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.