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.

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…

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.

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.

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 20^th to the 22^nd, 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.