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.

Thanks Jack.

I had one of the craziest weekends to date. Jack and I had been planning on meeting up for about three weeks. We enjoy each other’s company and find a fair amount of common ground between the two of us. Whether it is our North Carolinian upbringing or love of the outdoors, we find it easy to talk to one another. We decided to meet in Errachidia, the capital of the province. It was an easy inbetween spot from each of our sites, and he had made arrangements to stay with a PCV who lived close.

That may be the last time that I allow Jack to make the arrangements.

I have been told lots of things about Peace Corps Morocco. I have been told that it is the second largest Peace Corps country, with close to 200 PCVs, following Ukraine. (true) I have been told that people who have some medical issues, ones that wouldn’t limit their work but need additional medical attention are stationed in Morocco due to its easier access to healthcare. (possibly true) I have also been told that Peace Corps Volunteers lifespan is usually ten years less than the average American due to their service (stress, exposure to various forms of diseases, etc.). (I have no idea) I was also told that we would meet one or two volunteers who had slipped through the cracks and we would ask ourselves, “Why the hell is this person doing Peace Corps?!”

I should not be one to pass judgment, but speaking frankly, I have never met anyone quite like this person. We will name them Guy. I will not go into specifics on Guy’s life but I can tell you that never have I had to be so patient with someone. A person who speaks, tells you almost nothing, and listening is just a breather until his turn to speak. I know everything about Guy’s family, lovers, medical history, first car, pets, etc. Lots of this information was personal. Things I didn’t want nor need to know. Jack and I spent two nights at Guy’s house. His site was hot, hotter than I had been used to. I was still sleeping with one blanket or a sheet up in the mountains. I could get away with jeans and a long sleeved shirt most days and be comfortable. When I sleep, for whatever reason, my body temperature increases, I’ve been nicknamed “a small furnace”. So sleeping downstairs, the hottest area of the house, and I was dying. The second night we tried to sleep up on the roof, but we were mosquito food and ended up moving back down to the heat to escape their incessant biting. Guy had barely stopped talking enough to eat and now I was sleep deprived. I was exhausted, mentally and physically. Jack and I had spent little time catching up with one another and using each other as a soundboard. I was more stressed out at the end of the weekend that when we had started. Luckily Jack and I had our moments (my reference to the number 1 as written by Moroccans looks like a “pitched tent” and this reference turned out terribly during the card game, Rummy, when I made this random observation and I ended up in full laughing tears and excused myself to the next room to gain composure, Guy did not understand why I was laughing—just clueless to the world around him) and I was ready to head home on Sunday. Jack asked if I wanted to accompany him to Imilchil where he would be cooking for another PCV, Liz and her family to thank them for bringing his laptop to him. Liz’s family had come to visit her and things worked out beautifully for Jack to get a computer. I accepted his offer. There was a transit that went through a pass in the mountains that I could take back and eventually get to my site the following day.

Sunday morning we packed up and left for Errachidia, sharing a cab with Guy who was going to visit another PCV. Well, we should have been so lucky that his next stop was the same as ours! Another cab ride to the next town. At this point, I had learned more about this person’s life and it was unfortunate, because I could recognize that he needed some friends. I don’t know how to put this. Some people can envelop themselves in a cloud of self and it blinds their view of life, what is going around them, and stifles their ability of not only maintaining relationships but also being able to share other’s perspectives. I think it is important to try to understand your circumstances. Look at yourself from an outsider’s perspective. Lots of us do this for superficial reasons, wanting to convey ourselves in a certain fashion to impress or dissuade others from our insecurities. I don’t know. A shocking blast of truth and a hard smack in the face might do Guy some good. Everyone needs a humbling experience. I have to deflate my ego now and then, and I heard that it’s good for your health. Guy is so delicate that I am afraid that the humbling experience would push him to his brink. Maybe I am just a poor listener. Maybe I had just met this kid and I couldn’t handle it. I need training or something, I needed different circumstances and access to drugs and alcohol. I was told that we were stupid and crazy for staying at Guy’s house, especially for two days. Jack did little investigating into our arrangements, but at the same time I can’t blame him either. It’s Peace Corps. We all are in this together, so why would you need to second referece?!

For the cracks. The goddamn cracks, because of what has the ability to slip through them…

To wrap up my trip, the transit was not going to Tingrir the next day but the next. Liz’s family had a terrible first impression of me. I barely spoke and contributed nothing to their interesting conversation. Luckily, Jack’s charm made up for it. He is a charmer. Wink wink. I think he might have charmed not only the parents but one too many that night but I will bother him about that later. I left the next day, on the early morning transit. I had been warned that over half of the trip was on unpaved, dirt roads that winded through the pass. It was either risk this trek or go back through ErRich and Errachidia, which would cost me twice as much and probably as much time. I wanted to risk it. We were about 30 minutes down the road when we came to our first obstacle. The road had turned into one huge mud puddle. There was (I just moved my yogurt to block it from a fly’s line of sight, who is the crazy one now…) a small detour around and the driver chose to take this way. I supported that decision. For whatever reason, he decided to hug the side closest to the road turned river. This side was loose dirt. One second we are amiably moseying along, the next I am looking towards my driver at a new 30^o angle. Here was the perfect opportunity to learn some new and true berber curse words! He just looks at me. I thought about cursing enough for the both of us. Something colorful. I decide to take his lead. We file out of the transit to assess the damage. We had sunk into the drink up to the front axle. More than a foot away from our tracks was the hard-packed road others before us had used. Like I said, I have no idea why he decided to hug that side but we were going to pay for it dearly.

Watching close to 15 men decide the best approach to our decision makes for great entertainment but I was in no mood. They started digging out the dirt from the other side’s tires to try to level the vehicle. We watched as two other cameos (large trucks) and finally Jack’s transit bypass us and trudge through the mud puddle from hell. Trucks had stopped, men riding bikes to the fields had stopped. We hadn’t budged in over an hour. Finally, a small two-wheel drive Isuzu with a cow and old man in the back decided that with maybe a little towing power, we might alleviate our situation. The truck had almost gotten stuck going through the mud puddle to come back around to help us. I am not religious and even then I debated about saying a quick prayer. (Of course, times of need…) So an Isuzu truck, cow in back, piece of rope, and 15 Moroccan men standing watch, we all breathed huge sighs of relief when that rope pulled taunt and wheels inched forward.

We continued on our trip and I held my breath each time we went through huge puddles and areas we sunk deep into rutted, red mud. There were areas that were twice as bad and we went through them without a hitch. The end of the road was amazing. The small towns and mountains huddle together diving into a beautiful gorge, full of palm trees and incredible rock formations. A tourist trap for good reason. I saw old French men with little on accept climbing harnesses. My trip was complete.

Finally made it to Tingrir, and the next day home. The following day I peed through my butthole. I have no idea. I didn’t even know I was sick. It was just you know, closure from such a crazy trip. I blame my mom. (Dad understands…).

Bits and Pieces

Yesterday on my walk around the area, I had the most interesting time: invited to tea three times, passed a small group of men smoking hash, walked by a group of girls who were delighted to meet me and one who wanted anything, anything from me-- to my t-shirt, even the elastic in my hair--, introduced myself to a few people, yelled at by some boys in a dump truck, invited to tea the following day by a neighbor, invited to the fields, etc. All in all, it was an uplifting walk outside and I felt great afterwards.

I was asked recently whether the people in my community were happy I am here. I don’t know, honestly. Peace Corps is not a NGO. We do not have a large supply of money readily available. The saying goes something like this, “Give a man a fish and he feeds for a day, teach a man to fish and he feeds for a lifetime,” Which sums up 1/3 of Peace Corps mission. We are here to build sustainable projects and hope to pass on some of our knowledge so that others will benefit for future generations. The other 2/3s is cultural exchange. I know that Morocco has done plenty to help share their culture with me. It is in my face everyday, and people here love to explain it to me: “Drink tea, Eat bread, Wash your clothes in the river, Bake, Make tajine, couscous, and be with your family,”

This is a relatively new site, Sarah started it only two years ago. Health education tends to be a bit more difficult because old habits die hard. Even the most basic things that we take for granted are hard to accomplish. We all share the same mug of water during dinner. We all eat from the same communal dish. Families sleep in the same room. Families wash their hands with soap after meals (if at all). Toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap are all an additional cost. We eat a lot of bread, rice, and couscous, which tend to be some of the most filling and cheapest meals. Families do not have a lot of money for hygiene products. Despite these small setbacks, they are only setbacks. They are not permanent. The family received toothbrushes from Sarah. They are usually only used when bathing, which is infrequent. Other things though, like improving diet and proper prenatal care could be some of the easier things to improve. Many suffer from malnutrition and a lack of protein in the diet. Meat is the most expensive. Protein and amino acids are essential to the overall repairment of the body. I hope to get started soon in these topics.

I feel as though that this site would also benefit from Small Business Development and Environmental volunteers. There are enough young women in this area that would support a proper working Neddi and need some direction, and new ideas to get one started. Overgrazing and the diminishing amount of trees is a huge problem. Supposedly, the community is supposed to get two or three large, gas ovens in the near future. These are supposed to be used instead of the small private ones where people burn wood to bake bread. The hillsides are stripped of trees and it is causing an increasingly alarming amount of erosion. Landslides here are common, especially when it rains. Alas, the community needs to come together to make a conscious effort to decide to use these ovens when the time comes, and do away with the older method. This can be incredibly hard as we all know. Having to change our ways from what we grew up doing, what we are accustomed to, will be very difficult. Yet it is desperately needed. Last winter, a small café beside the road was completely abolished by a landslide. Luckily the owner, who usually sleeps in a room off the back, had been staying with family that night. The devastation is shocking.

I ran into the president of the school recently at the family’s house and he asked that we get started on some projects coming September. Sarah had worked on some grant proposals to secure funds for a room onto the women’s Neddi. A Neddi is a women’s association where they typically come together to work on traditional crafts like weaving and looming. I assume some of the projects he is talking about include the room onto the women’s Neddi and possibly finding a place for the Association to rent. Whether these are one and the same, I do not know. Luckily he speaks a little bit of English. These do not sound like health related projects but I am here to help with what the town needs. Incorporation of health projects would be easy if there was an additional room onto the Neddi. We could hold health classes (not only health but maybe yoga and physical education and prenatal classes). We could host other PVCs or members in the community to give lectures and talks relating to small business, environment, children’s sports clubs, theatre, etc.

Lots of work is being done right now in the height of the growing season. Women go to and from the fields all day and temperatures soar in the early afternoon. September would be a good time to start work. Also, with the upcoming elections [12/06/2009] in this small community, one thing at a time.

Most people do not understand Peace Corps purpose, if they have ever heard of Peace Corps at all. Those that do understand are probably some of the friendliest, most hospitable and understanding people I have met thus far. They say, “I know you are not a tourist. I know that you work for free to help our people, and I want to thank you.” It’s times like those that you truly feel welcome, understood, and accepted.

I am envious of some aspects of Moroccan culture. Houses are built side by side. My neighbor comes over every day just to hang out, sometimes to eat dinner, sometimes to drink tea, mostly just to chat. I see most of the family on a daily basis. They live right down the road and I often accompany one of the sisters to get fresh buttermilk from the cow. Everyone here walks everywhere and if you need a ride into town, (Boumalen is an hour and a half away) you make arrangements with Abdraheem, the taxi driver, right across the way (he usually leaves at 5am). The neighborhood kids come over and if its meal time, it’s never a problem. I would love to have my parents and my sisters close to me by the time I am ready to settle down. I can only imagine. It is an instant support network. Despite possible skirmishes and arguments, there isn’t enough to be said to have family surrounding you. When I heard that my sister was moving back next door to my parents’ house I was a little jealous. My parents are amazing people and so much fun to be around. It seems like my family has this predisposition to branch out and test ourselves by going to school several states away. Yet here, I have never appreciated my family more and missed them so much. Appreciated how much they mean to me. How few and far between opportunities like these come, and because of my upbringing and strong influences from my parents and sisters, I can be in Africa and trying to make a difference. I am missing out on their lives but I know they understand. It only saddens me that I can’t share this experience with them now. Hopefully, they will come and visit me. I am told from other PCVs that no one really understands (or can imagine) until they come to visit. It is hard to describe the outdoor bathroom, the sheep in the pen, the hot afternoons and chilly evenings, how bright the moon is at night.

That’s all for now.

We started on my garden three days ago. I woke up and decided that I was going to do that morning, it would give me something to do that would be productive and fulfilling. I started out clearing the trash from the area. The outside of the house is not aesthetically pleasing in the least bit. There are piles of debris, trash, rocks, and it’s ugly. I feel like if I am going to be living here for the next two years I want to have a garden out front. Nothing ridiculous, just some vegetables and herbs.

It started with clearing out the trash and one of my host sisters came with me to help. Then the next door neighbor (landlord’s daughter) came over and started helping. She was great. We cleared out the area of rocks and then lined the space (approximately 10ft x 5ft) with large rocks. She grabbed two huge bags of manure from their sheep?cow? and we unloaded it. The garden was sufficient and looked so much better than before. We watered the area down and made plans to get “kasbor” (parsley/cilantro) in the afternoon. I got a shit-ton of kasbor seeds for 5 Ds. I didn’t need that much but I accepted my bag of seeds and went back to the house. The landlord (my neighbor) told me that we would be putting up a privacy wall and cementing the roof soon “nchallah” (God willing). The roof leaked in one of the rooms, debilating it’s use for the past two years. Whenever it rained Sarah would put buckets underneath, she said it was a pretty major leak. I insisted that they fix the roof before I moved in. Her bedroom and living room were one and the same. She used the leaky room to hang her wash out. I also wanted another window put in. Unfortunately the house is more like an apartment and just an extension of the landlord’s house. So where I wanted to put a window in the kitchen, one of the walls was the back of their bathroom, the other looks into their living room. I settled on a window above the door. It should provide a lot more airflow and light. He also fixed the light in the hallway, which should improve some of the darkness. I don’t know if I want to paint yet. Paint is expensive and I would have to buy all the materials also. It might be worth painting the living room though. Depends on how my funds are looking. I think I could borrow paintbrushes and the like though. I just have to ask around.

Next day, after the garden was planned out, I came back over to start planting. There were some young guys stringing together a bamboo-type plant to make my privacy wall and the others were working right outside the house. The garden was gone. They had leveled out the area and had moved the garden beside the road. They were cementing the area right alongside the front door, like a small patio. Laho, the landlord, explained that this area I could sit and do my laundry. They were lining the garden with cement blocks. It was bigger and looked better than the first one! I wasn’t upset at all. The garden just gave me something to do the day before and now, whether because I should initiative or not, they were putting in a much nicer garden.

Today I went over to help in my garden. We started just pulling out the big rocks. It was hard work, I was sweating (go figure) and the kamikaze gnats were flying straight into my eyes, up my nose, and into my mouth. The lucky ones got spit out. The really lucky ones got digested. I started rooting out some of the smaller rocks. I figured I had the time and I wanted to do this right. Whether it was my initiative or not, they too, started pulling out the smaller rocks. It took up the majority of the morning. I didn’t want a break, it felt good to have my back hurt, sweat in my eyes and dirt under my fingernails. After we pulled out the majority of the rocks, we unloaded two wheelbarrows worth of manure and mixed that in with the earth and made 5 spaces for different vegetables to be planted. Since we had the kasbor already we went ahead and planted those and watered the area. This afternoon I hope to find some tomatoes plants, maybe carrots and others. At this point I will take whatever I can get. This garden is going to be my sanctuary, my medicine. Growing up my mom always had a garden and we always had plants in the house. Thank goodness she passed down that love to me. I love the smell of earth and getting dirty. Already I am thinking about how I can plant a grapevine along the doorway so it can grow up and around. I also thought about how I can get some hanging plants outside the house. Unfortunately I don’t think I am going to be able to have plants inside, too dark, but I will make the outside like a Moroccan jungle (first of its kind). Tomorrow I am headed into my souk town, and there’s a man there that sells plants. I’ll get some from him, they are relatively inexpensive. I also have to get a hose and some other things from the hardware store in order to hang those plants… Productive. Then, on Thursday I plan on going to the sbitar and talking to the nurse there, figuring out some kind of schedule. Things are good…

Stories: Red does not look good on me...

Oh Henna

Going to the hammam (bathhouse) is the one of the best things to do in Morocco. It is absolutely amazing. There are usually four rooms. The first one is where you change and keep all of your stuff you aren’t directly using in the bathhouse. The next room you walk into is the coolest, the second is warmer and the last one is usually quite hot. It’s like a sauna with running water. You pick out a spot and grab a couple of buckets and go at it. The combination of the steam, hot water and sweating sheds off the first couple layers of skin with a good scrub. Trust me, after a week of not showering, you want to scrub as much off as possible. Lots of other ladies and little kids are around, everyone’s naked. It’s custom to keep on your bottoms but some choose not to. To each their own.

One day, my CBT group decided to go. All of us, together for our first hammam experience. Sounded like a party. Naked party! We grab our stuff and decide to do like the Moroccans and grab some henna and their special soap. It looks like brown goop and you mix it together with the henna and its supposed to be great for your skin and your hair. Our LCF told us that the henna soap was awesome for your hair. It really made it shine. We all added it to our hair. It was a henna party. It smelled earthy and organic. We left it in there for probably twenty minutes or so before we washed it out. We scrubbed and scrubbed until our skin was red.

It wasn’t until the next day when my host mom made a comment about my hair that I looked in the small, hand-size mirror I had brought with me. My hair was red. Like a dark, burgundy red. Like I was 40 and trying to hide grays, or high school teenager who read a lot of sci-fi. My CBT friends said that they liked it, or at least that it wasn’t “that bad”. None of the other girls had any significant difference if any at all. Their hair was darker than mine. I learn quickly. Luckily it washed out in about a month. And by washed out, I mean after about 5-6 times of actually washing my hair. You know, hygiene, its fun.

Side note: There is something that is eating me up like I am their last meal. I don’t want to count how many bites I have but they are everywhere, places that are kept covered for the majority of my time (legs, arms, etc.) Big bites. Invisible mosquitoes. Or bedbugs. I really hope they aren’t bedbugs. I keep on trying to figure it out. Until then, I will be someone’s dinner.

Stories: Hand Plunger

Stopped Up Toilet --James TD Bond

This story is retold by me in James’ words. James lived in a house full of girls. He had five host sisters, ranging in age from 5 to 18 years old. They had one bathroom in the house. James had his own room and everyone else slept in the living room. This is very common. Most PCVs temporarily displace parents or the kids from the room they usually sleep in. For the amount of money host families are paid, this is usually a minor infraction.

Most of us in our CBT site had been experiencing lots of indigestion and health problems. James and I topped the list with my ghiarrdia and his constipation and subsequently diaherria.

“So one morning I woke up with these major stomach cramps, like I HAD to use the bathroom and I needed to do it before the rest of the family woke up and starting going. So I slip in there and start going. I cleaned out my body. There was A LOT of poop. I start pouring water down the bit and it’s not draining. It’s just sitting there and filling up. I can hear the family starting to wake up. I panic cause they know it had to have been me. So I reach down there and start breaking up the poop. With my hand. And it’s not going down. It’s still not going down! So I wash off my hand with the soap in there and go out and find the dad. I tell him I have a problem and lead him back to the bathroom. He fills up an empty Coke bottle and starts going at it. Like a plunger. There is poo water going everywhere, and he is sloshing it around—all over his shoes, all over the sides of the walls, it’s crazy. And then, all of a sudden, the water starts going down. By this time the rest of the family is awake. I of course, wash my hands again and leave the soap on my one hand and stand outside for a good ten minutes, with my hand in the sun, drying the soap up.”

(not verbatim but close enough)

Stories: Upstairs Vagina

Upstairs Vagina

Also during CBT, I had a way of explaining what I was trying to say by using lots of actions, elaborate gestures and facial expressions. Trying to explain to my host mom and the roommate one night that I wanted to go upstairs and go to sleep I found out some naughty words. I was acting out the difference of upstairs and downstairs. Had a wall been there I would have fooled them completely and they would have looked for the invisible set of stairs. Seeing at there was not, I was just stomping around, lowering myself bit by bit and then doing the opposite, saying “Upstairs-upstairs-upstairs, Downstairs-downstairs-downstairs,” back and forth, much to their delight. My host mom was ROFL, she was laughing so hard she was practically crying. Both the roommate and my mom were watching me, just laughing. I had no idea, so I asked her what was going on?! What was wrong? And she explained to me that “Upsheesh,” sounding very similar to “upstairs” means vagina in Tam. So I had been stomping around her kitchen, yelling out “Vagina-vagina-vagina” to her and her roommate. They loved it, and it was my first of many bad words.

Stories: Salaam!

Salaam!

During CBT in Ouiouazaight in the Azilal Province, Joseph and I were walking home from school together one evening. It had been a long day and we wanted to stop and grab something to drink at one of the local hanuts. Joseph and I lived farther away from the other kids in our CBT, past the souq area and slaughterhouse. This area was frequented by huffers, potheads, and the local crazies. On our way home we always kept an eye out for the local crazies because they would instantly target us and try to come over and talk to us or demand money. He saw us enter the hanut and followed us in. We had dubbed him “Zabadaga” because when he would approach us he would salute us and then yell out, “Zabadaga!” and thrust his hand out for a D (dirham). Zabadaga went straight up to me and started asking for money. There were maybe another five people in this small closet sized area, overflowing with goods. Joseph and I both had on bookbags too, which adds a new dimension to movement. I had been consistent with refusing to give beggars money. I was going to live there for two months, give beggars some money one time and then they come to expect it. This time was an exception. The man was in my face and I could smell the fig wine on his breath, see his rotting teeth, the yellows of his eyes. I just wanted him out of my face. I reached in my pocket and produced a coin, placing it into his dirty outstretched hand. His reaction was the catalyst to the chaos. He immediately started kissing my hand and then pulled my head down to kiss me on my forehead. Mass confusion. Other men at the hanut instantly started to pull the man away from me. It wasn’t sexual in any way, just elaborate and fast and I didn’t really know what was going on. Well this freaked out Joseph. He just wanted to get out. In his effort to leave he turned quickly, running into the man behind him and swinging his bookbag into the wall of stuff. Knocked off balance he falls back into the wall yelling, “Salaaaaamm!” arms outstretched, trying to hold back the falling goodies. It was hilarious. He tells me later ,that he had panicked and couldn’t think of any other word in Tam except for Salaam and that was what came out of his mouth. Salaam means peace, so appropriate I guess, but just watching Joseph’s face was amazing. Joseph has also told a group of people “LLaysHel” as he was leaving, which is a phrase used for beggars meaning “may God be easy on you” instead of the usual “slama” (bye).