girls). The first program we had at her association with preschool age children. There were about twenty and they were adorable. Titrit had worked with her tutor to put together a bit of a talk and explanation for our presence and then followed up with a handwashing scenario with everyone involved. I wanted her to take the reigns, since she had been practicing the language and I wanted people to recognize and give credit to her. I was just there to help things along, explain when needed, take pictures and help. We hadn’t even started when we got the first tears. One little boy, looking at us, burst into full-blown tears. And like a domino effect, one by one starting crying. There were about five kids crying at this one table. We hadn’t even said anything. The tutor, who had come along, explained to us that the kids thought we were going to give them shots. That our bag of “microbats” (microbs/germs) actually vials of glitter, were actually needles. Poor things. After settling them down, Titrit got into her truest form, the thespian, (she went to school originally for acting) and put a small amount of Vaseline and glitter on her hands. She then went around and shook hands with each of the kids, distributing the glitter amongst all of their cute little hands. They loved it! Everyone loves glitter and watching Titrit was a lot of fun. She is incredibly animated and funny. We all washed our hands with soap and got rid of the “germs”. We did this another 10 times for other classrooms and around 60 high-school age girls at the Dar Tilibab that day and the following morning. By the time we had talked to the 5th classroom or so, Titrit had it down to an art!
We left that afternoon for the next largest town, Tingrir, to get transportation to Errachidia. Titrit had made a friend about a month ago and he had invited us to stay with his family and then the three of us would travel to Merzouga. We were on the souq bus headed to Errachidia when Titrit gets a text message saying that her friend, Ali, was on his way in his dad’s car to pick us up. We got off the bus just in time and waited about an hour for Ali to get there. He was with his older brother and his wife. They were all Arab and only knew a few words in our Berber language. Luckily, most of the family spoke some English. Like in most, if not all Moroccan families, we were greeted like long lost friends and exteneded the warmest of welcomes. The family consisted of a short, portly mom, a tall limber dad, 4 sons and 3 daughters. Two of the children were married and had their own houses, 3 were still in school, one was a doctor and Ali worked as a guide for tourists. There house was finished and tiled, there was lots of furniture and decorated, very different from typical Berber houses that I encounter in the bled. The three of us took off to go to the hammam, once again, I implore you, when you come to visit me, you have to go to the hammam. It was clean and hot and empty. Titrit and I had it to ourselves, unfortunately, it was late and we were a bit rushed.
Titrit always the best unusual and awkward encounters at the hammam. One of the ladies who worked there came in, asked us if we wanted our backs scrubbed, (sometimes there is a fee involved). We replied that we were fine and could take care of things. The woman then bent down and squatted in front of Titrit, I think she might have asked her another question or two but she sat there on her haunches for a good 5 minutes, not saying anything and just watching Titrit. Titrit asked me if I knew what was going on, of course, I didn’t and just was giggling to myself. This has happened each time we have gone to the hammam together. She has a few choice piercings that usually get attention, but this time there was no mention about them, just staring. Haha! Love it.
Next morning we got up and got started, we had to stop by one of the sister’s house to say hello to her and family. She had married a berber man from the Azilal province and so we could communicate some with him. Let me take a second now to talk about race relations here in the good country of Morocco. There is a hierarchy here that was a shock to me when I first came. Reading a book now called, Lords of the Atlas, The Rise and Fall of the House of Glaoua 1893-1956 by Gavin Maxwell has provided much needed insight and history into Moroccan customs, ways of life and things that my language has prevented me from asking. I understood that Berbers do not care for Arabs (generalization). I understood that the Arabs came into Morocco around the seventh century and brought Islam with them. The Arabs were powerful and imposed their religion on the people here. Different tribes conquered different areas of Morocco. These tribes enacted taxes and tariffs from the people living on the land. Berbers were strictly monogamous, women held positions of power, their clothing was different, exposing their arms and legs, they would elaborately braid their hair and put henna or a mix of spices in it. They wore jewelry their tribe made and had beautification tattoos on their chins, foreheads and wrists. They had their own system of laws and policies. When the Arabs or French came in to conquer these people, they fought fiercely and with guerrilla-like tactics, sneaking into their camps at night and stealing weapons from them. It wasn’t until later, that the Caids or khalifas had amassed huge armies to show their strength and might that some of the tribes adhered to their demands. Some of these demands were gifts of crops, money, and daughters. These girls were either added to the caid’s harems or given as gifts to other men in their family or intimate circle. It was later, after these men with their money, huge Kasbahs, harems consisting of 30 or so women that Berbers started resemble them and want the same things. Then they started to take on multiple wives. I see Berbers now who follow and adhere closer to Muslim law than most Arabs. Berber women are more conservative than their Arab counterparts. A hundred years ago this was not true. I suggest you read the book and others like it to truly understand Morocco’s complicated past.
After visiting for a little, Ali’s sister and husband decided that they wanted to come along with us. Why not? They had the weekend free and they would take the toddler with them. So now we had a full car. Ali, his sister, her husband and child, Titrit and myself all crammed into a car that resembles a Geo but made by Renault. We take off from Errachidia headed for Merzouga, slightly south and east, a solid 2 ½ hour drive. We stopped in a small town for lunch. This area of Morocco is infamous for a speciality dish that resembles our “fat bread” but has much more meat. Fat bread is a common dish here that has the shape of a pizza but in the middle is spices and pieces of fat from usually sheep or goat, it is mighty tasty! This bread was similar except it was full of pieces of meat, whether it was sheep or goat, I couldn’t discern it and Ali’s sister told me there were 44 different spices in it. I couldn’t taste distinctly any of them. It was a fine meal but for poor Titrit, who does not eat red meat, she reluctantly picked through it. There has been a bit of a communication problem between her, Ali and the family. They praised me for eating the meat from cous cous the night before and just couldn’t understand that Titrit does not eat red meat. She doesn’t like it. She hasn’t ate red meat for the past 14 years and doesn’t plan to start anytime either. When we were deciding on what to eat for lunch, Ali had asked if we wanted a tajine, but was concerned because Titrit wouldn’t eat the meat. She explained to him that she would eat the vegetables and sauce that comes with it. Somehow we still ended up with meat bread pizza. Ah, such is life of different cultures and communications.
We were joined by more of Ali’s family for lunch: his brother, the brother’s wife and another sister. So now there was a total of 8 of us and 1 half person. We arranged transportation to Merzouga and the rest of the family, including the new additions, clammered into the Geo. We met at a hotel on the outskirts of the desert there. It was beautifully decorated. We barely had enough time to use the bathroom and get reacquainted with the family when Ali was beckoning us over to the camels. They were sitting down, their legs tucked underneath them. They are huge beasts. They have huge eyes and long eyelashes. Their fur is neither soft like a well-groomed horse nor coarse like a goat’s. More like a mixture. Their hooves were probably my favorite and to come across their footprints later on in mud, they resemble dinosaur tracks. I was waiting for a camel to spit at me or try to bite me, having remembered their notorious unpleasant disposition towards their riders. Our camels did neither, but instead seemed to be suffering from a bout of indigestion and kept burbing up their lunch and making tremendous gurgling sounds from the depths of their stomachs. I couldn’t wait to get started!
Because we had wanted to go and spend the night out in the desert, we had to get started ASAP because it was getting to be about dusk and we had 9 k to go to get to the oasis. In all honesty, I didn’t need anything in my bag except a few things like my toothbrush and maybe my camera. We were a caravan of silliness. The three of us, perched atop our camels, leashed together from ass to mouth, with our guide, Omar, leading in the front, on foot. We sat on top of saddles that could have made even the fattest of women wince in pain, they were uncomfortable to say the least. We traveled up and down the sand dunes, sliding forward and back, the camel lurching as it finds its step in the shifting sand. I was surprised at how green the area was. In the lower areas there were some shrubbery and grasses. It ruined my expectation of sandy desolation and I was a bit disappointed. We shared the area with dirtbikes and ATVs, which disturbed our camels when they buzzed too close. The flies covered our beasts and ourselves, hopping along for a free ride. The stars came out quickly in the black night, we had chosen a weekend with no moon. I could only imagine what the desert looked like lit up in the middle of the night.
We finally got to our oasis. There were a few flashlights wandering about and we could hear a multiude of different languages. We got off our camels and trudged through the poop-riddled sand to our tents. They were of basic design and the various guides kept them all the same, a few blankets and thin mats. We lit a candle and opened a bottle of wine. Ali and Omar, our guide, spoke to each other in Darija, while Titrit and I complained back and forth about our camels. She had the good mind to put in her Ipod and experience the desert that way, while I had quietly daydreamed. We ate another delicious meal of meat pizza bread (poor Titrit!) and finished off another bottle of wine. Soon enough, we retired to bed. I decided to sleep outside, my usual preference, under the stars.
I awakened in the middle of the night to someone rubbing my back. It was an odd sensation and I groggily awoke, expecting Titrit to be kneeling next to me. It was not. It was our guide, Omar, telling me that it was getting cold and to get inside the tent. I sat up and he started collecting my bed things, the mattress and blanket. I followed him not into Ali and Titrit’s tent but into his small tent. He set up my things and I laid down. At this point I was confused and more awake. Omar then tried to hug me. “What are you doing?!” my immediate response was. He said that it was ok and I rolled over, wanting to relinquish myself back into my heavy sleep and vivid dreams. Then I felt something on the back of my head, did he just try to kiss me? Ew, gross. “Omar, you have a wife and a baby, stop,” I mumbled to him. I did not feel threatened or in danger, just annoyed. He replied that it was not a problem, great, so this is a usual habit of his on these treks. Out of nowhere I hear a voice, “Hanna! Hanna! Where are youuuuu?” It was Ali, coming to rescue me, my hero! “I’m here Omar, hold on,” and I scrambled out of Omar’s tent. “What are you doing Hanna? I am responsible for you,” He went and grabbed my blanket and we walked back up into our tent, I laid down and told Ali how thankful I was for him right then. “I am responsible for you,” was all he replied.
Sidenote: All PCVs I dare say, have seen this in their respective towns, souk towns or bigger cities. Foreign women with Moroccan men, either they be guides or not, with the men lavishing their affections and holding hands and sometimes, in line to get papers for marriage. Often times these women are miskin (berber for unfortunate or poor thing), these women are frumpy with dyed hair and lipliner. The men are half their age and beautiful. A settlement is reached, she finds some love and attention and he gets access to her money and possibly citizenship abroad. It works out. So for Omar to come onto me, like some of his patrons might have had to him, is not unusual. Possibly he read my inquiries into his life at the edge of the desert as interest, but trust me, I had no interest besides understanding his culture and way of life. I pay homage to all the foreign women out there who have paved the way for me and other female PCVs as being seen as desperate and lonely. Thanks a lot.
The next day I told Ali and Titrit about my nightscapades and they were a bit appalled and felt bad. I thought it was funny and once again thanked Ali for interrupting. I forsee the future of that night warding off Omar’s advances until finally getting up to leave for the other tent. Ali just cut out that uncomfortable time inbetween. Ali had asked Omar on the way home what had happened and Omar gave Ali a completely different story. Omar said that I had gotten up in the middle of the night complaining that it was cold and if I could please come and sleep in his tent. HA! Oh how our memory confuses us…
We woke up early to watch the sun rise on the border of Algeria and Morocco. It was not spectatcular but had its fair share of purples and reds. I climbed back on my camel like a novice cyclist mounts her bike on the second day of a 100k journey. I wish I had some painkillers, maybe some of the green stuff, maybe a bottle of gin. Anything to keep my mind off Carl. (For those of you who don’t know, Carl is my nickname for my upstairs, ref. story “Upstairs”). We headed out early and arrived back in Merzouga around 9am or so. After showering and breakfast, we hailed a taxi back into Errachidia. It was Sunday and Titrit had made arrangements for us to stay with her friend, Lahu, a shop owner in Tinghrir, that evening seeing as it was too late for us to get a transit back to her site.
Once again the lines of communication seem to be lost in different languages and cultures. Once we got back into Errachidia we let Ali know that Titrit and I wanted to go costume shopping for Halloween. We wanted to go to the souq area and house around. He wanted us to first meet up with a friend to grab some coffee. He made a phone call, and about 5 minutes later his friend shows up in a car, and as we are getting in I say to Titrit, “Hey, do you think that’s a prostitute?” pointing out a woman walking towards us wearing a tight, shiny jellaba with heavy makeup and high heels. Then she got into the front seat. I got a better look. She had on bright red lipstick and a thin line of an excuse for eyebrows. She had on lots of face makeup and a bright smile. Titrit and I sat back in stunned silence as we pulled away from the curb. We then made another stop for Ali to pick up some of the stuff that Morocco is known for, hash. We had no idea until he returned into the car with a small brown brick of the stuff in his hand. Awesome. We are riding around Errachidia with a prostitute in the front seat and had just stopped to make a drug deal. We were not in a professional setting where we would talk to the woman in front about the dangers of STIs and the importance of condoms, nor were we going to talk to Ali about his hash use. We were just uncomfortably there along for the ride. As we headed out along a main road the car suddenly cut off. The electronics of the car just died down and the car was slowing down. We were headed out to a gas station/coffee shop/tourist trap in the middle of nowhere. I told Titrit I hoped the car died. She looked it me in complete confusion and shock. I told her, “Just think how funny this is going to be later on, hitching a ride in the middle of nowhere, two PCVs who speak Berber with a prostitute and your hashed up friends, it’s going to be SO funny,” She did not find the humor. I secretly wish the car would die. What the hell would we do? Just then the car started up and we resumed speed. Maybe next time.
At the gas station/coffee shop/tourist trap (this is where Ali goes sometimes to find work, he is a guide,) Titrit was clearly upset with the situation and went off by herself. I talk to the prostitute and answered her questions, which are the same ones everyone else asks us. She told us she was a prostitute (duh!) and I should have dived right then and there into a health lesson but wanted to go talk to Titrit about our predicament. Luckily we sorted things out quickly and was back on the road. Titrit then explained again to Ali that we wanted to go to souk and shop around. He said that was fine, but first we needed to stop at home. We did not want another family visit, we were ready to go and do our own thing. Before we knew it we had pulled up at his house. So much for our desires.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Shuyma
Part 1:
“Shuyma!” ranted my landlord to me, my friends huddled close by, desperate to get back to the Ahadeus (traditional song and dance done during special occasions, in this case, a wedding). “Yen aryaz d yet tarbat?! Tigiminm, ghas shmmin!” (One man and one girl?! It is your house, just you) he sputtered, I could smell the cigarette he just smoked, his beady eyes narrowed in on mine. I just realized he was like a guard dog, prowling around the area outside of the main celebration, keeping things on lockdown and discouraging private talks between members of the opposite sex. How did I get myself into this situation? I felt like I was 14 again, getting into an argument with my parents that plagued my rebellious teenage years. Doing like anyone would in my place, I pleaded that I didn’t know and that I was terribly sorry. This seemed to calm him down some and we disappeared back to the festivities amidst a fist of giggles, we walked as a single unit, only our legs were free from each other. This was my first experience a part of them, them being girls my age, friends my age, this town, this culture. Yes, doing what I do best, getting into trouble, and yet, it was completely worth it.
It all started the day before. I had heard rumors that week of a wedding in the area. I found out there was another one in the duwwr (neighborhood/village) beside us from another friend of mine who I ran into in Boulmalen Dades, my souq town. Some of the PCVs and I had talked about the oppression of homosexuality in this culture, and this friend of mine, poor soul, gave off some strong lesbian vibes. She flirts with every time I see her. Now to a simple reader, one glance at these thoughts and you may offhandedly dismiss them into my oversensitivity taking into account the affectionate nature of Moroccans. I think she is a grade A box lover.
I was supposed to go on an overnight hiking trip with some other PCVs in the area, but I knew that I couldn’t get out of this wedding. Anyone who knows me knows that weddings make me nauseous and I hate them. Read what you want to into this, I just know that I am not a fan. Moroccan weddings are different. Men and women are usually kept separate, the women staying in the bride’s family’s house and likewise for the men. I cancelled my plans with my friends and the trip fell through. It was my weekend. I could do what I wanted and would attend the wedding that afternoon. I started off on a brisk morning jog/walk. I am so out of shape at this point and I hate it. At the same time, I am not going to worry about it, seeing that I love exercising and playing rugby and know whatever I do next I will make sure to incorporate both of these into my life. Halfway to Ait Hammou Said I ran into a cute little woman I see occasionally, she stopped me and asked me if I was going to see the nurse and could I perhaps get some medicine for her?? I had been debating about turning around and getting back so I could start on my To Do list but with this new request, my destiny was sealed.
Every time I go somewhere I run into people who are just curious. Where are you from? What are you doing here? Why are you living here? Don’t you miss your family? You don’t speak French or Arabic? (Are you crazy? Is usually the next question, but they are too polite to ask.) I like children, they don’t hold anything back and with my previous work, I can easily say kids have universal needs and wants. Getting them to smile is usually pretty easy and I have instantly made a new ally. I ran into some kids on my way and we walked together into town, I was invited to tea at all their houses but I had a mission and I needed to get on my way. Luckily, Amina, the nurse, was at her house, in her pajamas and had some medicine I could give the poor woman. Amina said that the woman could also come back for a shot if she got worse. Amina only speaks French and Arabic. She speaks a tiny bit of English and lots of English and French medical terms and the same so I understand some of the illnesses she says she sees on a regular basis (rheumatism, influenza, scorpion stings were big this summer…). Our relationship is cordial and superficial. I wish dearly we could communicate but I don’t see her trying to learn Tashlheit and I might get around to some French but right now I could care less.
I give the woman her things and she thinks I am just an angel. I hurry back to my house, it is still early enough in the day that I can get started on the transitioning of my garden. Despite the fact that I still have thriving tomato plants, it is time to plant carrots and radishes for the fall/winter season. I start tearing up these plants, saving the big green tomatoes in a pile. By the time I am done I am sweaty, covered in dirt and exhausted. There are tons of big fat earthworms. I debate about depositing them into my makeshift compost pile or just leaving them. Right then I hear my phone ring inside. It has been a rough month for my phone. Shortly after my birthday I dropped him into the bitlma hole. He was in my pocket and after standing up, he slipped out. Like a penny well at malls or museums where you can watch your penny spin round and round until it becomes a copper circle blur and spat out into a dark abyss, my phone traveled in slow motion, spinning not into an abyss, but into a pile of shit. Despite the fact that he was immediately recovered and cleaned, he only holds a battery lifespan of four hours and the face no longer has a backlight. Eh. I don’t recognize the number and answer it. It is some Berber woman, telling me to go over to the wedding at . I am barely able to answer her before she hangs up the phone (phone calls are expensive in Morocco). I start boiling water for my bucket bath and desperately search through my clothes, looking for something to wear. Sarah Moorman had left me a pretty dress for special occasions. I knew that this would be one of the times to wear it. I quickly bucket bath. I stopped shaving almost two months ago and wasn’t about to take extra time out now to clean up. Putting on make-up that I hadn’t touched in almost 8 months made me think about how different I was now. I still like to primp, but for me now that means putting on some mascara as I am walking out the door. The only women who wear a lot of makeup are whores in town, and frankly I don’t need to be associated with them, (well maybe not until 12 months into my newfound virginity…). I made up my eyes and put on some lipgloss, I looked good.
After rounding up some girls so I wouldn’t have to travel alone to the wedding, we went there. Usually you go around and shake hands with everyone there (we actually kiss hands and if it’s someone who loves you, you get kisses on the head or cheeks) but this time I followed Najam3a’s lead and just found a place to sit down. There was probably 60 or so women there already and they were singing. The bride was sitting on top of some ponjs, much like a queen looking down on her descendents. She was wearing the traditional headdress for this region. She could barely move. There were multiple pieces of cloth that was wrapped, draped, and covering her. She looked beautiful. In true Moroccan fashion there was a sheet hung up behind her, decorated with handstitched flowers, a huge heart dead-center and the names “Said and Fatima” inside of it. There were Christmas lights draped across it that flashed in pink, green and yellow. The corners of the sheet had fake flowers pinned in them. Your attention was shamelessly drawn to her. She was flanked on both sides by what looked like her bridesmaids. They all wore similar colored headdresses but without the pizzazz and you could see their faces. I never got to see her face, not once. Even when we had couscous they just pulled the material out front and put the dish under it, so she could eat and not reveal herself.
The room was packed. There were girls and women of every age. I don’t think there was one time that night that some baby was not crying. There was a cycle to the craziness. First you sit and chitchat to your neighbor and sometimes across the room. Then comes in platters of tea, peanuts and sugar wafers served by the gentlemen of the house. It is a frantic situation but despite the chaos and confusion they kept their cool and even had a few smiles and jokes for us. After a few rounds of these, then the women start up singing. We sing in rounds, with people answering back. There are usually some hand drums and my favorite, the two metal glasses and tin plate that sounds awesome. A few of the traditional wedding calls from the elder women now and then kept things interesting. This sound is a mixture of a Mexican “Ariba-ay-ay-aiii,” and that awful Native American sound we make sometimes as politically inept human beings, hitting our hand over our mouth.
Part 2:
I realize I am being used after about 10 minutes of dancing. One of the girls I had come here with insisted that I dance with her. I am at once on stage. All eyes are on me because I am the foreigner, I am the strange girl from somewhere far away France? Canada? Netherlands? But dressed up like a Moroccan girl. I can’t dance like they can either. It would put all of MTV back up dancers to shame. They shake their hips in rapid succession. It is an art learned at a very young age. (It is incredibly provocative and I wonder just then, why the hell do these men go and see prostitutes? These girls are incredibly sexy and they know it!) I just do my terrible white girl thing that still gets a few thumbs up from enthusiastic spectators. I notice that we dance close to the huge doorway. I try to slink back into the throngs of the girls, closer to a few of the others I am friends with and therefore would be able to dance next to also. She keeps pulling me back out there. The doorway is not much of a doorway, more of an opening to the rest of the second floor, and this is where the gentlemen of the house and some male cousins and privileged friends are loitering. There is an invisible fence and these men cannot go past it unless they are carrying trays of snacks. They stand there and watch us dance, I can feel their eyes on me, on us, and I hate it. Of course I am having a great time. If you act like you are enjoying yourself, laughing at yourself and making faces to those around you, people love you. I just hated that we were the ones closest to the doorway, yes there was space, but I saw what she was doing.
Thankfully she was breaking a sweat too so we went outside to get some fresh air. There were already a lot of people out in front of the house too. The party continued on well into the night, with a repeat of songs, dancing, food, and greetings. Finally, around 11pm, when there was just too many women in the room, it was decided to take it outside. This was what all these young women had been praying for! A chance to lock eyes with the guys outside. We were going to Ahadeus this time, in traditional fashion for this area. One row of men lining up shoulder to shoulder, facing a row of women, calling to each other back and forth and dancing in a circle, sometimes coming closer and sometimes backing away in almost a courtship type of ritual. I had seen this done a few times and really enjoyed watching it. Different regions do different things, sometimes there are no women at all. Sometimes they get on their knees and make a splashing motion with their hands. On one side of the street were all of the guys not only from this area but from other duwwrs too. They were sitting close to one another, whispering, arms over shoulders, heads close together. On the other side of the street were all of the girls and women from inside. Everyone was dressed in their best. Of course in Morocco, that meant that the girls were wearing their traditional dresses outfitted with sequins and beautifully intricate designs and the guys were wearing G-Star knock off jackets and jeans. It was a staring contest. I was intimidated to say the least. We were sitting down in front, of course. I kept looking up trying to find the guy she was talking about, her boyfriend. I found out the day before she actually has a few boyfriends in different areas. I think this is a loose term, like we would say we are “talking to” some guy. No real commitment, just getting to know someone and flirt occasionally. I was sitting inbetween a few girls and was really feeling a part of the community. I looked like the girls dressed up, had a headscarf and had delicately tied on a pink sequin belt my sister Becca had gotten me as a birthday present a few years ago. All except for my green eyes, you might have mistaken me for a Moroccan.
My friend kept asking me if I was cold, if I wanted to go back to my house and grab a jacket. I knew she just wanted an excuse to get up and strut down this catwalk of potential flirts. I refused until the third time and we went to get me a jacket. Outside of my house we ran into a few other girls. One of them was telling the other, “Just ask her! Just ask Hanna,” and so I inquired to what they wanted. One of them has a boyfriend and would it be okay if they stepped inside my garden area and talked. My garden has a bamboo fence around it, which offers a little bit of privacy but not a whole lot. I told them it wasn’t a problem. The other girl asked if she could use my bathroom. She went to use the bathroom and I went to grab a jacket, all of a sudden the third girl comes running in. She said that Laho was outside and had yelled at them for coming in here. I was confused at the situation. What was the problem? They had been outside, and the door to my house had been left ajar and so was the door to the patio. I was briefly annoyed at the stark differences in Moroccan and American freedoms. These poor girls, who work hard all day, hardly have much of an education past middle school (if even that), and otherwise have no contact with guys in their community have now been yelled at for talking to a guy. There are ways around it, they get phone numbers and occasionally cross paths. Unlike in a high school or university setting, where they can talk freely and openly, without the hawk eyes of a conservative community bearing down on them. What is my role in this? How do I respond? I don’t want to damage my reputation in the community. I don’t want to jeopardize my position but at the same time I feel for these girls. Can you imagine how frustrated you could get with that situation? It seems like the typical scenario: Forbidden fruit always tastes the best. Which is why, with situations like these especially during weddings, I feel like everyone should be able to mingle freely. Be able to talk one another, and yes, under the supervision of the elders, but this would have been a perfect time to. I had a conversation recently with an intelligent man on his way back to Agadir to attend his second year at the University there. We discussed lots of things on our taxi ride to Boumalen Dades. We talked about politics, religion, the history of the Berbers, romance and music. He was saying how even our discussion in that taxi ride was unprecedented, especially one past the typical introduction and inquiring about health and family. He said I could break down barriers. He said that I could give these women here a lot of power and independence. I am not here to start a huge cultural mutiny and get stoned out of my village but I understand his position. Where women used to have arranged marriages and they either worked or you suffered in silence, now the aspect of marrying for love has become the new ideal.
This country is changing. It is losing some of its culture to cell phones, satellite TV and becoming more Westernized. Luckily, some practices are alive and healthy. It would be interesting to see if this country succeeds, unlike so many other countries, in combining a mixture of old and new, of faith and traditions and customs with technological advances. I hope they do succeed. Already the traditional practice of story-telling is dying off, replaced by soap operas. This culture is rich and it would break my heart to watch it all disappear and change away to nothing.
“Shuyma!” ranted my landlord to me, my friends huddled close by, desperate to get back to the Ahadeus (traditional song and dance done during special occasions, in this case, a wedding). “Yen aryaz d yet tarbat?! Tigiminm, ghas shmmin!” (One man and one girl?! It is your house, just you) he sputtered, I could smell the cigarette he just smoked, his beady eyes narrowed in on mine. I just realized he was like a guard dog, prowling around the area outside of the main celebration, keeping things on lockdown and discouraging private talks between members of the opposite sex. How did I get myself into this situation? I felt like I was 14 again, getting into an argument with my parents that plagued my rebellious teenage years. Doing like anyone would in my place, I pleaded that I didn’t know and that I was terribly sorry. This seemed to calm him down some and we disappeared back to the festivities amidst a fist of giggles, we walked as a single unit, only our legs were free from each other. This was my first experience a part of them, them being girls my age, friends my age, this town, this culture. Yes, doing what I do best, getting into trouble, and yet, it was completely worth it.
It all started the day before. I had heard rumors that week of a wedding in the area. I found out there was another one in the duwwr (neighborhood/village) beside us from another friend of mine who I ran into in Boulmalen Dades, my souq town. Some of the PCVs and I had talked about the oppression of homosexuality in this culture, and this friend of mine, poor soul, gave off some strong lesbian vibes. She flirts with every time I see her. Now to a simple reader, one glance at these thoughts and you may offhandedly dismiss them into my oversensitivity taking into account the affectionate nature of Moroccans. I think she is a grade A box lover.
I was supposed to go on an overnight hiking trip with some other PCVs in the area, but I knew that I couldn’t get out of this wedding. Anyone who knows me knows that weddings make me nauseous and I hate them. Read what you want to into this, I just know that I am not a fan. Moroccan weddings are different. Men and women are usually kept separate, the women staying in the bride’s family’s house and likewise for the men. I cancelled my plans with my friends and the trip fell through. It was my weekend. I could do what I wanted and would attend the wedding that afternoon. I started off on a brisk morning jog/walk. I am so out of shape at this point and I hate it. At the same time, I am not going to worry about it, seeing that I love exercising and playing rugby and know whatever I do next I will make sure to incorporate both of these into my life. Halfway to Ait Hammou Said I ran into a cute little woman I see occasionally, she stopped me and asked me if I was going to see the nurse and could I perhaps get some medicine for her?? I had been debating about turning around and getting back so I could start on my To Do list but with this new request, my destiny was sealed.
Every time I go somewhere I run into people who are just curious. Where are you from? What are you doing here? Why are you living here? Don’t you miss your family? You don’t speak French or Arabic? (Are you crazy? Is usually the next question, but they are too polite to ask.) I like children, they don’t hold anything back and with my previous work, I can easily say kids have universal needs and wants. Getting them to smile is usually pretty easy and I have instantly made a new ally. I ran into some kids on my way and we walked together into town, I was invited to tea at all their houses but I had a mission and I needed to get on my way. Luckily, Amina, the nurse, was at her house, in her pajamas and had some medicine I could give the poor woman. Amina said that the woman could also come back for a shot if she got worse. Amina only speaks French and Arabic. She speaks a tiny bit of English and lots of English and French medical terms and the same so I understand some of the illnesses she says she sees on a regular basis (rheumatism, influenza, scorpion stings were big this summer…). Our relationship is cordial and superficial. I wish dearly we could communicate but I don’t see her trying to learn Tashlheit and I might get around to some French but right now I could care less.
I give the woman her things and she thinks I am just an angel. I hurry back to my house, it is still early enough in the day that I can get started on the transitioning of my garden. Despite the fact that I still have thriving tomato plants, it is time to plant carrots and radishes for the fall/winter season. I start tearing up these plants, saving the big green tomatoes in a pile. By the time I am done I am sweaty, covered in dirt and exhausted. There are tons of big fat earthworms. I debate about depositing them into my makeshift compost pile or just leaving them. Right then I hear my phone ring inside. It has been a rough month for my phone. Shortly after my birthday I dropped him into the bitlma hole. He was in my pocket and after standing up, he slipped out. Like a penny well at malls or museums where you can watch your penny spin round and round until it becomes a copper circle blur and spat out into a dark abyss, my phone traveled in slow motion, spinning not into an abyss, but into a pile of shit. Despite the fact that he was immediately recovered and cleaned, he only holds a battery lifespan of four hours and the face no longer has a backlight. Eh. I don’t recognize the number and answer it. It is some Berber woman, telling me to go over to the wedding at . I am barely able to answer her before she hangs up the phone (phone calls are expensive in Morocco). I start boiling water for my bucket bath and desperately search through my clothes, looking for something to wear. Sarah Moorman had left me a pretty dress for special occasions. I knew that this would be one of the times to wear it. I quickly bucket bath. I stopped shaving almost two months ago and wasn’t about to take extra time out now to clean up. Putting on make-up that I hadn’t touched in almost 8 months made me think about how different I was now. I still like to primp, but for me now that means putting on some mascara as I am walking out the door. The only women who wear a lot of makeup are whores in town, and frankly I don’t need to be associated with them, (well maybe not until 12 months into my newfound virginity…). I made up my eyes and put on some lipgloss, I looked good.
After rounding up some girls so I wouldn’t have to travel alone to the wedding, we went there. Usually you go around and shake hands with everyone there (we actually kiss hands and if it’s someone who loves you, you get kisses on the head or cheeks) but this time I followed Najam3a’s lead and just found a place to sit down. There was probably 60 or so women there already and they were singing. The bride was sitting on top of some ponjs, much like a queen looking down on her descendents. She was wearing the traditional headdress for this region. She could barely move. There were multiple pieces of cloth that was wrapped, draped, and covering her. She looked beautiful. In true Moroccan fashion there was a sheet hung up behind her, decorated with handstitched flowers, a huge heart dead-center and the names “Said and Fatima” inside of it. There were Christmas lights draped across it that flashed in pink, green and yellow. The corners of the sheet had fake flowers pinned in them. Your attention was shamelessly drawn to her. She was flanked on both sides by what looked like her bridesmaids. They all wore similar colored headdresses but without the pizzazz and you could see their faces. I never got to see her face, not once. Even when we had couscous they just pulled the material out front and put the dish under it, so she could eat and not reveal herself.
The room was packed. There were girls and women of every age. I don’t think there was one time that night that some baby was not crying. There was a cycle to the craziness. First you sit and chitchat to your neighbor and sometimes across the room. Then comes in platters of tea, peanuts and sugar wafers served by the gentlemen of the house. It is a frantic situation but despite the chaos and confusion they kept their cool and even had a few smiles and jokes for us. After a few rounds of these, then the women start up singing. We sing in rounds, with people answering back. There are usually some hand drums and my favorite, the two metal glasses and tin plate that sounds awesome. A few of the traditional wedding calls from the elder women now and then kept things interesting. This sound is a mixture of a Mexican “Ariba-ay-ay-aiii,” and that awful Native American sound we make sometimes as politically inept human beings, hitting our hand over our mouth.
Part 2:
I realize I am being used after about 10 minutes of dancing. One of the girls I had come here with insisted that I dance with her. I am at once on stage. All eyes are on me because I am the foreigner, I am the strange girl from somewhere far away France? Canada? Netherlands? But dressed up like a Moroccan girl. I can’t dance like they can either. It would put all of MTV back up dancers to shame. They shake their hips in rapid succession. It is an art learned at a very young age. (It is incredibly provocative and I wonder just then, why the hell do these men go and see prostitutes? These girls are incredibly sexy and they know it!) I just do my terrible white girl thing that still gets a few thumbs up from enthusiastic spectators. I notice that we dance close to the huge doorway. I try to slink back into the throngs of the girls, closer to a few of the others I am friends with and therefore would be able to dance next to also. She keeps pulling me back out there. The doorway is not much of a doorway, more of an opening to the rest of the second floor, and this is where the gentlemen of the house and some male cousins and privileged friends are loitering. There is an invisible fence and these men cannot go past it unless they are carrying trays of snacks. They stand there and watch us dance, I can feel their eyes on me, on us, and I hate it. Of course I am having a great time. If you act like you are enjoying yourself, laughing at yourself and making faces to those around you, people love you. I just hated that we were the ones closest to the doorway, yes there was space, but I saw what she was doing.
Thankfully she was breaking a sweat too so we went outside to get some fresh air. There were already a lot of people out in front of the house too. The party continued on well into the night, with a repeat of songs, dancing, food, and greetings. Finally, around 11pm, when there was just too many women in the room, it was decided to take it outside. This was what all these young women had been praying for! A chance to lock eyes with the guys outside. We were going to Ahadeus this time, in traditional fashion for this area. One row of men lining up shoulder to shoulder, facing a row of women, calling to each other back and forth and dancing in a circle, sometimes coming closer and sometimes backing away in almost a courtship type of ritual. I had seen this done a few times and really enjoyed watching it. Different regions do different things, sometimes there are no women at all. Sometimes they get on their knees and make a splashing motion with their hands. On one side of the street were all of the guys not only from this area but from other duwwrs too. They were sitting close to one another, whispering, arms over shoulders, heads close together. On the other side of the street were all of the girls and women from inside. Everyone was dressed in their best. Of course in Morocco, that meant that the girls were wearing their traditional dresses outfitted with sequins and beautifully intricate designs and the guys were wearing G-Star knock off jackets and jeans. It was a staring contest. I was intimidated to say the least. We were sitting down in front, of course. I kept looking up trying to find the guy she was talking about, her boyfriend. I found out the day before she actually has a few boyfriends in different areas. I think this is a loose term, like we would say we are “talking to” some guy. No real commitment, just getting to know someone and flirt occasionally. I was sitting inbetween a few girls and was really feeling a part of the community. I looked like the girls dressed up, had a headscarf and had delicately tied on a pink sequin belt my sister Becca had gotten me as a birthday present a few years ago. All except for my green eyes, you might have mistaken me for a Moroccan.
My friend kept asking me if I was cold, if I wanted to go back to my house and grab a jacket. I knew she just wanted an excuse to get up and strut down this catwalk of potential flirts. I refused until the third time and we went to get me a jacket. Outside of my house we ran into a few other girls. One of them was telling the other, “Just ask her! Just ask Hanna,” and so I inquired to what they wanted. One of them has a boyfriend and would it be okay if they stepped inside my garden area and talked. My garden has a bamboo fence around it, which offers a little bit of privacy but not a whole lot. I told them it wasn’t a problem. The other girl asked if she could use my bathroom. She went to use the bathroom and I went to grab a jacket, all of a sudden the third girl comes running in. She said that Laho was outside and had yelled at them for coming in here. I was confused at the situation. What was the problem? They had been outside, and the door to my house had been left ajar and so was the door to the patio. I was briefly annoyed at the stark differences in Moroccan and American freedoms. These poor girls, who work hard all day, hardly have much of an education past middle school (if even that), and otherwise have no contact with guys in their community have now been yelled at for talking to a guy. There are ways around it, they get phone numbers and occasionally cross paths. Unlike in a high school or university setting, where they can talk freely and openly, without the hawk eyes of a conservative community bearing down on them. What is my role in this? How do I respond? I don’t want to damage my reputation in the community. I don’t want to jeopardize my position but at the same time I feel for these girls. Can you imagine how frustrated you could get with that situation? It seems like the typical scenario: Forbidden fruit always tastes the best. Which is why, with situations like these especially during weddings, I feel like everyone should be able to mingle freely. Be able to talk one another, and yes, under the supervision of the elders, but this would have been a perfect time to. I had a conversation recently with an intelligent man on his way back to Agadir to attend his second year at the University there. We discussed lots of things on our taxi ride to Boumalen Dades. We talked about politics, religion, the history of the Berbers, romance and music. He was saying how even our discussion in that taxi ride was unprecedented, especially one past the typical introduction and inquiring about health and family. He said I could break down barriers. He said that I could give these women here a lot of power and independence. I am not here to start a huge cultural mutiny and get stoned out of my village but I understand his position. Where women used to have arranged marriages and they either worked or you suffered in silence, now the aspect of marrying for love has become the new ideal.
This country is changing. It is losing some of its culture to cell phones, satellite TV and becoming more Westernized. Luckily, some practices are alive and healthy. It would be interesting to see if this country succeeds, unlike so many other countries, in combining a mixture of old and new, of faith and traditions and customs with technological advances. I hope they do succeed. Already the traditional practice of story-telling is dying off, replaced by soap operas. This culture is rich and it would break my heart to watch it all disappear and change away to nothing.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Riding the Magic Carpet
These past two days have been great. I had lfidor (breaking of the fast) with my landlord’s family (conveniently next door). It was quiet, compared to when I go over to my host family. We ate in silence. Even when people asked for more coffee, tea, or juice it was through hand gestures. For some reason I was slightly uncomfortable with the silence. It was a large gathering, of 9 or so people and still there was little conversation. I wondered if it was because of me, or whether it was usually a quiet meal. The wife of my landlord is hard of hearing, and that may have contributed to the lack of conversation. Either way, I haven’t been to a meal where I haven’t contributed something. It makes me feel better. Usually I will bring something small like olives, a salad, homemade juice, cake or cookies. I am still appalled at the economic differences in households. One family that has adopted me that I really enjoy going to, brings out lavish meals to break fast. Bread, homemade donuts, figs, olives, coffee, lmism (fried flat bread), honey and jelly as starters, followed of course by aharrar (thick soup). I usual depart, with a more than full stomach. The next meal is usually couscous or rice. Most family’s last meal, ate before dawn, is tajine.
Last night my host mom and sister accompanied me to the association president’s house. I had put off this meeting for some time, expecting to run into him before now. Our paths had crossed a few times before, but in informal settings. Of course, I was told by his father that Sarah had learned tashelheit fast and that I knew nothing. I really have yet to develop a response to this. It has been said to me only a handful of times, but the sting is always still there. I know that Sarah had a firm grasp of the language when she left, and I think people forget that she was in the same learning stage as I was when she first came. Other PCVs responses are to remind them of this, especially if they had replaced a volunteer, others ask the offender if they knew English and then the person would be put in a somewhat similar situation. I just nod, smile, and say that yes, Sarah knew Tash very well and she is very smart.
Toky, the president, knows a fair amount of English and it is easier for the both of us for him to speak to me in English. He also prefers it, he wants to practice and regrets not being able to use it more. There have been lots of developments and I learned a lot from out encounter. First off, he has secured a bus for the area. This bus will take students from the surrounding dours into Tizguine where there is a new lycee (middle school, grades 7 and 8). The building itself is not new, and is a home with two rooms that will serve as classrooms and a small kitchen. The bus will pick them up in the mornings and drop them off after school is done. This opens up a potential Environment/Health Club where I could co-facilitate with a teacher and start doing some great activities. The exciting aspect is that these students will be from this area, and can take back these new ideas and lessons and possibly implement them in their own homes and neighborhoods! I am really excited. These kids are closer in age to the ones I had worked with previously before I left for Morocco at the YMCA back in North Carolina. This age is especially fun because they are old enough to develop their own opinions and actively participate. I still plan on doing some health and environmental lessons at the primary school here, especially dealing with hygiene and dental health.
We discussed my project idea too. I want to start a trash disposal system. Originally I had stolen the idea from another volunteer (who probably borrowed it too). They placed large empty oil drums in convenient areas in her site where once half-full, they burn the trash. I have sinced emailed her asking the logistics of her development. For this area, this would be ideal seeing that there is no place to dump or bury the trash (valley drains into river). Whether it was miscommunication or not, Toky wants to employ a community member to collect the trash and dispose and bury it outside the area. We discussed the difficulties of this idea but he seemed enthusiastic about it. Unfortunately, we both seem to be big idea people. Things can get awfully utopic quickly. He and I have both pledged into looking into our respective areas, for me, I will look into sources of funding and he will exhausts his connections. I am excited either way. Trash will be picked up once a week. I proposed we charge each household 5 Dhs a month for this service to cover costs. I need to survey some of my neighbors and host family to see how they feel about this.
Side Note: I’m going to brag about my parents for a few lines. Had it not been for my parents’ determination to raise their kids with a sense of service and community I would not be here today. There are times that I truly feel their influence. Proposing a 5 Dh tax to each of the households would have been a solution that I feel like my dad would have proposed, and I wish he could have seen me working with Toky today. I think he would have been proud of the way we analyzed different aspects of the community. I miss hearing about local politics back home. One of my dad’s main missions is making communities better through services that make their life easier and healthier. Hopefully here, it will instill them a sense of pride and responsibility to keep their community clean and beautiful. Something that both of my parents have pledged their life to doing.
We also discussed some of the maladies persistent in this area. One problem being an eye disease where cysts form on the eyelids and cause blindness and the other a kind of eczema of the skin of the face. (This is what I interpreted). Both need medicine and possibly eye surgery. Toky said that there were 45 cases of the eye disease here in Tizguine. I am hoping to talk to the doctor in Boumalen tomorrow to find out the names of these diseases and look more closely into their origins and if they are preventable.
Oh and my hair has finally adapted, or maybe I have adapted to it? Conditioners are hard to find and expensive, so she just gets a shampoo every couple of days and air dry. Funny, I’ve been fighting for years with torture devices to get a certain look when the all-natural is actually quite acceptable. Thanks to my mom’s curl and thick hair (sorry dad I’ve got nothing for you--wink wink, nudge nudge). And as far as the rest of the hair goes, I have been taking quick cold showers and ignoring the razor. The extra coat will be good for winter I’m sure…
Last night my host mom and sister accompanied me to the association president’s house. I had put off this meeting for some time, expecting to run into him before now. Our paths had crossed a few times before, but in informal settings. Of course, I was told by his father that Sarah had learned tashelheit fast and that I knew nothing. I really have yet to develop a response to this. It has been said to me only a handful of times, but the sting is always still there. I know that Sarah had a firm grasp of the language when she left, and I think people forget that she was in the same learning stage as I was when she first came. Other PCVs responses are to remind them of this, especially if they had replaced a volunteer, others ask the offender if they knew English and then the person would be put in a somewhat similar situation. I just nod, smile, and say that yes, Sarah knew Tash very well and she is very smart.
Toky, the president, knows a fair amount of English and it is easier for the both of us for him to speak to me in English. He also prefers it, he wants to practice and regrets not being able to use it more. There have been lots of developments and I learned a lot from out encounter. First off, he has secured a bus for the area. This bus will take students from the surrounding dours into Tizguine where there is a new lycee (middle school, grades 7 and 8). The building itself is not new, and is a home with two rooms that will serve as classrooms and a small kitchen. The bus will pick them up in the mornings and drop them off after school is done. This opens up a potential Environment/Health Club where I could co-facilitate with a teacher and start doing some great activities. The exciting aspect is that these students will be from this area, and can take back these new ideas and lessons and possibly implement them in their own homes and neighborhoods! I am really excited. These kids are closer in age to the ones I had worked with previously before I left for Morocco at the YMCA back in North Carolina. This age is especially fun because they are old enough to develop their own opinions and actively participate. I still plan on doing some health and environmental lessons at the primary school here, especially dealing with hygiene and dental health.
We discussed my project idea too. I want to start a trash disposal system. Originally I had stolen the idea from another volunteer (who probably borrowed it too). They placed large empty oil drums in convenient areas in her site where once half-full, they burn the trash. I have sinced emailed her asking the logistics of her development. For this area, this would be ideal seeing that there is no place to dump or bury the trash (valley drains into river). Whether it was miscommunication or not, Toky wants to employ a community member to collect the trash and dispose and bury it outside the area. We discussed the difficulties of this idea but he seemed enthusiastic about it. Unfortunately, we both seem to be big idea people. Things can get awfully utopic quickly. He and I have both pledged into looking into our respective areas, for me, I will look into sources of funding and he will exhausts his connections. I am excited either way. Trash will be picked up once a week. I proposed we charge each household 5 Dhs a month for this service to cover costs. I need to survey some of my neighbors and host family to see how they feel about this.
Side Note: I’m going to brag about my parents for a few lines. Had it not been for my parents’ determination to raise their kids with a sense of service and community I would not be here today. There are times that I truly feel their influence. Proposing a 5 Dh tax to each of the households would have been a solution that I feel like my dad would have proposed, and I wish he could have seen me working with Toky today. I think he would have been proud of the way we analyzed different aspects of the community. I miss hearing about local politics back home. One of my dad’s main missions is making communities better through services that make their life easier and healthier. Hopefully here, it will instill them a sense of pride and responsibility to keep their community clean and beautiful. Something that both of my parents have pledged their life to doing.
We also discussed some of the maladies persistent in this area. One problem being an eye disease where cysts form on the eyelids and cause blindness and the other a kind of eczema of the skin of the face. (This is what I interpreted). Both need medicine and possibly eye surgery. Toky said that there were 45 cases of the eye disease here in Tizguine. I am hoping to talk to the doctor in Boumalen tomorrow to find out the names of these diseases and look more closely into their origins and if they are preventable.
Oh and my hair has finally adapted, or maybe I have adapted to it? Conditioners are hard to find and expensive, so she just gets a shampoo every couple of days and air dry. Funny, I’ve been fighting for years with torture devices to get a certain look when the all-natural is actually quite acceptable. Thanks to my mom’s curl and thick hair (sorry dad I’ve got nothing for you--wink wink, nudge nudge). And as far as the rest of the hair goes, I have been taking quick cold showers and ignoring the razor. The extra coat will be good for winter I’m sure…
Halfway
Today is the halfway point of Ramadan. The past few days I have really enjoyed my site. I wonder when I am going to stop calling it my site and start calling it my home. I think that may be one of the setbacks from both a PCV’s viewpoint and those of the community. It’s almost as if two years is not enough. It feels temporary. I am looking up at my homemade calendar. As of right now, it shows as far as October 2010. June 2010 is our halfway point, when we have our midservice training and medical exams. I am moved in completely and besides a few other comforts I would like to add, I am settled in. I have started putting together my powerpoint presentation that we are presenting to the Ministry of Health in a month. I started looking through some of the piles of information that I have acquired. Lots of it has come from Sarah Moorman, my infamous role model and predecessor, and from Peace Corps vast collection. Some of these facts I came across, collected from USAID:
Adult Literacy Rate
52.3
%
2004
World Bank/WDI Database-2007
Adult Literacy Rate, Female
38
%
2002
World Bank/WDI-2006
Adult Literacy Rate, Male
63
%
2002
World Bank/WDI-2006
Healthy Life Expectancy: Female
60.9
2002
WHO World Health Report-2004
Healthy Life Expectancy: Male
59.5
2002
WHO World Health Report-2004
Some of these numbers have since improved, but not by much. The core of our project framework is prevention through education and improved water and sanitation, our target audience being women and children.
My core project will be a trash disposal system in my community, and hopefully, will be duplicated in the surrounding dours. If the one here is successful, we will assess and analyze the pros and cons and apply them throughout the area.
The gorge area’s predicament regarding trash disposal is that there is no safe place to dispose of it. Most of the communities are situated within the valley of the mountain ranges. Without knowledge of the hazards regarding waste disposal, people throw their trash into the river, into dried up streambeds and on the ground. The beauty of these communities is that relatively, they produce little trash. Lack of money and access to materials means that most of the trash that is not recycled by household means that the majority left is plastic bags, metal tins, plastic bottles and wrappers left by various goods. Food wastes are fed to livestock, paper goods are usually burnt in ovens that cook bread and plastic bottles and glass containers are used again and again for milk products, juice, and water until they are finally discarded.
One PCV pointed out that there was the same amount of trash and problem as there is in the States. I concur. He even went as far to say that it was not a huge problem and that other ailments should be looked into first. This bothered me. It was this very thinking that got many first world countries into the situations they are in today. A gross commercialized society with overflowing landfills. I want to counter this problem head on now, before it becomes a major problem. It’s not until we see the direct result of hazardous waste leaching into the soil and water before we do something about it? This may already be a problem and we are unaware of it. Already we have been exposed to the problems of EACs through plastic bottles and the hazardous effect they have on pregnant women and their children. It may not be seen now, but in 20 years when women are having spontaneous abortions and children are born with birth defects, when plants and animals are starting to show more and more mutations or we eradicate species entirely. Already I am alarmed by the lack of fish in the river here. There are numerous amphibious species, but I rarely see fish despite the fact that the river is here constantly, despite the summer dry season.
Restraints in this region are time, money, resources, and geographical location. If we were to bury the trash, we would have to find an appropriate area, not affected by the water table where we could safely dispose of the trash and cover it with soil. The rains come down from the mountains, into the valleys and replenish the fields and river. Anything in its path is washed down. Finding an area that is convenient to the community is another obstacle. When it is easier to throw the trash in a nearby alley as opposed to walking to the edge of the community is a huge obstacle. Toying with the idea of a trash pick up and depositing to the closest landfill was shot down by my Peace Corps program managers. The closest landfill is in Boumalen Dades. Trash would have to be collected and then taken by either truck or transit vans to the outskirts of Boumalen to be dumped and that costs enough in and of itself. The next solution would be to burn trash. Of course, the majority of the trash is harmful when burned, if it will burn. I am going to look into possible scrap metal options. The idea would be to have oil drums strategically placed in areas in my community where citizens could deposit their trash. There would need to be a dramatic behavior change also. People would need to start using the receptacles as opposed to their old ways of dropping off trash off the cliff beside the river, or the empty riverbed that comes down from the mountains. This project would be a huge undertaking but by employing the right people, with the right mindset, it just might happen.
Adult Literacy Rate
52.3
%
2004
World Bank/WDI Database-2007
Adult Literacy Rate, Female
38
%
2002
World Bank/WDI-2006
Adult Literacy Rate, Male
63
%
2002
World Bank/WDI-2006
Healthy Life Expectancy: Female
60.9
2002
WHO World Health Report-2004
Healthy Life Expectancy: Male
59.5
2002
WHO World Health Report-2004
Some of these numbers have since improved, but not by much. The core of our project framework is prevention through education and improved water and sanitation, our target audience being women and children.
My core project will be a trash disposal system in my community, and hopefully, will be duplicated in the surrounding dours. If the one here is successful, we will assess and analyze the pros and cons and apply them throughout the area.
The gorge area’s predicament regarding trash disposal is that there is no safe place to dispose of it. Most of the communities are situated within the valley of the mountain ranges. Without knowledge of the hazards regarding waste disposal, people throw their trash into the river, into dried up streambeds and on the ground. The beauty of these communities is that relatively, they produce little trash. Lack of money and access to materials means that most of the trash that is not recycled by household means that the majority left is plastic bags, metal tins, plastic bottles and wrappers left by various goods. Food wastes are fed to livestock, paper goods are usually burnt in ovens that cook bread and plastic bottles and glass containers are used again and again for milk products, juice, and water until they are finally discarded.
One PCV pointed out that there was the same amount of trash and problem as there is in the States. I concur. He even went as far to say that it was not a huge problem and that other ailments should be looked into first. This bothered me. It was this very thinking that got many first world countries into the situations they are in today. A gross commercialized society with overflowing landfills. I want to counter this problem head on now, before it becomes a major problem. It’s not until we see the direct result of hazardous waste leaching into the soil and water before we do something about it? This may already be a problem and we are unaware of it. Already we have been exposed to the problems of EACs through plastic bottles and the hazardous effect they have on pregnant women and their children. It may not be seen now, but in 20 years when women are having spontaneous abortions and children are born with birth defects, when plants and animals are starting to show more and more mutations or we eradicate species entirely. Already I am alarmed by the lack of fish in the river here. There are numerous amphibious species, but I rarely see fish despite the fact that the river is here constantly, despite the summer dry season.
Restraints in this region are time, money, resources, and geographical location. If we were to bury the trash, we would have to find an appropriate area, not affected by the water table where we could safely dispose of the trash and cover it with soil. The rains come down from the mountains, into the valleys and replenish the fields and river. Anything in its path is washed down. Finding an area that is convenient to the community is another obstacle. When it is easier to throw the trash in a nearby alley as opposed to walking to the edge of the community is a huge obstacle. Toying with the idea of a trash pick up and depositing to the closest landfill was shot down by my Peace Corps program managers. The closest landfill is in Boumalen Dades. Trash would have to be collected and then taken by either truck or transit vans to the outskirts of Boumalen to be dumped and that costs enough in and of itself. The next solution would be to burn trash. Of course, the majority of the trash is harmful when burned, if it will burn. I am going to look into possible scrap metal options. The idea would be to have oil drums strategically placed in areas in my community where citizens could deposit their trash. There would need to be a dramatic behavior change also. People would need to start using the receptacles as opposed to their old ways of dropping off trash off the cliff beside the river, or the empty riverbed that comes down from the mountains. This project would be a huge undertaking but by employing the right people, with the right mindset, it just might happen.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
On a Sentimental Note
I just wanted to share this with you:
Tonight we had dinner, tanjine of course. Before we started eating, she pulls out a pitcher of this white liquid, it looks like whole milk. I ask for just a little, this is an unheard of amount in Tamazight because no matter what, they will pour a whole glassful for you. So “bismillah” and we start eating dinner and I take a swig of white liquid. It’s buttermilk. I have a hard time hiding faces in the first place, but buttermilk has a distinct flavor. My mom gave me a funny look and I tell her it tastes great and take another sip. But within that second sip, I had a flashback to my Aunt Polly. I thought that it was such a crazy coincidence that at that exact moment I made a connection from my current situation to memories of her.
The fact that these people have opened up their home to me, invited me in, treated me with the greatest amount of hospitality I have ever been shown. Later, after the meal, the host grandmother explains to me that she sees my host mom and me as sisters, “kif-kif,” and that I am always welcome in their home. Shortly afterwards, my host mom starts tearing up talking about next week when I leave. Over a glass of buttermilk, I am brought back to memories of my Aunt Polly and her relationship with my family, especially with my mom.
When my parents moved to Gastonia, NC, my mom was befriended by this sweet old lady named Pauline Taylor. My mom went to the same grocery store all the time and this dear old woman used to bag my mom’s groceries. They quickly got to be friends. My mom was brand new to the area, pregnant with me, and this lady showed her unlimited amounts of hospitality and goodwill and became a familiar face in a new and unfamiliar place. I remember going over to Aunt Polly’s house and drinking milk and eating just-made blueberry pineapple muffins. They were incredible. We used to play with her figurines in the living room and entertain ourselves while my mom and Aunt Polly would sit in the kitchen and talk. I remember raking her yard in the fall and playing hide and go seek in the back yard. Later on, Aunt Polly had to move into a rest home. My mom would go and visit her at least once a week. My mom valued their friendship a lot. And I know Aunt Polly loved mom. Even our vehicle choices later on, mom would consider if our Aunt Polly would be able to get in and out of the door easily. Aunt Polly was incredibly active and healthy as she got older and older. The other residents at the rest home would always ask who my mom was and frequently confused her as her daughter or relative. She was always introduced as her special friend. Mom made it her priority to make sure that Aunt Polly was comfortable. She would go shopping for her for Christmas and her birthday. My mom knew her likes and dislikes. She would hem the pants of the outfit so it would fit just right. My mom was the best daughter that woman ever had.
When Aunt Polly died a few years ago it felt like a grandmother had passed away. Her health had been declining some and she was 92 years old. No matter how I tried to prepare myself, it still hurt when my mom called to tell me that she was gone. I believe out of all of Aunt Polly’s family and friends, my mom was the closest to her. I feel like my mom was the most devastated when this woman was no longer apart of her life. The relationship my mom had with this sweet, sweet old lady was significant and unique. Their relationship was one-of-a-kind. I was in school at the time and was unable to make it to the funeral. And over this glass of buttermilk, in rural Morocco, where I am learning this old, dying language, I was reminded of this sweet, sweet old lady who had befriended my mom over 24 years ago. I stifled some tears that came, because trying to explain this to my host family would be rocket science. I looked around at the women sitting next to me, headscarves and brown eyes and weathered faces and felt a gratitude I can’t explain. I don’t believe in fate, or destiny, but I do like to find comfort in the coincidences, comfort in the full circle. Hospitality, friendship, family relationships and the generosity of humankind is unmistakable and despite our culture and language difficulties, we laugh about the same things. And for the first time since I have been away, I find myself shedding a few tears writing this. That’s comforting too. Love you mom.
During Homestay...
It started at 4:30am in the morning. My taxidriver wanted to leave 30 minutes earlier than usual. Why? I don’t know, but that taxi was full halfway down the mountain so I guess the man doesn’t need a reason. It started when she first got into the taxi. “Sbah lexir,” and “Saalam walakum,” What was that smell? Oh man, it had all of these delicious flavors of smokey, spicey goodness… is that.. beef jerkey? I felt like I had just ziplocked my head into a Jack Daniel’s Peppered Beef Jerkey bag. I wanted to take her home as human potpourri. That would be inappropriate but goddamn she was making me hungry. My next thought that if we got stranded on a section of road and had to eat someone I would point out her first, she would taste the best, probably a little rubbery. She looked well into her 60s. The taxi was soon full of smells, an interesting mixture of beef jerkey, sleep, body odor and farm animal. The window in front of me was barely cracked, I think it was just because it no longer rolled up all the way. I welcomed that small bit of fresh air, my eyes were starting to tear up.
I was glad I was feeling better. My dumbass had self-medicated two nights before because the power had gone out in the midst of a small hurricane. I wanted to go to bed early, without the TV on, I figured we would turn in early and I desperately needed a full nights rest. I hadn’t been sleeping well and knew that my day into town was usually a long one and I needed to make the best of it. Tylenol PM is powerful. I took the recommended two pills and felt nothing for the first 5 hours. I wasn’t sleepy at all! It was well past 10 o’clock and I was turning over restlessly, plagued by random thought and worries that my mother graciously passed down to me. I finally drifted off to sleep. Around 7:30 I could hear the family waking up, the usually screaming, the sounds of tea being put on, the slurps and slops of bread being kneaded. I had a pounding headache and desperately needed to pee. I got up and explained to the eldest daughter that I wasn’t feeling well and that I did not want breakfast. Luckily there was a poo trail to the bitlama in case I couldn’t find my way there. Thank God. This was the second time that someone had pooed outside the outhouse. I couldn’t understand it. There were no points for being close. Either you sink it like a champ or you go home. Well, no one has explained the rules around here! I didn’t want to bother with the poo just yet and thought that if I ignored it it would go away…
The rest of the morning I was in and out of my room. My head was pounding and I felt exhausted. My back was beginning to tense up because of the amount of time I was sleeping on my stomach. I explained to my family that my head was killing me, and they suggested I take a shower later on. What a great idea! A family at my last site was convinced that too much sleep, drinking water and keeping your head uncovered was the source of all sicknesses.
Bath time is sacred. I relish. Ask anyone who knows me, and they will tell you that I love to primp. I don’t know when it started. I was somehow convinced that everytime I showered I needed to wash my hair, shave, thorough cleaning of all body parts (toes, ears, etc.), and then the usual lotioning up and accessories (tweezing, nail clippings, etc.). I don’t skip a beat and I take my time. I enjoy this time. The past two weeks grandma and I have been at odds over this shower time. It has just started happening that she wants to shower right at the same time as I do. The last time I cut things really short and did just the basics because she was waiting. This last time I had scissors in hand, about to make the cut and restore my hair to some kind of decency and I hear, “Hanan! Rig ad-ssird, (mumble mumble Tash tash words, etc.)” and I’m like fuuuuuuooookkkk. Guess the shearing will happening after I move into my own place. Oh well, something to look forward to.
At this point we are careening down the mountainside and the clouds are fantastic. I can’t wait to start my own schedule, waking up early and going on a run before the rest of this sleepy town has awakened and enjoying a cup of coffee out on my patio as people head off to the fields or to visit neighbors.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Beginning of Ramadan
The beginning of Ramadan. Many people in my community have asked if I was going to fast. I told them that I wanted to and I would try it out. The Gendarmes English-speaker told me to do it for the first 4-5 days and then resume my usual routine, he said it is the difference between a tourist and a traveler. A tourist sees the sights and only scratches the surface of the culture, while a traveler will devout his journey to understanding the culture, language and beliefs. People who are observing Ramadan may not eat, drink, smoke, or have sex. Those exempted are children up until age 11, very old people, travelers, those who are sick and women who are menstruating. I have been given lots of reactions about Ramadan. Some are excited because of the festivities that partake in the evenings until the wee hours of dawn. Some are anxious because they are either heavy smokers or have to work a lot in the fields during this time. Others have mixed reactions because it isn’t too hard to go without food, but abstaining from water is most difficult.
Ramadan began today. My host sisters came over last night to let me know that officially it was starting the following morning. There had been debate up until yesterday as to when it was starting. The dates ranged from the 20th to the 22nd, and based upon the moon patterns, the imam would call it. From around 4:30am until 7pm or so in the evening people were fasting. I am one of them. To be honest, it hasn’t been hard. My tummy grumbled once or twice but that was it. I had a sip of water this morning to wash down my multi-vitamin, so I guess already I have cheated. I did not want to venture out much today because of the heat. After the purchase of my refridgerator I keep a decent supply of water bottles inside, there are few things in this world as refreshing as ice cold water on a hot Moroccan day. I do have to admit though, that one of my ways to deal with stress and unwind is to cook. I just read Ruth Reichel’s book, “Give Me Apples,” about her trials and tribulations of love, cooking, and life. Intermittent are delicious recipes that I want to copy down before I return it to the Peace Corps library.
I practically went broke in college because my love to entertain people. We will see how I cope with this month. It has been hard to get motivated to exercise. I have written down a new schedule but it has been difficult to follow. Wake up early, work out, shower, breakfast, etc. Except then I get home late from dinner with friends, sleep in and postpone exercising until the afternoon, which I slack off from. I think I might ask home to send me some DVDs on yoga or tai chi or something. Looking at my roof from my back and doing crunches isn’t the most inspirational. But I do have to say that I took apart my sink, unclogged it and pieced it back together. That was a productive afternoon. The longest slime snake came out from the pipe. I gagged, I admit it. There are few things that gross me out and that just caught me off guard. It was black, shiny, gooey and had clumps of hair and black bits in it. Found some more cigarette butts in there too. WTF you may ask. The plumber was so lazy that he just dropped his butts down into the sink? I say plumber but my suspicions are on the landlord. A controversial figure in my life because as nice and helpful as he is to me, there are times I feel like he is taking advantage of the situation. For example, splitting the utilities bill, 50/50. I explained to him that there was just me in my house, where he has something like 11 people there (it is all a part of his property, we have just sectioned off my two rooms, kitchen and bathroom). And a large water bill, “because of your garden,” which I will consent would have increased the bill, but I doubt it was as much as he said it was. We agreed that he should install my own meter on the house, of course it isn’t done yet. I shall remind him of it the next time I see him, seeing that it is nearing the end of the month…
I painted a watercolor today of hands holding up the world. Pretty goddamn original huh? I know, but I liked the different skin tones, the background and the green and blue blob in the middle of it all. It was going to go on my fridge buy I don’t own any magnets which seems ironic, seeing that my mom went through the ones on ours and threw out the ones she didn’t like because there was so many. Alas, there are no tacky magnetic advertisements here. You also don’t prank call people here either, it is too expensive. There are a collection of dead flies on top of my mat. I wish to sweep them away but my broom has been borrowed once again. I’m not really too interested in sweeping, but as I sit here and listen to my stomach gurgle once again, I am looking for ways to occupy myself indoors ( I just took a shower and am letting my hair air dry, can’t go outside with wet hair!). Currently I am reading Passionate Nomad, The Life of Freya Stark, by Jane Fletcher Geniesse, and I wish to share this quote with you:
“Perseverance is often praised, but it is not so often realized that another quality must accompany it to make it of any value—and that is elasticity; perseverance in only one direction very often fails: but if one is ready to take whatever road is offered, and to change the chosen way, if circumstances change, and yet to keep the end in view—the success is infinitely more probable.”
I have about two more hours until we break the fast! Fun fun fun.
Azrou
We finished up our training session in Azrou with much adieu. That Friday night we had a lavish banquet with some of the best tasting food I have had yet in Morocco including bastiya (a flaky sweet pastry filled with chicken, almonds, and walnuts), mushrooms, salads, fresh fruit and a cake. There was some curvy Moroccan dancers and small band to entertain us. Of course, by the end of the night we were all dancing and trying to follow the haduce (song/dance,). Our assistant program manager was the most fun to watch. It is easy to imagine him as a toddler; he has a boyish face making it hard to distinguish his age. He was one of the first up to dance, and then yelling at all of us to accompany him. His threatened me with the bus to Rabat (I was grabbing a free ride with him there the next morning), so I quickly hopped up to shake it. It was really lots of fun.
After the dinner, we had sing-along time. Our stag is riddled with talent; you wouldn’t have guessed us to be Peace Corps at first but perhaps the first group of “Moroccan Idol.” We have belly dancers, singers, musicians, and lots of really fun people. We sat around in a circle outside, listening to “Chain of Fools,” “I’ve Got Sunshine,” and lots of others. After Blake sang (one of my CBT buds) my posse got up to head out to the bar, one of the few places where we could drink legally (acceding to Peace Corps rules). We met up with some of the Environment kids and had a good time amidst the somewhat drunk and sketchy Moroccans. Sketchy? You might ask? Perhaps, because in this culture, few Moroccans drink due to their religious beliefs. Some of the ones that do drink in the privacy of their homes or friends’ homes. These Moroccan men were out and about at a bar. I did not feel unsafe or threatened, but was relieved to be in a rather large group. Drunk American, drunk Moroccan… both have significant behavioral changes.
We split up after awhile; I stayed behind with the majority of the Enviros and a few of the Healthies. Times I feel split between the two due to my background and passions. I think I would have fit in right along with the Enviros as much as the Healthies. I think my largest project at my site will be to organize a trash disposal system, appealing to both sectors. Some, if not most of the Enviros, are placed beside or inside Morocco’s parks and preserves. Some deal with Ecotourism, others with creating a system of trails and maps to limit the degradation of flora and fauna, others with erosion control, and some with irrigation systems. How awful! Forced to hike all day and map out trails! Now, grant it, Enviros are the most isolated. Some have to leave their sites in the wee hours of the morning to hike to the closest big road, to hitch a ride into town, which could be miles and miles away. I have heard some of the most heartbreaking stories from friends of both sectors about bad host families, inappropriate host fathers, having to choose sides because half the town is one tribe and the other half is another. Both sectors have sites without water, without electricity (Melissa and Zach cook dinner by candlelight).
Our group leaves the bar to go ride bumper cars. Azrou, at the present time, has one of those traveling carnivals you often see in the parking lots of Kmart and the like. The carnivals that are hastily put up and taken down. That employ kids barely out of high school and ones that look like ex-cons. Carnivals that take little planes up in the air with screaming children and you say a prayer that those bolts don’t come loose and it truly takes flight. Same exact thing. Our group decided that this carnival had been one of the ones where someone had died, the company was sued and the carnival sold. Morocco picked it up in the 70s and now we were paying 5 Dhs/car to slam into each other. Awesome.
Bumper cars are fun. Bumper cars are even more fun when you are tipsy and listening to rap music from the States (Eminem anyone?). It was hilarious. After we rode and slammed into each other for at least 4 songs worth, we moved on to bigger things. Despite the fact that the carnival was pretty much closed, our group (mostly just because of the girls) convinced the young Moroccan men to turn on the flying planes. I do not do circles. Anyone who knows me well enough, knows that I like roller coasters, will ride in the front car but when it comes to circles I look like the Sandlot kids after a big chew at the balloon ride. I tried to stay behind (emphasis on tried). Poor whiny Zach, no one to ride with! He was whining like a little bitch how he had been the sympathy case with the bumper cars and switched off partners, and now he was alone again. Damn my black heart, iced over with disdain towards males in general but I like Zach. He is a cool guy and after losing a battle to some kind of intestinal parasite and a huge dislike of Moroccan food, his pants and shirts were loose and baggy. A whiny bitch with big clothes, who knew I had a weak spot?
I kept my eyes closed half the time and my hand over my mouth. I promised the car behind me I would try my best to projectile vomit, but that was up to my insides. Maybe it was the cool air, maybe the calming effect of the booze, but I kept it all down. Lhumdullah. (I wish now that I had vomited, cause that would have been HILARIOUS to everyone, except those in my wake… hence why I love Seth Rogen’s movies-Knocked Up, Pineapple Express, etc., and Jackass).
We departed. The Healthies had our hotel on one side of town and the Enviros, the other. I went back to my hotel and the dance party was hopping. We love to dance, and thanks to Nicole’s burnt copy or ‘Rize’, we were now into ‘crumping,’ a violent form of dance popular in LA. You should Google it in order to understand. In fact, I believe some of the PCVs even suffered a little from trying to do it… Either way, from bumper cars to dancing, we were living up our last night, aka “wylin’ out” in Gastonia terms.
Skipping ahead to the ride home from Rabat. Preface: Rabat was a culture shock; Azrou was a good stepping stone from the bled to the full-blown city. Women showed skin, had their hair uncovered, colored, and cut. It was a large city with banks, restaurants and stores with shit (worthless things like glass sculptures and porcelain dolls, things you can only buy with a surplus of income). Rabat is on the ocean and we made sure to visit and enjoy ourselves. People were swimming and surfing, I saw bathing suits, couples holding hands and kissing… craziness, especially coming from the bled.
I made travel arrangements to Ourzazate by CTM, a bus company that costs more for its direct routes, nicer seats and air conditioning. The other option was to take the souq bus. These buses stop for anyone and anything. They are known to break down, do not have air conditioning and are a wee bit more shady, but cost less. The difference was close to 50 Dhs, but Peace Corps is reimbursing me for my travel, and they prefer that PCVs take CTM when available. Starting at 6:30pm, I was to take the bus to Casablanca, transfer to another bus to Marrakesh and proceed to Ourzazate. Little did I know that I would not arrive to Ourzazate until 6:30 the next morning, but that actually worked out for the best.
I almost missed my first bus. We had stayed at a cheap hotel in Rabat (everything costs more there) that Peace Corps had arranged for us. The beds were not made, and we ended up putting on the sheets ourselves. We ended up having to ask for towels also and there were no outlets in the room. My phone was almost dead when we arrived at the CTM station and I plugged it into the outlet there, making a friend in the process. In his broken English and substituted French we talked about our jobs and why I was in Morocco. They called out that a bus was leaving at 6:00. I thought it was another one, no, it was mine. He was trying to get my email address as I was running out to flag it down. The bus driver scolded me, but in a jovial way and I received a few looks from the passengers. Falisha had come with me to the bus station, her bus was leaving a lot later and she joked about how I almost missed my bus because of my boyfriend. Luck, what little I have, was on my side.
The larger cities have few people who speak Berber, which makes finding places and traveling difficult. When you do find someone who speaks your language you make an instant friend and ally. Switching buses in Casablanca was no problem and the man who took my bags made sure I was on the right bus. I slept fitfully to Marrakesh; we stopped there around 1am to pick up a few more passengers. From there, the only way to Ourzazate is Titchka Pass, a windy two lane road through the prettiest mountains I have seen yet in Morocco. I remember them the first time going to site. We were told to abstain from lunch that first time, because lots of people get sick. The scenery is incredible and I regret that is was in the pitch black night, with only our headlights for light. The CTM bus took up most of the highway, especially on blind curves, good fortune that few people were traveling in the wee hours of the morning because it could have proven disastrous.
We stopped in a small town that thrived on travelers passing through. All the businesses were open, their lights on, beckoning people to stop and grab gifts and a bite to eat. Despite it being 3am, there were multiple grills open, the meat hanging from large hooks. You would simply ask for a certain amount of meat, they would slice it right in front of you and grill it on the spot. The smell coming from these grills was incredible, and in between customers the owners were fanning the smoke out, enticing empty stomachs. I got out using the bathroom and buying water, not hungry but I wish I had been. I acted like a seasoned passenger, like I knew what I was doing. I was definitely the only “arurmi” there (tourist/non-Moroccan). I made sure to get on the bus with plenty of time to spare. When we had loaded and the driver was ready to go, he sounded his horn a few times and we pulled out. “Wait! Wait!” shouted one of the passengers, “The man next to me is not here,” the bus driver looked angry and we stalled for a bit. No one knew where he was. He blew the horn a few times more, including a few obscenities. We had gone no more than 10 yards down the road when a man came running up beside the bus, banging on the door. The driver hesitated, and it looked like he wasn’t going to stop. I wondered if I had not gotten on in time, if this could have been me. He finally opened the door and started yelling at the man. The man got on and into his seat, calmly thanking the bus driver. The bus driver was livid. He was a jovial fellow and had made a few jokes throughout his drive, making the passengers closest to the front laugh. I didn’t know what he was saying but he seemed like a character enough. “Thfu!” is a universal remark made by all towards whatever is displeasing (my youngest host sister often receives this from my host mom). Except this time, the ‘thfu’ was so forceful he actually spit on the windshield. I watched his spit slide all the way down, leaving a snail trail of disgust. His reaction was unstartling and I became very wary of the power all bus and taxi drivers alike. If they wanted to leave you, they could.
We arrived in Ourzazate with no other incidents and I lazily climbed out and collected my things. I didn’t know what to do. It was 6:30 in the morning, much too early to do much. I grabbed a taxi to a hotel where most PCVs stay when in town. Checking into a room to catch some sleep, I debated about what to do; spend the day and night here and head into my site the next day, or push through and head back that day. One of my province-mates was also staying in the hotel. Had I been smarter, I would have just made him let me sleep in his room (most rooms were doubles), but instead, due to my indecisiveness, I checked into one of my own. I woke up in a sweat around 10am, the heat had already set in and at that point I decided it would be best to just continue on. For some reason I thought I wouldn’t have to pay the whole amount for 4 hours worth of time spent. Wrong. I tried to haggle with the receptionist; his argument was that this was a hotel. I understood, but at the same time I hadn’t used any of the amenities, and really there was only an unmade bed. Alas, I paid for the room and met up with Emory and we grabbed a taxi to Boumalen. I was exhausted and just wanted to go home.
I finally made it home around 2 that afternoon. My garden had flourished the time I had been away thanks to my host family watering it. It was a welcoming site. There were at least four huge zucchini squash, a dozen unripe tomatoes, and the beginnings of ears of corn. My jungle was spilling out over the sides, the leaves craving sunlight. The interior was as I had left it, two weeks’ worth of dust and dead bugs inside. My broom was nowhere to be found. It had been borrowed of course. For some unknown reason, my broom is coveted by my neighbors and host family alike. The broom has a wooden handle, with an attached brush, that’s all. For some reason, no one has coughed up the 12 Dhs to buy one like it and resort to the handheld ones made from a dried out bush. These are cheap but inefficient, having to stoop over the whole time and retraced sweeps to get all the dust. All I wanted to do was clean up a little, unpack, and take a nap. The little things… I brushed away the dead spiders and crickets and crawled into my bed (it being a folded blanket and sheets on the ground), exhausted from travel and the last two weeks events. Finally, I was home.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Schweeya
These past two weeks, the newest Health and Environment Sector-Morocco has been congregating in Azrou, a small city in the Atlas Mountains. Divided up into our respective congregations, the health stag stayed in one hotel and the environment, another, all the way across town. No hotels in the area could accommodate both groups, culminating approximately 59 volunteers plus 5-6 Peace Corps staff. It was unfortunate to say the least. The health group has gotten closer and we have become better friends with each other, as has the environment group, but mixed together, not so much. Groups before us have had lots of time during training to get to know each other well and develop lasting relationships. Despite our high success at acquiring the language and adapting quickly to the culture, we are suffering in our support networking. Alas, I do not think that Peace Corps will change their protocol too much from this latest revision. There have been a few suggestions, like housing all of us together for the first two weeks to develop the foundation of the language and have a few vital culture sessions. Afterwards, we would divide up and spend a month or so with a host family for our CBT training. Then we could at least talk to our family just a little bit, with basic introductions. My CBT host family thought I was from Germany for the first two days, “Alemania? Alemania??” I remember distinctly. (Which makes me question Peace Corps thoroughness of explaining to host families who and what our roles are…)
Luckily, this past weekend, a few of us got together to hang out and spend our time off in a beautiful area 45 minutes outside of Azrou. Nestled in the mountains, with the backdrop of two gorgeous waterfalls, we stayed in a Bed & Breakfast type of hotel. One of the chicks from Enviro was celebrating her birthday and asked the concierge at her hotel for some suggestions as to where to go site-seeing and spend the night with a group of friends. Group of 17. Word gets around quickly and it was an open invitation. This hotel was actually a house with two open rooms that they had cleared out and lined with ponjs. We shared the bathroom with the family. A number of us slept outside the room, in an open courtyard area for a reduced rate. The village was incredible. The waterfalls were fed by a river and the river and all its man-made diversions flowed throughout the village. We went on a hike to go find the local swimming hole. Titrit and I stayed behind to wait on our two slow-poke friends, AP and Sarah. Well, inevitably we get separated. I felt inclined to go right when our friends had actually went left. Things work out despite and we went on an unbelievable hike. We climbed up to one of the waterfalls and got as close as possible, getting soaking wet. Four Half-clothed girls, arms outstretched, in the middle of Morocco, out in a tiny village, we embraced mother nature and all her beauty. It was overwhelming and satisfying.
We hiked on, trying to find the source and hopefully, our friends. We found blackberries, climbed through some small streams(creek stompin’), and reached the top of the mountain. We found a cow and an empty field. Our friends were nowhere in sight. We started back down, hoping that once we got back into town, we could use our Darija speaker to get directions to the swimming hole. Of course, all we had to do was follow the kids in swimming trunks with towels slung over their shoulders. On our way we intercepted the rest of our group, looking a bit tired and worked over. We had been out for close to 2 ½ hours on our hike, and they said they had just gotten rid of their fo-guide (pseudo) and were ready to head back home. We decided to check out the area for ourselves. Going down an eroding switchback we made it to the swimming hole, a small dammed up section of the river. We decided to trek up a bit, looking for a more private spot where we could hang out, get wet and discreetly break out our bottles of gin and vodka. Once again, the euphoria consumed my thoughts, my emotions, my being. I was just at a state of bliss. It’s hard to describe. It happens around once every other day. My surroundings and recent experiences invade my thoughts and I just become incredibly thankful for my circumstances. I am in a beautiful and interesting country. I question, I accept, I understand. Much of what I want to do here depends on my motivations and abilities to develop relationships. A lot of that comes with time, with language learning, with understanding the best way to assess my community and develop a sustainable project.
That night we ate tajine and started into our sangria that we had made (fresh peaches, grapes, oranges, and our recent addition of blackberries). The family had prepared a cake for Sarah’s birthday. It was delicious. Everyone was having a great time, we were dancing and singing, playing cards and having in-depth conversations. Around midnight or so, groups had split up into a dance party, a star-gazing party, and a swim party. Eventually all groups made it down to the river to do what we know how to do best, skinny-dipping. Now, some dissenters may think this is one of the most illogical ideas to do, but to us, it was ingenious. There was a wedding going on in the middle of the village, people were out and about, people were drinking (both Moroccans and Americans) No one noticed us walk down to the river, on the outskirts of town. It was dark and there was a half-moon, enough light to kind of see where the path stopped and the river started. There was no discussing it, it was all or nothing and we went all out. I was with a group of 5 other people. The river was ice cold and felt amazing. The stayed in long enough to go numb and quickly got out and back into our clothes. No harm, no foul. My night ended quickly once we got back to the house, I curled up into the blanket I had borrowed from our hotel and fell asleep.
The next morning we slowly woke up. Some of us were hurting, some of us were ok. We rehashed the nights events over watermelon I had bought. Sweet and juicy, it hit the spot and needs to be advertised as the perfect morning-after food. We eventually got taxis and made it back into Azrou. Recovery included a long nap in our big bed, the three of us; Titrit, AP and I. We are solid. I am the youngest at 24, Titrit is 26 and AP is 28 years old. We are all CBT site-mates. Titrit is from Denver but has spent a lot of time living in Sante Fe. She is a self-defense instructor, yoga guru and has a great laugh. She is a strong woman who quietly analyzes people and situations. She recently cut her hair to about half-inch and looks awesome. She is one of the few people who can pull off that look, not just pull it off but look awesome. AP was in Ameri-Corps previous to Peace Corps, teaching middle and high school students sexual health. She specialized in peer educators and is passionate about STI and HIV education. Her background is Gyanese and she is beautiful. She is also very strong and has strong opinions, never shying away from voicing them. A dancer in a previous life, she is graceful and loves attention. The three of us have a great balance, a lot of reason, and like to soundboard observations, ideas, and basic PCV gossip. Don’t tell us anything that you wouldn’t want the three of us knowing. We are each other’s support network and a family. I live closest to Titrit near Tingrir, AP lives the farthest away near Midelt. Luckily, we are on the same side of the country and neither one of us are in the far south or along the coast. Hopefully, we will be spending Thanksgiving together at Titrit’s house (aka Brokedown Palace as she likes to call it) at her site. AP is working on putting together intramural province games and I think Titrit and I will head up the Ourzazate Province Team. We probably won’t dominate, but I think overall we stand a chance against some of the other teams. Games start after Ramadan, rugby has been suggested but I vetoed it. I think we should stick to safe games like ultimate Frisbee, softball, kickball and the like. I recently have been in touch with some of my former teammates and it looks like Ireland for next spring break. I’m going to get in rugby shape for that trip. Trust me, I’m there.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Black Dog
I still have small bits of dough stuck to the backs of my hands from my previous morning’s work. I successfully made bread today for the first time, all on my own. The other two times had been interrupted and resulted in some rather flat and unsatisfactory loaves. Having just finished a small Moroccan snack of sardines and bread, I decided I wanted to relinquish some thoughts, since I haven’t for a while…
Introductions can be boring, but necessary. I am just about as settled as I plan to be in my house. I abandoned shopping on a mattress, seeing that they were all too expensive or were as hard as cement (we say that in Tash "zund cema"). So, I have decided I would much rather go for the real thing and sleep on the floor. The ponj I inherited was given with a warning and after three rather uncomfortable, sleepless nights now, I think the ponj has seen its last days in my bedroom. The only thing left I had on my shopping list was a refrigerator, and I have been across the board on that one. Yesterday, we headed into Kelaa to go see if our neighboring souk town had a better selection. It does not. I saw some really nice, brand new ones, priced at 1700 and 1800 Ds, approximately half of our settling in allowance. Most volunteers buy slightly used ones for about 1000 to 1200 Ds, some are inherited, and some volunteers sell to other volunteers for about half the price they bought it for. I went in search of a used appliances store and found some rather interesting places.
He looked like a sketchy businessman to begin with. Stealing short puffs on his cigarette and assessing me with his dark twitchy eyes, he thought he saw a quick buck for a stupid tourist. He only had large refrigerators and I needed a small one. Anything bigger would take up half of my kitchen, use up too much electricity, and frankly, not fit. He told me to come back in about an hour and he would have a small refrigerator then, a really really good one. I went shopping. I was in the market for some pants. I can’t wear shorts in my site, so 99% of the time I am in jeans or workout pants and it can get quite hot here in Morocco. Skirts would be a viable option except you still have to wear pants underneath them, if you go to have tea at someone’s house, you are more than likely to be sitting on the floor and the risk is too great not to have only some kind of safety… It was a fun morning. I was speaking a fair amount of the language and being able to describe to the store owners what exactly I was shopping for. They appreciated that I was speaking their language. I made jokes about the colors and was picky, if the pants were orange or yellow I said that it hurt my eyes and was like the sun, white pants I would have to wash everyday and I don’t have enough money to buy that much Tide, pink was like the flowers and I made a gross face. The last store I stopped at didn’t look like much from the outside. They have countertops that stretch across the store’s entrance so you can’t look through the items yourself. It is not for browsing. Most items come prepackaged in plastic, protection against the elements I assume, but it makes it quite difficult to see what the items look like. Long sleeves or short sleeves, the cut and the design. I described the pants I was looking for to the little man. He pulls out a pair, exactly what I wanted. They look terribly silly until you are wearing them. MC Hammer has come back in style, but as nice, loose linen available in all colors. I settled on a pair of chocolate brown and olive green ones. He was telling me I could find the same ones in Ourzazate for 20 Ds more, he gave me a good price for them and then I got a scarf for free. That’s how it works. J
I tried to avoid the sketchy businessman on my way back. I don’t know the roads of Kelaa at all, and taking the wrong turn is not a good idea, so I ended up on the main road. His store was off a side street and I hurried past, trying to avoid any and all eye contact with everyone to no avail. He runs up and catches me. He has the small, really good fridge and I should look at it now! Waxxight. It is smaller, definitely used. I like to describe it as one you would see in someone’s garage, holding beer, and only beer, because thinking about putting food in there would a stupid idea. It was gross. It needed a good cleaning. I asked how much he wanted for it. I thought he would start off around 700 Ds and we might work it down to 550 or 600 Ds. Guess! Guess how much he wanted for it… 1500 Ds! Hahahaha I laughed in his face. Pure laughter, Are you joking? Do you really think I am that stupid?! Oh man, he explained to me that it was a good model, even used the only English word he knew, “Guarantee” that it worked. There was no point in pricing it. He started out too high, and I definitely didn’t want to buy anything from this man.
The post office now charges for packages. I received my first one on Wednesday, and was very excited. Anjie had one waiting for her too. I was stoked. My first package since I have been in country! Full of things that I had asked for from my family! Anjie had said that she came to the post office earlier and they were now taxing packages. They told her she had to pay 500 Ds in order to pick it up. Surely thins must be a mistake? We were only aware of taxes on electronics. She had a package full of miscellaneous items, none of them electronics. My package was twice the size of hers and yet hers weighed probably two times mine. They were expecting us to pay 250 Ds for mine and 500 Ds for hers. Outrageous. Inconceivable! (Princess Bride) But really, we, as volunteers, cannot afford to pay those taxes on our packages. Receiving a stipend of approximately 2000 Ds a month, that would severely cut into a budget for something else. We need to work out some other system. My solution is for Peace Corps and the post office to work out some kind of system. We are volunteers here in this country, working for free. These packages are a small piece of sanity. These packages let us know that our families love us and support us. Our tutor, who is a big help for most things, and doesn’t understand others, asked if the things inside Anjie’s package were worth 500 Ds (approximately $55) Yes and No. First off, most of the things inside you cannot buy in Morocco, if you can, they are incredibly expensive. Her parents sent her citronella candles because of the disastrous number of invisible mosquitoes; they sent her journal, peanut butter and some other small items. Worth 500 Ds? Probably not, but to send it back to America would be such a waste at the same time. Anjie is going to Ourzazate next week to dispute this with the post office there. I hope she is successful. We both have other packages on the way. As of right now I am going to ask my parents to hold off until we work something out here. Grrrr.
On my way to pick up a mirror and I am stopped by guides who ask me to tea. Guides are an interesting lot. I have heard them describe themselves as thieves. Which in some cases, they are. They are easy to point out, dressed in bright scarves and loud shirts. Where they might look Moroccan or African at first glance, it is a stark contrast to what the normal everyday wear typically is. They are usually young guys 18-25 years old who know enough language, fluent in French, some English and others to persuade tourists to employ their services. They take tourists up through the gorge, down to the Sahara and to see the sights and sounds of Morocco. They have certain hotels and restaurants they take tourists to. It is all a system and they do pretty well for themselves. They usually get some action on the side, part of the job. One of the guides I meet is pretty notorious. He is a good 6ft tall, if not taller. His friend was just as tall but spoke less English. Nordine has a huge personality. He carries himself well, full of self-confidence. He always wears a lime green scarf and wraps it around his dreaded hair. I am the relatively new volunteer. They want to know who I replaced and where I live. As a rule, we usually stay away from the guides. Different reasons. They are associated with tourists, and we try to distance ourselves as much from being perceived as tourists. Guides are a tad bit slimy and our reputation is usually all that we have to go on. Guides also like volunteers, we know their language and have made an effort to understand and respect their customs. There is an ongoing joke that you can always spot PCVs, we are covered and modest and usually bitchy. We don’t respond to Bonjours or offers to look at goods inside stores or to tea with strangers. We don’t mean to be ugly, but I am sure it looks like that sometimes. Nordine insists that I have tea with them, “You always say ‘one day, enchallah,’ have one glass of tea with us and talk and then you may go,” Ok. Fine. And I was curious.
I walked into a small apartment with a large freezer in the middle of the room, the same ones you find in gas stations that have ice cream in them. They offer me cold water out of it. Out of nowhere I hear a yapping and a daschund comes up and starts sniffing my feet. I recognize this dog! He belongs to another guide…I then go in and sit in the living room. A French lady looks up from the ponj. She is in her late 50s and has milky blue eye shadow painted on her eyelids. Her lips are outlined in a dark brown color and the contrast is startling. She has straw blond hair and it is cut short across the back of her head. She is lumpy and starts speaking to me in French. Lounging next to her is the dog’s owner, another guide, but as of right now I can only think that he must be unemployed and busy entertaining this lady. This happens every now and then and I find it fascinating. He was probably half her age and good-looking. He looks up at me and I notice his eyes. Damn, he is stoned out of his mind. I then notice the huge blunt in his hand. I can’t smell anything though because the fan is situated at their feet. They are watching some French movie on a PSP. He is blazed out of his mind. At this point, I am given a glass of tea and sip it slowly. I talk to Nordine and his friend. One day, I can have him and his friends at my house for tea? Ummm yeah, sure…
I go and get my mirror (full size, 1m x35cm) and head back out towards the main part of town. A transit (large van that can fit up to like 30 people) that I take from time to time passes by me slowly. I am still about a half-block away from the main street. I curse myself for walking back so slowly, knowing that the next transit probably won’t leave for another hour at least. I notice the brake lights. The money boy recognized me and they stopped! (Money boys are anywhere from 12-20 years old and collect money from the passengers, load transits, open doors and assist the driver) I start walking faster, aware of the very fragile purchase under my arms. They hoist it up and put it up on the roof. The roof is crammed with various other goods, huge sacks of flour, crates of vegetables, luggage, etc. I told him to “pay attention cause it was glass” (don’t think that matters). I get in with a “bismillah” and slide in next to another woman. The transit isn’t even that crowded, to me that means that they had waited long enough and were ready to pull out. Awesome! That means it was going to take even longer for the next one to fill up. I lean back and relax, mulling over the day’s events. Oh shitfuckdamnit. I left my package with my tutor. Fuuuccckkkk. I haven’t even opened it up yet.
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