Thursday, March 11, 2010
No Way Out
I have been stuck the past 18 days in my site due to the fact that my site is located in a gorge, the river flooding, landslides, falling rocks and the faulty engineering of roads. Luckily we still had running water and the electricity was on most of the time. I let Peace Corps know that I was in a bit of a situation if there was an emergency but otherwise everything was fine. We ran out of a few fun items like yeast, butter, milk, and the produce selection was minimal at best, but there was no panic, no problems (unlike an inch of snow in the South). I missed helping out with a friend’s health program in her site and a few meetings which was unfortunate. I got a little stir crazy since I couldn’t even get across the bridge leading into my site (it was a part of the river,) and out for a decent walk. I just hope that this is a wake-up call for the people in my village that fixing the bridge and roads in the gorge is a priority. Who knows. I read an article recently Think Again: The Peace Corps, by Robert L. Strauss about Peace Corps and its purpose. It can be found at www.foreignpolicy.com. I encourage you to read it because I find myself in this situation now: What role does the Peace Corps serve? Am I simply a diplomat for the United States? Or am I a developmental association? Do I help these people find money to help rebuild this bridge, something I have been asked to do much more recently since the weather disaster, or am I here to be a health educator and integrate into this society? It’s such a blur, and it keeps me up at night. Am I doing the best I can here? Should I be doing more? What else do I need to be doing here now? I look for direction and just find more questions. Where Peace Corps is a set of guidelines and map without a key, I find myself conflicted more and more and anxious as I approach these last 12 months. I think a trip into town tomorrow and reconnecting back with the outside world should do me a world of good. At least, I hope so.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Smile! Oh, wait, no, please dont...
At this point I have almost completed my first year. The honeymoon grace period has come and gone. There is no more culture shock. I still get disgusted but it is no longer surprising. The man on the bus who looked like he could have come been albino, spoke Berber, and had the worst teeth I have seen in a week did not surprise me, his teeth made me gag, but you get used to it. He was begging for money. It is hard not to get down on yourself and your mission. Having your neighbor go and get a tooth pulled because no one practices dental hygiene is a little upsetting when they know how to take care of their teeth. They ask me why I have all my teeth, how nice they are. I say that you need to brush them twice a day. Like this. Use some baking soda and salt. Too much sweet tea is bad, as are sweets. I need to go back into town and buy some baking soda and some toothbrushes. I know we shouldn’t give things away, but I think if I make the salt/baking soda mixture together with them and then we all brush our teeth, it would be the best way to get the idea in their heads. Feel free to start collecting toothbrushes and giving them to my sister, Becca, when she comes to visit me in May. Seeing cavities in baby teeth makes you want to scold a woman. Seeing blistered, sunburnt little kid skin makes you want to scold a woman. Hope all is well at home. Take care of your teeth.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
P In Me’s Panties (slight Irish accent appreciated)
It’s the continuous battle: stay hydrated and risk it when traveling or stay parched and be worry free. I chose poorly. I don’t even remember drinking that much that morning. I was getting on a bus around 11 am to go to Marrakech where I was flying out of the next day. The bus ride from Boumalen Dades to Marrakech is around 8 hours. I remember we had coffee, maybe a full 5 ounces of liquid, that’s it. Either way, after 2 hours inside the bus I felt like I was riding a roller coaster at Carowinds and pushed my safety harness one too many clicks down across my bladder. Luckily these buses do not come equipped with seatbelts, that thing would have been off ages ago. The biggest problem was what I was thinking. I had to keep my mind off my bladder, the ache that constantly reminded me that relief was just a second away (along with wet pants,). I thought we were going to make a quick stop in the province’s capital, Ourzazate, at which time I would hustle into the train station, pay my dirham and use one of the bathrooms there. Oh no, we breezed right by, didn’t even pull down the main strip to the station. I started counting. I started counting to 20 and holding my breath. That was at least taking my mind off my problem. I thought, great, it’s always important to be ready for anything, who knows if I might have to hold my breath for a long period of time underwater as James Bond and I struggle to escape from the sinking vehicle. I got up to 45 seconds and found myself bored but the dull ache had subdued during my 007 training. Oh great, now I am thinking about it again and it cataclysms into a full pee hurt. I was then reminded of pregnant women. Don’t pregnant women constantly deal with this sensation? This sensation of constantly having to use the bathroom? Well fuck being pregnant! I decided right then and there that I will simply insist my partner have a surgery to be capable of carrying a baby: the uterus, umbilical cord, the works. There is no way I am going to walk around for 9 months feeling like this! Jesus. Those poor women. My poor mom. Maybe they wore depends. Maybe they never traveled on a bus full of Moroccans who don’t give a shit that I have to use the bathroom really, really badly. Oh great we are pulling over. Nowhere special, the side of the road. OH! OH! So the 8 year old little boy can go piss. Just great. I look away and try not to think of the events unfolding right in front of my eyes. No way. Now I feel an injustice. I feel prejudice against women. I have to use the bathroom, but for me, out of respect, I would not get out and try to seek some pee shelter off the side of the road. Looks like I am going to have to hold it. The bus starts moving again and I look to see a nice dark puddle in the dirt. Little shit. I start thinking about James Bond (definitely not Pierce Brosnan, the new one), pregnant women, and diapers. The trio don’t work well together but it takes my mind off my aching bladder and the pain subdues, again. Great, I’m going to end up with a bladder infection. Just in time for my vacation to Italy….
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Sucky Face Sheep Guts
He rinsed out the small intestine and put his lips to the tear. With the carcass hanging beside him, he took a deep breath and blew into the organ, I watched the fecal matter and water spin through the digestive tubes like a gumball in a gumball machine, around and around and around. It emptied onto the ground beside a swollen colon and the gall bladder which was a fluorescent dark green. I was in anatomical heaven. A bit perturbed regarding the homemade colonoscopy, I made a quick promise not to eat any intestines today or tomorrow, (that couldn’t be helped, and low and behold! I have raging diarrhea! And I can picture what my intestines are doing, thanks to my informal lesson earlier) I thought there was going to be more of a ceremony before the slaughter, but they simply stated, “Allah akbar,” and slit the throat of the sheep. First off, I imagined more blood and secondly, I know it is one of the more humane ways to die but it is difficult to imagine the nerve synapses fire from the brain and spinal cord and watch as the sheep tries to get up or kick at its slaughterers. And then I think about the meat packing industry in the States and all of those feelings disappear immediately seeing that the sheep lived a full, long and healthy life. Which is another reason why I ate the meat later on, and by meat I mean we ate everything: stomach, liver, kidneys, and shish kebobs with intestine pieces wrapped around meat. We are programmed as evolutionary beings to enjoy and crave salty, sweet and fat and those shish kebobs nailed it. They were delicious and the preparation would have made the FDA shit themselves. I won’t go into details but my head was screaming E. COLI and ripping in two between the typical American Lysol commercial friendly germs will attack all counter surfaces and the other half, which watches 2 years play outside unattended, bathed infrequently, and wash our hands with water (only!) before meals and they are fine. To contradict both points, my family was never germ-freaks and we never once bought Lysol and had numerous conversations about the super germs and their proliferation and mutation brought about by my peers and neighbors because of this commercial and industry pushed fear of the common cold. At the same time, when you ask a family how many children are there replies are usually follow this pattern: There are 4 boys, 3 girls, and 2 died, or something like this. Most families have suffered the loss of a child or two. I do not ask why these children died, not because I do not care, but because I am afraid of the frustration that I would experience if I heard, “It was God’s will,” I experienced this before regarding the death of a teenage boy in the village the first month I came here and had to take a few deep breaths before my reply.
Today is Leid Kabir, a huge Muslim holiday where a sacrificial sheep is killed just as Abraham did a long time ago. This holiday has some similiarities to American holidays: everyone gets new clothes (they are not wrapped in gaudy wasteful paper), everyone eats a lot (you killed a whole ram, that’s a lot of meat), and you visit each other saying the appropriate greetings for this holiday (“Mbruk Leid!” which means pretty much ‘Happy Holiday!’) and women usually get glammed up (for us that means the charcoal eyeliner and henna on our hands). There are no greeting cards sent out in the masses, there is no overzealous spending (as much as I can see in my village, things might be different in a town of 10,000), there are no decorations. Everyone cleans their house and themselves the day beforehand. I recently bought a hot water heater and the whole host family came over to bathe, you should have seen the little one fight to not get a bath! Reminded me of Maddie back in the day…
Today is Leid Kabir, a huge Muslim holiday where a sacrificial sheep is killed just as Abraham did a long time ago. This holiday has some similiarities to American holidays: everyone gets new clothes (they are not wrapped in gaudy wasteful paper), everyone eats a lot (you killed a whole ram, that’s a lot of meat), and you visit each other saying the appropriate greetings for this holiday (“Mbruk Leid!” which means pretty much ‘Happy Holiday!’) and women usually get glammed up (for us that means the charcoal eyeliner and henna on our hands). There are no greeting cards sent out in the masses, there is no overzealous spending (as much as I can see in my village, things might be different in a town of 10,000), there are no decorations. Everyone cleans their house and themselves the day beforehand. I recently bought a hot water heater and the whole host family came over to bathe, you should have seen the little one fight to not get a bath! Reminded me of Maddie back in the day…
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Swunfu ("Relax")
We are all going to have different experiences. I forget about that sometimes and am reminded when I come into contact with other PCVs. I recently spent the better part of the week with Titrit in her site. Her village is much larger than mine, and I got easily confused trying to find her house. Since Thursday, October 15th, was Global Handwashing Day, I had text her earlier in the month asking her if we could do a program together in her site and then spend the weekend together. We had talked about a trip to Merzouga and this was supposed to be a great time of year to trek there.
Titrit had set up programs with a few different schools in her site, the association and possibly the Dar Tilibab (youth hostel just for high school girls). The first program we had at her association with preschool age children. There were about twenty and they were adorable. Titrit had worked with her tutor to put together a bit of a talk and explanation for our presence and then followed up with a handwashing scenario with everyone involved. I wanted her to take the reigns, since she had been practicing the language and I wanted people to recognize and give credit to her. I was just there to help things along, explain when needed, take pictures and help. We hadn’t even started when we got the first tears. One little boy, looking at us, burst into full-blown tears. And like a domino effect, one by one starting crying. There were about five kids crying at this one table. We hadn’t even said anything. The tutor, who had come along, explained to us that the kids thought we were going to give them shots. That our bag of “microbats” (microbs/germs) actually vials of glitter, were actually needles. Poor things. After settling them down, Titrit got into her truest form, the thespian, (she went to school originally for acting) and put a small amount of Vaseline and glitter on her hands. She then went around and shook hands with each of the kids, distributing the glitter amongst all of their cute little hands. They loved it! Everyone loves glitter and watching Titrit was a lot of fun. She is incredibly animated and funny. We all washed our hands with soap and got rid of the “germs”. We did this another 10 times for other classrooms and around 60 high-school age girls at the Dar Tilibab that day and the following morning. By the time we had talked to the 5th classroom or so, Titrit had it down to an art!
We left that afternoon for the next largest town, Tingrir, to get transportation to Errachidia. Titrit had made a friend about a month ago and he had invited us to stay with his family and then the three of us would travel to Merzouga. We were on the souq bus headed to Errachidia when Titrit gets a text message saying that her friend, Ali, was on his way in his dad’s car to pick us up. We got off the bus just in time and waited about an hour for Ali to get there. He was with his older brother and his wife. They were all Arab and only knew a few words in our Berber language. Luckily, most of the family spoke some English. Like in most, if not all Moroccan families, we were greeted like long lost friends and exteneded the warmest of welcomes. The family consisted of a short, portly mom, a tall limber dad, 4 sons and 3 daughters. Two of the children were married and had their own houses, 3 were still in school, one was a doctor and Ali worked as a guide for tourists. There house was finished and tiled, there was lots of furniture and decorated, very different from typical Berber houses that I encounter in the bled. The three of us took off to go to the hammam, once again, I implore you, when you come to visit me, you have to go to the hammam. It was clean and hot and empty. Titrit and I had it to ourselves, unfortunately, it was late and we were a bit rushed.
Titrit always the best unusual and awkward encounters at the hammam. One of the ladies who worked there came in, asked us if we wanted our backs scrubbed, (sometimes there is a fee involved). We replied that we were fine and could take care of things. The woman then bent down and squatted in front of Titrit, I think she might have asked her another question or two but she sat there on her haunches for a good 5 minutes, not saying anything and just watching Titrit. Titrit asked me if I knew what was going on, of course, I didn’t and just was giggling to myself. This has happened each time we have gone to the hammam together. She has a few choice piercings that usually get attention, but this time there was no mention about them, just staring. Haha! Love it.
Next morning we got up and got started, we had to stop by one of the sister’s house to say hello to her and family. She had married a berber man from the Azilal province and so we could communicate some with him. Let me take a second now to talk about race relations here in the good country of Morocco. There is a hierarchy here that was a shock to me when I first came. Reading a book now called, Lords of the Atlas, The Rise and Fall of the House of Glaoua 1893-1956 by Gavin Maxwell has provided much needed insight and history into Moroccan customs, ways of life and things that my language has prevented me from asking. I understood that Berbers do not care for Arabs (generalization). I understood that the Arabs came into Morocco around the seventh century and brought Islam with them. The Arabs were powerful and imposed their religion on the people here. Different tribes conquered different areas of Morocco. These tribes enacted taxes and tariffs from the people living on the land. Berbers were strictly monogamous, women held positions of power, their clothing was different, exposing their arms and legs, they would elaborately braid their hair and put henna or a mix of spices in it. They wore jewelry their tribe made and had beautification tattoos on their chins, foreheads and wrists. They had their own system of laws and policies. When the Arabs or French came in to conquer these people, they fought fiercely and with guerrilla-like tactics, sneaking into their camps at night and stealing weapons from them. It wasn’t until later, that the Caids or khalifas had amassed huge armies to show their strength and might that some of the tribes adhered to their demands. Some of these demands were gifts of crops, money, and daughters. These girls were either added to the caid’s harems or given as gifts to other men in their family or intimate circle. It was later, after these men with their money, huge Kasbahs, harems consisting of 30 or so women that Berbers started resemble them and want the same things. Then they started to take on multiple wives. I see Berbers now who follow and adhere closer to Muslim law than most Arabs. Berber women are more conservative than their Arab counterparts. A hundred years ago this was not true. I suggest you read the book and others like it to truly understand Morocco’s complicated past.
After visiting for a little, Ali’s sister and husband decided that they wanted to come along with us. Why not? They had the weekend free and they would take the toddler with them. So now we had a full car. Ali, his sister, her husband and child, Titrit and myself all crammed into a car that resembles a Geo but made by Renault. We take off from Errachidia headed for Merzouga, slightly south and east, a solid 2 ½ hour drive. We stopped in a small town for lunch. This area of Morocco is infamous for a speciality dish that resembles our “fat bread” but has much more meat. Fat bread is a common dish here that has the shape of a pizza but in the middle is spices and pieces of fat from usually sheep or goat, it is mighty tasty! This bread was similar except it was full of pieces of meat, whether it was sheep or goat, I couldn’t discern it and Ali’s sister told me there were 44 different spices in it. I couldn’t taste distinctly any of them. It was a fine meal but for poor Titrit, who does not eat red meat, she reluctantly picked through it. There has been a bit of a communication problem between her, Ali and the family. They praised me for eating the meat from cous cous the night before and just couldn’t understand that Titrit does not eat red meat. She doesn’t like it. She hasn’t ate red meat for the past 14 years and doesn’t plan to start anytime either. When we were deciding on what to eat for lunch, Ali had asked if we wanted a tajine, but was concerned because Titrit wouldn’t eat the meat. She explained to him that she would eat the vegetables and sauce that comes with it. Somehow we still ended up with meat bread pizza. Ah, such is life of different cultures and communications.
We were joined by more of Ali’s family for lunch: his brother, the brother’s wife and another sister. So now there was a total of 8 of us and 1 half person. We arranged transportation to Merzouga and the rest of the family, including the new additions, clammered into the Geo. We met at a hotel on the outskirts of the desert there. It was beautifully decorated. We barely had enough time to use the bathroom and get reacquainted with the family when Ali was beckoning us over to the camels. They were sitting down, their legs tucked underneath them. They are huge beasts. They have huge eyes and long eyelashes. Their fur is neither soft like a well-groomed horse nor coarse like a goat’s. More like a mixture. Their hooves were probably my favorite and to come across their footprints later on in mud, they resemble dinosaur tracks. I was waiting for a camel to spit at me or try to bite me, having remembered their notorious unpleasant disposition towards their riders. Our camels did neither, but instead seemed to be suffering from a bout of indigestion and kept burbing up their lunch and making tremendous gurgling sounds from the depths of their stomachs. I couldn’t wait to get started!
Because we had wanted to go and spend the night out in the desert, we had to get started ASAP because it was getting to be about dusk and we had 9 k to go to get to the oasis. In all honesty, I didn’t need anything in my bag except a few things like my toothbrush and maybe my camera. We were a caravan of silliness. The three of us, perched atop our camels, leashed together from ass to mouth, with our guide, Omar, leading in the front, on foot. We sat on top of saddles that could have made even the fattest of women wince in pain, they were uncomfortable to say the least. We traveled up and down the sand dunes, sliding forward and back, the camel lurching as it finds its step in the shifting sand. I was surprised at how green the area was. In the lower areas there were some shrubbery and grasses. It ruined my expectation of sandy desolation and I was a bit disappointed. We shared the area with dirtbikes and ATVs, which disturbed our camels when they buzzed too close. The flies covered our beasts and ourselves, hopping along for a free ride. The stars came out quickly in the black night, we had chosen a weekend with no moon. I could only imagine what the desert looked like lit up in the middle of the night.
We finally got to our oasis. There were a few flashlights wandering about and we could hear a multiude of different languages. We got off our camels and trudged through the poop-riddled sand to our tents. They were of basic design and the various guides kept them all the same, a few blankets and thin mats. We lit a candle and opened a bottle of wine. Ali and Omar, our guide, spoke to each other in Darija, while Titrit and I complained back and forth about our camels. She had the good mind to put in her Ipod and experience the desert that way, while I had quietly daydreamed. We ate another delicious meal of meat pizza bread (poor Titrit!) and finished off another bottle of wine. Soon enough, we retired to bed. I decided to sleep outside, my usual preference, under the stars.
I awakened in the middle of the night to someone rubbing my back. It was an odd sensation and I groggily awoke, expecting Titrit to be kneeling next to me. It was not. It was our guide, Omar, telling me that it was getting cold and to get inside the tent. I sat up and he started collecting my bed things, the mattress and blanket. I followed him not into Ali and Titrit’s tent but into his small tent. He set up my things and I laid down. At this point I was confused and more awake. Omar then tried to hug me. “What are you doing?!” my immediate response was. He said that it was ok and I rolled over, wanting to relinquish myself back into my heavy sleep and vivid dreams. Then I felt something on the back of my head, did he just try to kiss me? Ew, gross. “Omar, you have a wife and a baby, stop,” I mumbled to him. I did not feel threatened or in danger, just annoyed. He replied that it was not a problem, great, so this is a usual habit of his on these treks. Out of nowhere I hear a voice, “Hanna! Hanna! Where are youuuuu?” It was Ali, coming to rescue me, my hero! “I’m here Omar, hold on,” and I scrambled out of Omar’s tent. “What are you doing Hanna? I am responsible for you,” He went and grabbed my blanket and we walked back up into our tent, I laid down and told Ali how thankful I was for him right then. “I am responsible for you,” was all he replied.
Sidenote: All PCVs I dare say, have seen this in their respective towns, souk towns or bigger cities. Foreign women with Moroccan men, either they be guides or not, with the men lavishing their affections and holding hands and sometimes, in line to get papers for marriage. Often times these women are miskin (berber for unfortunate or poor thing), these women are frumpy with dyed hair and lipliner. The men are half their age and beautiful. A settlement is reached, she finds some love and attention and he gets access to her money and possibly citizenship abroad. It works out. So for Omar to come onto me, like some of his patrons might have had to him, is not unusual. Possibly he read my inquiries into his life at the edge of the desert as interest, but trust me, I had no interest besides understanding his culture and way of life. I pay homage to all the foreign women out there who have paved the way for me and other female PCVs as being seen as desperate and lonely. Thanks a lot.
The next day I told Ali and Titrit about my nightscapades and they were a bit appalled and felt bad. I thought it was funny and once again thanked Ali for interrupting. I forsee the future of that night warding off Omar’s advances until finally getting up to leave for the other tent. Ali just cut out that uncomfortable time inbetween. Ali had asked Omar on the way home what had happened and Omar gave Ali a completely different story. Omar said that I had gotten up in the middle of the night complaining that it was cold and if I could please come and sleep in his tent. HA! Oh how our memory confuses us…
We woke up early to watch the sun rise on the border of Algeria and Morocco. It was not spectatcular but had its fair share of purples and reds. I climbed back on my camel like a novice cyclist mounts her bike on the second day of a 100k journey. I wish I had some painkillers, maybe some of the green stuff, maybe a bottle of gin. Anything to keep my mind off Carl. (For those of you who don’t know, Carl is my nickname for my upstairs, ref. story “Upstairs”). We headed out early and arrived back in Merzouga around 9am or so. After showering and breakfast, we hailed a taxi back into Errachidia. It was Sunday and Titrit had made arrangements for us to stay with her friend, Lahu, a shop owner in Tinghrir, that evening seeing as it was too late for us to get a transit back to her site.
Once again the lines of communication seem to be lost in different languages and cultures. Once we got back into Errachidia we let Ali know that Titrit and I wanted to go costume shopping for Halloween. We wanted to go to the souq area and house around. He wanted us to first meet up with a friend to grab some coffee. He made a phone call, and about 5 minutes later his friend shows up in a car, and as we are getting in I say to Titrit, “Hey, do you think that’s a prostitute?” pointing out a woman walking towards us wearing a tight, shiny jellaba with heavy makeup and high heels. Then she got into the front seat. I got a better look. She had on bright red lipstick and a thin line of an excuse for eyebrows. She had on lots of face makeup and a bright smile. Titrit and I sat back in stunned silence as we pulled away from the curb. We then made another stop for Ali to pick up some of the stuff that Morocco is known for, hash. We had no idea until he returned into the car with a small brown brick of the stuff in his hand. Awesome. We are riding around Errachidia with a prostitute in the front seat and had just stopped to make a drug deal. We were not in a professional setting where we would talk to the woman in front about the dangers of STIs and the importance of condoms, nor were we going to talk to Ali about his hash use. We were just uncomfortably there along for the ride. As we headed out along a main road the car suddenly cut off. The electronics of the car just died down and the car was slowing down. We were headed out to a gas station/coffee shop/tourist trap in the middle of nowhere. I told Titrit I hoped the car died. She looked it me in complete confusion and shock. I told her, “Just think how funny this is going to be later on, hitching a ride in the middle of nowhere, two PCVs who speak Berber with a prostitute and your hashed up friends, it’s going to be SO funny,” She did not find the humor. I secretly wish the car would die. What the hell would we do? Just then the car started up and we resumed speed. Maybe next time.
At the gas station/coffee shop/tourist trap (this is where Ali goes sometimes to find work, he is a guide,) Titrit was clearly upset with the situation and went off by herself. I talk to the prostitute and answered her questions, which are the same ones everyone else asks us. She told us she was a prostitute (duh!) and I should have dived right then and there into a health lesson but wanted to go talk to Titrit about our predicament. Luckily we sorted things out quickly and was back on the road. Titrit then explained again to Ali that we wanted to go to souk and shop around. He said that was fine, but first we needed to stop at home. We did not want another family visit, we were ready to go and do our own thing. Before we knew it we had pulled up at his house. So much for our desires.
Titrit had set up programs with a few different schools in her site, the association and possibly the Dar Tilibab (youth hostel just for high school girls). The first program we had at her association with preschool age children. There were about twenty and they were adorable. Titrit had worked with her tutor to put together a bit of a talk and explanation for our presence and then followed up with a handwashing scenario with everyone involved. I wanted her to take the reigns, since she had been practicing the language and I wanted people to recognize and give credit to her. I was just there to help things along, explain when needed, take pictures and help. We hadn’t even started when we got the first tears. One little boy, looking at us, burst into full-blown tears. And like a domino effect, one by one starting crying. There were about five kids crying at this one table. We hadn’t even said anything. The tutor, who had come along, explained to us that the kids thought we were going to give them shots. That our bag of “microbats” (microbs/germs) actually vials of glitter, were actually needles. Poor things. After settling them down, Titrit got into her truest form, the thespian, (she went to school originally for acting) and put a small amount of Vaseline and glitter on her hands. She then went around and shook hands with each of the kids, distributing the glitter amongst all of their cute little hands. They loved it! Everyone loves glitter and watching Titrit was a lot of fun. She is incredibly animated and funny. We all washed our hands with soap and got rid of the “germs”. We did this another 10 times for other classrooms and around 60 high-school age girls at the Dar Tilibab that day and the following morning. By the time we had talked to the 5th classroom or so, Titrit had it down to an art!
We left that afternoon for the next largest town, Tingrir, to get transportation to Errachidia. Titrit had made a friend about a month ago and he had invited us to stay with his family and then the three of us would travel to Merzouga. We were on the souq bus headed to Errachidia when Titrit gets a text message saying that her friend, Ali, was on his way in his dad’s car to pick us up. We got off the bus just in time and waited about an hour for Ali to get there. He was with his older brother and his wife. They were all Arab and only knew a few words in our Berber language. Luckily, most of the family spoke some English. Like in most, if not all Moroccan families, we were greeted like long lost friends and exteneded the warmest of welcomes. The family consisted of a short, portly mom, a tall limber dad, 4 sons and 3 daughters. Two of the children were married and had their own houses, 3 were still in school, one was a doctor and Ali worked as a guide for tourists. There house was finished and tiled, there was lots of furniture and decorated, very different from typical Berber houses that I encounter in the bled. The three of us took off to go to the hammam, once again, I implore you, when you come to visit me, you have to go to the hammam. It was clean and hot and empty. Titrit and I had it to ourselves, unfortunately, it was late and we were a bit rushed.
Titrit always the best unusual and awkward encounters at the hammam. One of the ladies who worked there came in, asked us if we wanted our backs scrubbed, (sometimes there is a fee involved). We replied that we were fine and could take care of things. The woman then bent down and squatted in front of Titrit, I think she might have asked her another question or two but she sat there on her haunches for a good 5 minutes, not saying anything and just watching Titrit. Titrit asked me if I knew what was going on, of course, I didn’t and just was giggling to myself. This has happened each time we have gone to the hammam together. She has a few choice piercings that usually get attention, but this time there was no mention about them, just staring. Haha! Love it.
Next morning we got up and got started, we had to stop by one of the sister’s house to say hello to her and family. She had married a berber man from the Azilal province and so we could communicate some with him. Let me take a second now to talk about race relations here in the good country of Morocco. There is a hierarchy here that was a shock to me when I first came. Reading a book now called, Lords of the Atlas, The Rise and Fall of the House of Glaoua 1893-1956 by Gavin Maxwell has provided much needed insight and history into Moroccan customs, ways of life and things that my language has prevented me from asking. I understood that Berbers do not care for Arabs (generalization). I understood that the Arabs came into Morocco around the seventh century and brought Islam with them. The Arabs were powerful and imposed their religion on the people here. Different tribes conquered different areas of Morocco. These tribes enacted taxes and tariffs from the people living on the land. Berbers were strictly monogamous, women held positions of power, their clothing was different, exposing their arms and legs, they would elaborately braid their hair and put henna or a mix of spices in it. They wore jewelry their tribe made and had beautification tattoos on their chins, foreheads and wrists. They had their own system of laws and policies. When the Arabs or French came in to conquer these people, they fought fiercely and with guerrilla-like tactics, sneaking into their camps at night and stealing weapons from them. It wasn’t until later, that the Caids or khalifas had amassed huge armies to show their strength and might that some of the tribes adhered to their demands. Some of these demands were gifts of crops, money, and daughters. These girls were either added to the caid’s harems or given as gifts to other men in their family or intimate circle. It was later, after these men with their money, huge Kasbahs, harems consisting of 30 or so women that Berbers started resemble them and want the same things. Then they started to take on multiple wives. I see Berbers now who follow and adhere closer to Muslim law than most Arabs. Berber women are more conservative than their Arab counterparts. A hundred years ago this was not true. I suggest you read the book and others like it to truly understand Morocco’s complicated past.
After visiting for a little, Ali’s sister and husband decided that they wanted to come along with us. Why not? They had the weekend free and they would take the toddler with them. So now we had a full car. Ali, his sister, her husband and child, Titrit and myself all crammed into a car that resembles a Geo but made by Renault. We take off from Errachidia headed for Merzouga, slightly south and east, a solid 2 ½ hour drive. We stopped in a small town for lunch. This area of Morocco is infamous for a speciality dish that resembles our “fat bread” but has much more meat. Fat bread is a common dish here that has the shape of a pizza but in the middle is spices and pieces of fat from usually sheep or goat, it is mighty tasty! This bread was similar except it was full of pieces of meat, whether it was sheep or goat, I couldn’t discern it and Ali’s sister told me there were 44 different spices in it. I couldn’t taste distinctly any of them. It was a fine meal but for poor Titrit, who does not eat red meat, she reluctantly picked through it. There has been a bit of a communication problem between her, Ali and the family. They praised me for eating the meat from cous cous the night before and just couldn’t understand that Titrit does not eat red meat. She doesn’t like it. She hasn’t ate red meat for the past 14 years and doesn’t plan to start anytime either. When we were deciding on what to eat for lunch, Ali had asked if we wanted a tajine, but was concerned because Titrit wouldn’t eat the meat. She explained to him that she would eat the vegetables and sauce that comes with it. Somehow we still ended up with meat bread pizza. Ah, such is life of different cultures and communications.
We were joined by more of Ali’s family for lunch: his brother, the brother’s wife and another sister. So now there was a total of 8 of us and 1 half person. We arranged transportation to Merzouga and the rest of the family, including the new additions, clammered into the Geo. We met at a hotel on the outskirts of the desert there. It was beautifully decorated. We barely had enough time to use the bathroom and get reacquainted with the family when Ali was beckoning us over to the camels. They were sitting down, their legs tucked underneath them. They are huge beasts. They have huge eyes and long eyelashes. Their fur is neither soft like a well-groomed horse nor coarse like a goat’s. More like a mixture. Their hooves were probably my favorite and to come across their footprints later on in mud, they resemble dinosaur tracks. I was waiting for a camel to spit at me or try to bite me, having remembered their notorious unpleasant disposition towards their riders. Our camels did neither, but instead seemed to be suffering from a bout of indigestion and kept burbing up their lunch and making tremendous gurgling sounds from the depths of their stomachs. I couldn’t wait to get started!
Because we had wanted to go and spend the night out in the desert, we had to get started ASAP because it was getting to be about dusk and we had 9 k to go to get to the oasis. In all honesty, I didn’t need anything in my bag except a few things like my toothbrush and maybe my camera. We were a caravan of silliness. The three of us, perched atop our camels, leashed together from ass to mouth, with our guide, Omar, leading in the front, on foot. We sat on top of saddles that could have made even the fattest of women wince in pain, they were uncomfortable to say the least. We traveled up and down the sand dunes, sliding forward and back, the camel lurching as it finds its step in the shifting sand. I was surprised at how green the area was. In the lower areas there were some shrubbery and grasses. It ruined my expectation of sandy desolation and I was a bit disappointed. We shared the area with dirtbikes and ATVs, which disturbed our camels when they buzzed too close. The flies covered our beasts and ourselves, hopping along for a free ride. The stars came out quickly in the black night, we had chosen a weekend with no moon. I could only imagine what the desert looked like lit up in the middle of the night.
We finally got to our oasis. There were a few flashlights wandering about and we could hear a multiude of different languages. We got off our camels and trudged through the poop-riddled sand to our tents. They were of basic design and the various guides kept them all the same, a few blankets and thin mats. We lit a candle and opened a bottle of wine. Ali and Omar, our guide, spoke to each other in Darija, while Titrit and I complained back and forth about our camels. She had the good mind to put in her Ipod and experience the desert that way, while I had quietly daydreamed. We ate another delicious meal of meat pizza bread (poor Titrit!) and finished off another bottle of wine. Soon enough, we retired to bed. I decided to sleep outside, my usual preference, under the stars.
I awakened in the middle of the night to someone rubbing my back. It was an odd sensation and I groggily awoke, expecting Titrit to be kneeling next to me. It was not. It was our guide, Omar, telling me that it was getting cold and to get inside the tent. I sat up and he started collecting my bed things, the mattress and blanket. I followed him not into Ali and Titrit’s tent but into his small tent. He set up my things and I laid down. At this point I was confused and more awake. Omar then tried to hug me. “What are you doing?!” my immediate response was. He said that it was ok and I rolled over, wanting to relinquish myself back into my heavy sleep and vivid dreams. Then I felt something on the back of my head, did he just try to kiss me? Ew, gross. “Omar, you have a wife and a baby, stop,” I mumbled to him. I did not feel threatened or in danger, just annoyed. He replied that it was not a problem, great, so this is a usual habit of his on these treks. Out of nowhere I hear a voice, “Hanna! Hanna! Where are youuuuu?” It was Ali, coming to rescue me, my hero! “I’m here Omar, hold on,” and I scrambled out of Omar’s tent. “What are you doing Hanna? I am responsible for you,” He went and grabbed my blanket and we walked back up into our tent, I laid down and told Ali how thankful I was for him right then. “I am responsible for you,” was all he replied.
Sidenote: All PCVs I dare say, have seen this in their respective towns, souk towns or bigger cities. Foreign women with Moroccan men, either they be guides or not, with the men lavishing their affections and holding hands and sometimes, in line to get papers for marriage. Often times these women are miskin (berber for unfortunate or poor thing), these women are frumpy with dyed hair and lipliner. The men are half their age and beautiful. A settlement is reached, she finds some love and attention and he gets access to her money and possibly citizenship abroad. It works out. So for Omar to come onto me, like some of his patrons might have had to him, is not unusual. Possibly he read my inquiries into his life at the edge of the desert as interest, but trust me, I had no interest besides understanding his culture and way of life. I pay homage to all the foreign women out there who have paved the way for me and other female PCVs as being seen as desperate and lonely. Thanks a lot.
The next day I told Ali and Titrit about my nightscapades and they were a bit appalled and felt bad. I thought it was funny and once again thanked Ali for interrupting. I forsee the future of that night warding off Omar’s advances until finally getting up to leave for the other tent. Ali just cut out that uncomfortable time inbetween. Ali had asked Omar on the way home what had happened and Omar gave Ali a completely different story. Omar said that I had gotten up in the middle of the night complaining that it was cold and if I could please come and sleep in his tent. HA! Oh how our memory confuses us…
We woke up early to watch the sun rise on the border of Algeria and Morocco. It was not spectatcular but had its fair share of purples and reds. I climbed back on my camel like a novice cyclist mounts her bike on the second day of a 100k journey. I wish I had some painkillers, maybe some of the green stuff, maybe a bottle of gin. Anything to keep my mind off Carl. (For those of you who don’t know, Carl is my nickname for my upstairs, ref. story “Upstairs”). We headed out early and arrived back in Merzouga around 9am or so. After showering and breakfast, we hailed a taxi back into Errachidia. It was Sunday and Titrit had made arrangements for us to stay with her friend, Lahu, a shop owner in Tinghrir, that evening seeing as it was too late for us to get a transit back to her site.
Once again the lines of communication seem to be lost in different languages and cultures. Once we got back into Errachidia we let Ali know that Titrit and I wanted to go costume shopping for Halloween. We wanted to go to the souq area and house around. He wanted us to first meet up with a friend to grab some coffee. He made a phone call, and about 5 minutes later his friend shows up in a car, and as we are getting in I say to Titrit, “Hey, do you think that’s a prostitute?” pointing out a woman walking towards us wearing a tight, shiny jellaba with heavy makeup and high heels. Then she got into the front seat. I got a better look. She had on bright red lipstick and a thin line of an excuse for eyebrows. She had on lots of face makeup and a bright smile. Titrit and I sat back in stunned silence as we pulled away from the curb. We then made another stop for Ali to pick up some of the stuff that Morocco is known for, hash. We had no idea until he returned into the car with a small brown brick of the stuff in his hand. Awesome. We are riding around Errachidia with a prostitute in the front seat and had just stopped to make a drug deal. We were not in a professional setting where we would talk to the woman in front about the dangers of STIs and the importance of condoms, nor were we going to talk to Ali about his hash use. We were just uncomfortably there along for the ride. As we headed out along a main road the car suddenly cut off. The electronics of the car just died down and the car was slowing down. We were headed out to a gas station/coffee shop/tourist trap in the middle of nowhere. I told Titrit I hoped the car died. She looked it me in complete confusion and shock. I told her, “Just think how funny this is going to be later on, hitching a ride in the middle of nowhere, two PCVs who speak Berber with a prostitute and your hashed up friends, it’s going to be SO funny,” She did not find the humor. I secretly wish the car would die. What the hell would we do? Just then the car started up and we resumed speed. Maybe next time.
At the gas station/coffee shop/tourist trap (this is where Ali goes sometimes to find work, he is a guide,) Titrit was clearly upset with the situation and went off by herself. I talk to the prostitute and answered her questions, which are the same ones everyone else asks us. She told us she was a prostitute (duh!) and I should have dived right then and there into a health lesson but wanted to go talk to Titrit about our predicament. Luckily we sorted things out quickly and was back on the road. Titrit then explained again to Ali that we wanted to go to souk and shop around. He said that was fine, but first we needed to stop at home. We did not want another family visit, we were ready to go and do our own thing. Before we knew it we had pulled up at his house. So much for our desires.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Shuyma
Part 1:
“Shuyma!” ranted my landlord to me, my friends huddled close by, desperate to get back to the Ahadeus (traditional song and dance done during special occasions, in this case, a wedding). “Yen aryaz d yet tarbat?! Tigiminm, ghas shmmin!” (One man and one girl?! It is your house, just you) he sputtered, I could smell the cigarette he just smoked, his beady eyes narrowed in on mine. I just realized he was like a guard dog, prowling around the area outside of the main celebration, keeping things on lockdown and discouraging private talks between members of the opposite sex. How did I get myself into this situation? I felt like I was 14 again, getting into an argument with my parents that plagued my rebellious teenage years. Doing like anyone would in my place, I pleaded that I didn’t know and that I was terribly sorry. This seemed to calm him down some and we disappeared back to the festivities amidst a fist of giggles, we walked as a single unit, only our legs were free from each other. This was my first experience a part of them, them being girls my age, friends my age, this town, this culture. Yes, doing what I do best, getting into trouble, and yet, it was completely worth it.
It all started the day before. I had heard rumors that week of a wedding in the area. I found out there was another one in the duwwr (neighborhood/village) beside us from another friend of mine who I ran into in Boulmalen Dades, my souq town. Some of the PCVs and I had talked about the oppression of homosexuality in this culture, and this friend of mine, poor soul, gave off some strong lesbian vibes. She flirts with every time I see her. Now to a simple reader, one glance at these thoughts and you may offhandedly dismiss them into my oversensitivity taking into account the affectionate nature of Moroccans. I think she is a grade A box lover.
I was supposed to go on an overnight hiking trip with some other PCVs in the area, but I knew that I couldn’t get out of this wedding. Anyone who knows me knows that weddings make me nauseous and I hate them. Read what you want to into this, I just know that I am not a fan. Moroccan weddings are different. Men and women are usually kept separate, the women staying in the bride’s family’s house and likewise for the men. I cancelled my plans with my friends and the trip fell through. It was my weekend. I could do what I wanted and would attend the wedding that afternoon. I started off on a brisk morning jog/walk. I am so out of shape at this point and I hate it. At the same time, I am not going to worry about it, seeing that I love exercising and playing rugby and know whatever I do next I will make sure to incorporate both of these into my life. Halfway to Ait Hammou Said I ran into a cute little woman I see occasionally, she stopped me and asked me if I was going to see the nurse and could I perhaps get some medicine for her?? I had been debating about turning around and getting back so I could start on my To Do list but with this new request, my destiny was sealed.
Every time I go somewhere I run into people who are just curious. Where are you from? What are you doing here? Why are you living here? Don’t you miss your family? You don’t speak French or Arabic? (Are you crazy? Is usually the next question, but they are too polite to ask.) I like children, they don’t hold anything back and with my previous work, I can easily say kids have universal needs and wants. Getting them to smile is usually pretty easy and I have instantly made a new ally. I ran into some kids on my way and we walked together into town, I was invited to tea at all their houses but I had a mission and I needed to get on my way. Luckily, Amina, the nurse, was at her house, in her pajamas and had some medicine I could give the poor woman. Amina said that the woman could also come back for a shot if she got worse. Amina only speaks French and Arabic. She speaks a tiny bit of English and lots of English and French medical terms and the same so I understand some of the illnesses she says she sees on a regular basis (rheumatism, influenza, scorpion stings were big this summer…). Our relationship is cordial and superficial. I wish dearly we could communicate but I don’t see her trying to learn Tashlheit and I might get around to some French but right now I could care less.
I give the woman her things and she thinks I am just an angel. I hurry back to my house, it is still early enough in the day that I can get started on the transitioning of my garden. Despite the fact that I still have thriving tomato plants, it is time to plant carrots and radishes for the fall/winter season. I start tearing up these plants, saving the big green tomatoes in a pile. By the time I am done I am sweaty, covered in dirt and exhausted. There are tons of big fat earthworms. I debate about depositing them into my makeshift compost pile or just leaving them. Right then I hear my phone ring inside. It has been a rough month for my phone. Shortly after my birthday I dropped him into the bitlma hole. He was in my pocket and after standing up, he slipped out. Like a penny well at malls or museums where you can watch your penny spin round and round until it becomes a copper circle blur and spat out into a dark abyss, my phone traveled in slow motion, spinning not into an abyss, but into a pile of shit. Despite the fact that he was immediately recovered and cleaned, he only holds a battery lifespan of four hours and the face no longer has a backlight. Eh. I don’t recognize the number and answer it. It is some Berber woman, telling me to go over to the wedding at . I am barely able to answer her before she hangs up the phone (phone calls are expensive in Morocco). I start boiling water for my bucket bath and desperately search through my clothes, looking for something to wear. Sarah Moorman had left me a pretty dress for special occasions. I knew that this would be one of the times to wear it. I quickly bucket bath. I stopped shaving almost two months ago and wasn’t about to take extra time out now to clean up. Putting on make-up that I hadn’t touched in almost 8 months made me think about how different I was now. I still like to primp, but for me now that means putting on some mascara as I am walking out the door. The only women who wear a lot of makeup are whores in town, and frankly I don’t need to be associated with them, (well maybe not until 12 months into my newfound virginity…). I made up my eyes and put on some lipgloss, I looked good.
After rounding up some girls so I wouldn’t have to travel alone to the wedding, we went there. Usually you go around and shake hands with everyone there (we actually kiss hands and if it’s someone who loves you, you get kisses on the head or cheeks) but this time I followed Najam3a’s lead and just found a place to sit down. There was probably 60 or so women there already and they were singing. The bride was sitting on top of some ponjs, much like a queen looking down on her descendents. She was wearing the traditional headdress for this region. She could barely move. There were multiple pieces of cloth that was wrapped, draped, and covering her. She looked beautiful. In true Moroccan fashion there was a sheet hung up behind her, decorated with handstitched flowers, a huge heart dead-center and the names “Said and Fatima” inside of it. There were Christmas lights draped across it that flashed in pink, green and yellow. The corners of the sheet had fake flowers pinned in them. Your attention was shamelessly drawn to her. She was flanked on both sides by what looked like her bridesmaids. They all wore similar colored headdresses but without the pizzazz and you could see their faces. I never got to see her face, not once. Even when we had couscous they just pulled the material out front and put the dish under it, so she could eat and not reveal herself.
The room was packed. There were girls and women of every age. I don’t think there was one time that night that some baby was not crying. There was a cycle to the craziness. First you sit and chitchat to your neighbor and sometimes across the room. Then comes in platters of tea, peanuts and sugar wafers served by the gentlemen of the house. It is a frantic situation but despite the chaos and confusion they kept their cool and even had a few smiles and jokes for us. After a few rounds of these, then the women start up singing. We sing in rounds, with people answering back. There are usually some hand drums and my favorite, the two metal glasses and tin plate that sounds awesome. A few of the traditional wedding calls from the elder women now and then kept things interesting. This sound is a mixture of a Mexican “Ariba-ay-ay-aiii,” and that awful Native American sound we make sometimes as politically inept human beings, hitting our hand over our mouth.
Part 2:
I realize I am being used after about 10 minutes of dancing. One of the girls I had come here with insisted that I dance with her. I am at once on stage. All eyes are on me because I am the foreigner, I am the strange girl from somewhere far away France? Canada? Netherlands? But dressed up like a Moroccan girl. I can’t dance like they can either. It would put all of MTV back up dancers to shame. They shake their hips in rapid succession. It is an art learned at a very young age. (It is incredibly provocative and I wonder just then, why the hell do these men go and see prostitutes? These girls are incredibly sexy and they know it!) I just do my terrible white girl thing that still gets a few thumbs up from enthusiastic spectators. I notice that we dance close to the huge doorway. I try to slink back into the throngs of the girls, closer to a few of the others I am friends with and therefore would be able to dance next to also. She keeps pulling me back out there. The doorway is not much of a doorway, more of an opening to the rest of the second floor, and this is where the gentlemen of the house and some male cousins and privileged friends are loitering. There is an invisible fence and these men cannot go past it unless they are carrying trays of snacks. They stand there and watch us dance, I can feel their eyes on me, on us, and I hate it. Of course I am having a great time. If you act like you are enjoying yourself, laughing at yourself and making faces to those around you, people love you. I just hated that we were the ones closest to the doorway, yes there was space, but I saw what she was doing.
Thankfully she was breaking a sweat too so we went outside to get some fresh air. There were already a lot of people out in front of the house too. The party continued on well into the night, with a repeat of songs, dancing, food, and greetings. Finally, around 11pm, when there was just too many women in the room, it was decided to take it outside. This was what all these young women had been praying for! A chance to lock eyes with the guys outside. We were going to Ahadeus this time, in traditional fashion for this area. One row of men lining up shoulder to shoulder, facing a row of women, calling to each other back and forth and dancing in a circle, sometimes coming closer and sometimes backing away in almost a courtship type of ritual. I had seen this done a few times and really enjoyed watching it. Different regions do different things, sometimes there are no women at all. Sometimes they get on their knees and make a splashing motion with their hands. On one side of the street were all of the guys not only from this area but from other duwwrs too. They were sitting close to one another, whispering, arms over shoulders, heads close together. On the other side of the street were all of the girls and women from inside. Everyone was dressed in their best. Of course in Morocco, that meant that the girls were wearing their traditional dresses outfitted with sequins and beautifully intricate designs and the guys were wearing G-Star knock off jackets and jeans. It was a staring contest. I was intimidated to say the least. We were sitting down in front, of course. I kept looking up trying to find the guy she was talking about, her boyfriend. I found out the day before she actually has a few boyfriends in different areas. I think this is a loose term, like we would say we are “talking to” some guy. No real commitment, just getting to know someone and flirt occasionally. I was sitting inbetween a few girls and was really feeling a part of the community. I looked like the girls dressed up, had a headscarf and had delicately tied on a pink sequin belt my sister Becca had gotten me as a birthday present a few years ago. All except for my green eyes, you might have mistaken me for a Moroccan.
My friend kept asking me if I was cold, if I wanted to go back to my house and grab a jacket. I knew she just wanted an excuse to get up and strut down this catwalk of potential flirts. I refused until the third time and we went to get me a jacket. Outside of my house we ran into a few other girls. One of them was telling the other, “Just ask her! Just ask Hanna,” and so I inquired to what they wanted. One of them has a boyfriend and would it be okay if they stepped inside my garden area and talked. My garden has a bamboo fence around it, which offers a little bit of privacy but not a whole lot. I told them it wasn’t a problem. The other girl asked if she could use my bathroom. She went to use the bathroom and I went to grab a jacket, all of a sudden the third girl comes running in. She said that Laho was outside and had yelled at them for coming in here. I was confused at the situation. What was the problem? They had been outside, and the door to my house had been left ajar and so was the door to the patio. I was briefly annoyed at the stark differences in Moroccan and American freedoms. These poor girls, who work hard all day, hardly have much of an education past middle school (if even that), and otherwise have no contact with guys in their community have now been yelled at for talking to a guy. There are ways around it, they get phone numbers and occasionally cross paths. Unlike in a high school or university setting, where they can talk freely and openly, without the hawk eyes of a conservative community bearing down on them. What is my role in this? How do I respond? I don’t want to damage my reputation in the community. I don’t want to jeopardize my position but at the same time I feel for these girls. Can you imagine how frustrated you could get with that situation? It seems like the typical scenario: Forbidden fruit always tastes the best. Which is why, with situations like these especially during weddings, I feel like everyone should be able to mingle freely. Be able to talk one another, and yes, under the supervision of the elders, but this would have been a perfect time to. I had a conversation recently with an intelligent man on his way back to Agadir to attend his second year at the University there. We discussed lots of things on our taxi ride to Boumalen Dades. We talked about politics, religion, the history of the Berbers, romance and music. He was saying how even our discussion in that taxi ride was unprecedented, especially one past the typical introduction and inquiring about health and family. He said I could break down barriers. He said that I could give these women here a lot of power and independence. I am not here to start a huge cultural mutiny and get stoned out of my village but I understand his position. Where women used to have arranged marriages and they either worked or you suffered in silence, now the aspect of marrying for love has become the new ideal.
This country is changing. It is losing some of its culture to cell phones, satellite TV and becoming more Westernized. Luckily, some practices are alive and healthy. It would be interesting to see if this country succeeds, unlike so many other countries, in combining a mixture of old and new, of faith and traditions and customs with technological advances. I hope they do succeed. Already the traditional practice of story-telling is dying off, replaced by soap operas. This culture is rich and it would break my heart to watch it all disappear and change away to nothing.
“Shuyma!” ranted my landlord to me, my friends huddled close by, desperate to get back to the Ahadeus (traditional song and dance done during special occasions, in this case, a wedding). “Yen aryaz d yet tarbat?! Tigiminm, ghas shmmin!” (One man and one girl?! It is your house, just you) he sputtered, I could smell the cigarette he just smoked, his beady eyes narrowed in on mine. I just realized he was like a guard dog, prowling around the area outside of the main celebration, keeping things on lockdown and discouraging private talks between members of the opposite sex. How did I get myself into this situation? I felt like I was 14 again, getting into an argument with my parents that plagued my rebellious teenage years. Doing like anyone would in my place, I pleaded that I didn’t know and that I was terribly sorry. This seemed to calm him down some and we disappeared back to the festivities amidst a fist of giggles, we walked as a single unit, only our legs were free from each other. This was my first experience a part of them, them being girls my age, friends my age, this town, this culture. Yes, doing what I do best, getting into trouble, and yet, it was completely worth it.
It all started the day before. I had heard rumors that week of a wedding in the area. I found out there was another one in the duwwr (neighborhood/village) beside us from another friend of mine who I ran into in Boulmalen Dades, my souq town. Some of the PCVs and I had talked about the oppression of homosexuality in this culture, and this friend of mine, poor soul, gave off some strong lesbian vibes. She flirts with every time I see her. Now to a simple reader, one glance at these thoughts and you may offhandedly dismiss them into my oversensitivity taking into account the affectionate nature of Moroccans. I think she is a grade A box lover.
I was supposed to go on an overnight hiking trip with some other PCVs in the area, but I knew that I couldn’t get out of this wedding. Anyone who knows me knows that weddings make me nauseous and I hate them. Read what you want to into this, I just know that I am not a fan. Moroccan weddings are different. Men and women are usually kept separate, the women staying in the bride’s family’s house and likewise for the men. I cancelled my plans with my friends and the trip fell through. It was my weekend. I could do what I wanted and would attend the wedding that afternoon. I started off on a brisk morning jog/walk. I am so out of shape at this point and I hate it. At the same time, I am not going to worry about it, seeing that I love exercising and playing rugby and know whatever I do next I will make sure to incorporate both of these into my life. Halfway to Ait Hammou Said I ran into a cute little woman I see occasionally, she stopped me and asked me if I was going to see the nurse and could I perhaps get some medicine for her?? I had been debating about turning around and getting back so I could start on my To Do list but with this new request, my destiny was sealed.
Every time I go somewhere I run into people who are just curious. Where are you from? What are you doing here? Why are you living here? Don’t you miss your family? You don’t speak French or Arabic? (Are you crazy? Is usually the next question, but they are too polite to ask.) I like children, they don’t hold anything back and with my previous work, I can easily say kids have universal needs and wants. Getting them to smile is usually pretty easy and I have instantly made a new ally. I ran into some kids on my way and we walked together into town, I was invited to tea at all their houses but I had a mission and I needed to get on my way. Luckily, Amina, the nurse, was at her house, in her pajamas and had some medicine I could give the poor woman. Amina said that the woman could also come back for a shot if she got worse. Amina only speaks French and Arabic. She speaks a tiny bit of English and lots of English and French medical terms and the same so I understand some of the illnesses she says she sees on a regular basis (rheumatism, influenza, scorpion stings were big this summer…). Our relationship is cordial and superficial. I wish dearly we could communicate but I don’t see her trying to learn Tashlheit and I might get around to some French but right now I could care less.
I give the woman her things and she thinks I am just an angel. I hurry back to my house, it is still early enough in the day that I can get started on the transitioning of my garden. Despite the fact that I still have thriving tomato plants, it is time to plant carrots and radishes for the fall/winter season. I start tearing up these plants, saving the big green tomatoes in a pile. By the time I am done I am sweaty, covered in dirt and exhausted. There are tons of big fat earthworms. I debate about depositing them into my makeshift compost pile or just leaving them. Right then I hear my phone ring inside. It has been a rough month for my phone. Shortly after my birthday I dropped him into the bitlma hole. He was in my pocket and after standing up, he slipped out. Like a penny well at malls or museums where you can watch your penny spin round and round until it becomes a copper circle blur and spat out into a dark abyss, my phone traveled in slow motion, spinning not into an abyss, but into a pile of shit. Despite the fact that he was immediately recovered and cleaned, he only holds a battery lifespan of four hours and the face no longer has a backlight. Eh. I don’t recognize the number and answer it. It is some Berber woman, telling me to go over to the wedding at . I am barely able to answer her before she hangs up the phone (phone calls are expensive in Morocco). I start boiling water for my bucket bath and desperately search through my clothes, looking for something to wear. Sarah Moorman had left me a pretty dress for special occasions. I knew that this would be one of the times to wear it. I quickly bucket bath. I stopped shaving almost two months ago and wasn’t about to take extra time out now to clean up. Putting on make-up that I hadn’t touched in almost 8 months made me think about how different I was now. I still like to primp, but for me now that means putting on some mascara as I am walking out the door. The only women who wear a lot of makeup are whores in town, and frankly I don’t need to be associated with them, (well maybe not until 12 months into my newfound virginity…). I made up my eyes and put on some lipgloss, I looked good.
After rounding up some girls so I wouldn’t have to travel alone to the wedding, we went there. Usually you go around and shake hands with everyone there (we actually kiss hands and if it’s someone who loves you, you get kisses on the head or cheeks) but this time I followed Najam3a’s lead and just found a place to sit down. There was probably 60 or so women there already and they were singing. The bride was sitting on top of some ponjs, much like a queen looking down on her descendents. She was wearing the traditional headdress for this region. She could barely move. There were multiple pieces of cloth that was wrapped, draped, and covering her. She looked beautiful. In true Moroccan fashion there was a sheet hung up behind her, decorated with handstitched flowers, a huge heart dead-center and the names “Said and Fatima” inside of it. There were Christmas lights draped across it that flashed in pink, green and yellow. The corners of the sheet had fake flowers pinned in them. Your attention was shamelessly drawn to her. She was flanked on both sides by what looked like her bridesmaids. They all wore similar colored headdresses but without the pizzazz and you could see their faces. I never got to see her face, not once. Even when we had couscous they just pulled the material out front and put the dish under it, so she could eat and not reveal herself.
The room was packed. There were girls and women of every age. I don’t think there was one time that night that some baby was not crying. There was a cycle to the craziness. First you sit and chitchat to your neighbor and sometimes across the room. Then comes in platters of tea, peanuts and sugar wafers served by the gentlemen of the house. It is a frantic situation but despite the chaos and confusion they kept their cool and even had a few smiles and jokes for us. After a few rounds of these, then the women start up singing. We sing in rounds, with people answering back. There are usually some hand drums and my favorite, the two metal glasses and tin plate that sounds awesome. A few of the traditional wedding calls from the elder women now and then kept things interesting. This sound is a mixture of a Mexican “Ariba-ay-ay-aiii,” and that awful Native American sound we make sometimes as politically inept human beings, hitting our hand over our mouth.
Part 2:
I realize I am being used after about 10 minutes of dancing. One of the girls I had come here with insisted that I dance with her. I am at once on stage. All eyes are on me because I am the foreigner, I am the strange girl from somewhere far away France? Canada? Netherlands? But dressed up like a Moroccan girl. I can’t dance like they can either. It would put all of MTV back up dancers to shame. They shake their hips in rapid succession. It is an art learned at a very young age. (It is incredibly provocative and I wonder just then, why the hell do these men go and see prostitutes? These girls are incredibly sexy and they know it!) I just do my terrible white girl thing that still gets a few thumbs up from enthusiastic spectators. I notice that we dance close to the huge doorway. I try to slink back into the throngs of the girls, closer to a few of the others I am friends with and therefore would be able to dance next to also. She keeps pulling me back out there. The doorway is not much of a doorway, more of an opening to the rest of the second floor, and this is where the gentlemen of the house and some male cousins and privileged friends are loitering. There is an invisible fence and these men cannot go past it unless they are carrying trays of snacks. They stand there and watch us dance, I can feel their eyes on me, on us, and I hate it. Of course I am having a great time. If you act like you are enjoying yourself, laughing at yourself and making faces to those around you, people love you. I just hated that we were the ones closest to the doorway, yes there was space, but I saw what she was doing.
Thankfully she was breaking a sweat too so we went outside to get some fresh air. There were already a lot of people out in front of the house too. The party continued on well into the night, with a repeat of songs, dancing, food, and greetings. Finally, around 11pm, when there was just too many women in the room, it was decided to take it outside. This was what all these young women had been praying for! A chance to lock eyes with the guys outside. We were going to Ahadeus this time, in traditional fashion for this area. One row of men lining up shoulder to shoulder, facing a row of women, calling to each other back and forth and dancing in a circle, sometimes coming closer and sometimes backing away in almost a courtship type of ritual. I had seen this done a few times and really enjoyed watching it. Different regions do different things, sometimes there are no women at all. Sometimes they get on their knees and make a splashing motion with their hands. On one side of the street were all of the guys not only from this area but from other duwwrs too. They were sitting close to one another, whispering, arms over shoulders, heads close together. On the other side of the street were all of the girls and women from inside. Everyone was dressed in their best. Of course in Morocco, that meant that the girls were wearing their traditional dresses outfitted with sequins and beautifully intricate designs and the guys were wearing G-Star knock off jackets and jeans. It was a staring contest. I was intimidated to say the least. We were sitting down in front, of course. I kept looking up trying to find the guy she was talking about, her boyfriend. I found out the day before she actually has a few boyfriends in different areas. I think this is a loose term, like we would say we are “talking to” some guy. No real commitment, just getting to know someone and flirt occasionally. I was sitting inbetween a few girls and was really feeling a part of the community. I looked like the girls dressed up, had a headscarf and had delicately tied on a pink sequin belt my sister Becca had gotten me as a birthday present a few years ago. All except for my green eyes, you might have mistaken me for a Moroccan.
My friend kept asking me if I was cold, if I wanted to go back to my house and grab a jacket. I knew she just wanted an excuse to get up and strut down this catwalk of potential flirts. I refused until the third time and we went to get me a jacket. Outside of my house we ran into a few other girls. One of them was telling the other, “Just ask her! Just ask Hanna,” and so I inquired to what they wanted. One of them has a boyfriend and would it be okay if they stepped inside my garden area and talked. My garden has a bamboo fence around it, which offers a little bit of privacy but not a whole lot. I told them it wasn’t a problem. The other girl asked if she could use my bathroom. She went to use the bathroom and I went to grab a jacket, all of a sudden the third girl comes running in. She said that Laho was outside and had yelled at them for coming in here. I was confused at the situation. What was the problem? They had been outside, and the door to my house had been left ajar and so was the door to the patio. I was briefly annoyed at the stark differences in Moroccan and American freedoms. These poor girls, who work hard all day, hardly have much of an education past middle school (if even that), and otherwise have no contact with guys in their community have now been yelled at for talking to a guy. There are ways around it, they get phone numbers and occasionally cross paths. Unlike in a high school or university setting, where they can talk freely and openly, without the hawk eyes of a conservative community bearing down on them. What is my role in this? How do I respond? I don’t want to damage my reputation in the community. I don’t want to jeopardize my position but at the same time I feel for these girls. Can you imagine how frustrated you could get with that situation? It seems like the typical scenario: Forbidden fruit always tastes the best. Which is why, with situations like these especially during weddings, I feel like everyone should be able to mingle freely. Be able to talk one another, and yes, under the supervision of the elders, but this would have been a perfect time to. I had a conversation recently with an intelligent man on his way back to Agadir to attend his second year at the University there. We discussed lots of things on our taxi ride to Boumalen Dades. We talked about politics, religion, the history of the Berbers, romance and music. He was saying how even our discussion in that taxi ride was unprecedented, especially one past the typical introduction and inquiring about health and family. He said I could break down barriers. He said that I could give these women here a lot of power and independence. I am not here to start a huge cultural mutiny and get stoned out of my village but I understand his position. Where women used to have arranged marriages and they either worked or you suffered in silence, now the aspect of marrying for love has become the new ideal.
This country is changing. It is losing some of its culture to cell phones, satellite TV and becoming more Westernized. Luckily, some practices are alive and healthy. It would be interesting to see if this country succeeds, unlike so many other countries, in combining a mixture of old and new, of faith and traditions and customs with technological advances. I hope they do succeed. Already the traditional practice of story-telling is dying off, replaced by soap operas. This culture is rich and it would break my heart to watch it all disappear and change away to nothing.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Riding the Magic Carpet
These past two days have been great. I had lfidor (breaking of the fast) with my landlord’s family (conveniently next door). It was quiet, compared to when I go over to my host family. We ate in silence. Even when people asked for more coffee, tea, or juice it was through hand gestures. For some reason I was slightly uncomfortable with the silence. It was a large gathering, of 9 or so people and still there was little conversation. I wondered if it was because of me, or whether it was usually a quiet meal. The wife of my landlord is hard of hearing, and that may have contributed to the lack of conversation. Either way, I haven’t been to a meal where I haven’t contributed something. It makes me feel better. Usually I will bring something small like olives, a salad, homemade juice, cake or cookies. I am still appalled at the economic differences in households. One family that has adopted me that I really enjoy going to, brings out lavish meals to break fast. Bread, homemade donuts, figs, olives, coffee, lmism (fried flat bread), honey and jelly as starters, followed of course by aharrar (thick soup). I usual depart, with a more than full stomach. The next meal is usually couscous or rice. Most family’s last meal, ate before dawn, is tajine.
Last night my host mom and sister accompanied me to the association president’s house. I had put off this meeting for some time, expecting to run into him before now. Our paths had crossed a few times before, but in informal settings. Of course, I was told by his father that Sarah had learned tashelheit fast and that I knew nothing. I really have yet to develop a response to this. It has been said to me only a handful of times, but the sting is always still there. I know that Sarah had a firm grasp of the language when she left, and I think people forget that she was in the same learning stage as I was when she first came. Other PCVs responses are to remind them of this, especially if they had replaced a volunteer, others ask the offender if they knew English and then the person would be put in a somewhat similar situation. I just nod, smile, and say that yes, Sarah knew Tash very well and she is very smart.
Toky, the president, knows a fair amount of English and it is easier for the both of us for him to speak to me in English. He also prefers it, he wants to practice and regrets not being able to use it more. There have been lots of developments and I learned a lot from out encounter. First off, he has secured a bus for the area. This bus will take students from the surrounding dours into Tizguine where there is a new lycee (middle school, grades 7 and 8). The building itself is not new, and is a home with two rooms that will serve as classrooms and a small kitchen. The bus will pick them up in the mornings and drop them off after school is done. This opens up a potential Environment/Health Club where I could co-facilitate with a teacher and start doing some great activities. The exciting aspect is that these students will be from this area, and can take back these new ideas and lessons and possibly implement them in their own homes and neighborhoods! I am really excited. These kids are closer in age to the ones I had worked with previously before I left for Morocco at the YMCA back in North Carolina. This age is especially fun because they are old enough to develop their own opinions and actively participate. I still plan on doing some health and environmental lessons at the primary school here, especially dealing with hygiene and dental health.
We discussed my project idea too. I want to start a trash disposal system. Originally I had stolen the idea from another volunteer (who probably borrowed it too). They placed large empty oil drums in convenient areas in her site where once half-full, they burn the trash. I have sinced emailed her asking the logistics of her development. For this area, this would be ideal seeing that there is no place to dump or bury the trash (valley drains into river). Whether it was miscommunication or not, Toky wants to employ a community member to collect the trash and dispose and bury it outside the area. We discussed the difficulties of this idea but he seemed enthusiastic about it. Unfortunately, we both seem to be big idea people. Things can get awfully utopic quickly. He and I have both pledged into looking into our respective areas, for me, I will look into sources of funding and he will exhausts his connections. I am excited either way. Trash will be picked up once a week. I proposed we charge each household 5 Dhs a month for this service to cover costs. I need to survey some of my neighbors and host family to see how they feel about this.
Side Note: I’m going to brag about my parents for a few lines. Had it not been for my parents’ determination to raise their kids with a sense of service and community I would not be here today. There are times that I truly feel their influence. Proposing a 5 Dh tax to each of the households would have been a solution that I feel like my dad would have proposed, and I wish he could have seen me working with Toky today. I think he would have been proud of the way we analyzed different aspects of the community. I miss hearing about local politics back home. One of my dad’s main missions is making communities better through services that make their life easier and healthier. Hopefully here, it will instill them a sense of pride and responsibility to keep their community clean and beautiful. Something that both of my parents have pledged their life to doing.
We also discussed some of the maladies persistent in this area. One problem being an eye disease where cysts form on the eyelids and cause blindness and the other a kind of eczema of the skin of the face. (This is what I interpreted). Both need medicine and possibly eye surgery. Toky said that there were 45 cases of the eye disease here in Tizguine. I am hoping to talk to the doctor in Boumalen tomorrow to find out the names of these diseases and look more closely into their origins and if they are preventable.
Oh and my hair has finally adapted, or maybe I have adapted to it? Conditioners are hard to find and expensive, so she just gets a shampoo every couple of days and air dry. Funny, I’ve been fighting for years with torture devices to get a certain look when the all-natural is actually quite acceptable. Thanks to my mom’s curl and thick hair (sorry dad I’ve got nothing for you--wink wink, nudge nudge). And as far as the rest of the hair goes, I have been taking quick cold showers and ignoring the razor. The extra coat will be good for winter I’m sure…
Last night my host mom and sister accompanied me to the association president’s house. I had put off this meeting for some time, expecting to run into him before now. Our paths had crossed a few times before, but in informal settings. Of course, I was told by his father that Sarah had learned tashelheit fast and that I knew nothing. I really have yet to develop a response to this. It has been said to me only a handful of times, but the sting is always still there. I know that Sarah had a firm grasp of the language when she left, and I think people forget that she was in the same learning stage as I was when she first came. Other PCVs responses are to remind them of this, especially if they had replaced a volunteer, others ask the offender if they knew English and then the person would be put in a somewhat similar situation. I just nod, smile, and say that yes, Sarah knew Tash very well and she is very smart.
Toky, the president, knows a fair amount of English and it is easier for the both of us for him to speak to me in English. He also prefers it, he wants to practice and regrets not being able to use it more. There have been lots of developments and I learned a lot from out encounter. First off, he has secured a bus for the area. This bus will take students from the surrounding dours into Tizguine where there is a new lycee (middle school, grades 7 and 8). The building itself is not new, and is a home with two rooms that will serve as classrooms and a small kitchen. The bus will pick them up in the mornings and drop them off after school is done. This opens up a potential Environment/Health Club where I could co-facilitate with a teacher and start doing some great activities. The exciting aspect is that these students will be from this area, and can take back these new ideas and lessons and possibly implement them in their own homes and neighborhoods! I am really excited. These kids are closer in age to the ones I had worked with previously before I left for Morocco at the YMCA back in North Carolina. This age is especially fun because they are old enough to develop their own opinions and actively participate. I still plan on doing some health and environmental lessons at the primary school here, especially dealing with hygiene and dental health.
We discussed my project idea too. I want to start a trash disposal system. Originally I had stolen the idea from another volunteer (who probably borrowed it too). They placed large empty oil drums in convenient areas in her site where once half-full, they burn the trash. I have sinced emailed her asking the logistics of her development. For this area, this would be ideal seeing that there is no place to dump or bury the trash (valley drains into river). Whether it was miscommunication or not, Toky wants to employ a community member to collect the trash and dispose and bury it outside the area. We discussed the difficulties of this idea but he seemed enthusiastic about it. Unfortunately, we both seem to be big idea people. Things can get awfully utopic quickly. He and I have both pledged into looking into our respective areas, for me, I will look into sources of funding and he will exhausts his connections. I am excited either way. Trash will be picked up once a week. I proposed we charge each household 5 Dhs a month for this service to cover costs. I need to survey some of my neighbors and host family to see how they feel about this.
Side Note: I’m going to brag about my parents for a few lines. Had it not been for my parents’ determination to raise their kids with a sense of service and community I would not be here today. There are times that I truly feel their influence. Proposing a 5 Dh tax to each of the households would have been a solution that I feel like my dad would have proposed, and I wish he could have seen me working with Toky today. I think he would have been proud of the way we analyzed different aspects of the community. I miss hearing about local politics back home. One of my dad’s main missions is making communities better through services that make their life easier and healthier. Hopefully here, it will instill them a sense of pride and responsibility to keep their community clean and beautiful. Something that both of my parents have pledged their life to doing.
We also discussed some of the maladies persistent in this area. One problem being an eye disease where cysts form on the eyelids and cause blindness and the other a kind of eczema of the skin of the face. (This is what I interpreted). Both need medicine and possibly eye surgery. Toky said that there were 45 cases of the eye disease here in Tizguine. I am hoping to talk to the doctor in Boumalen tomorrow to find out the names of these diseases and look more closely into their origins and if they are preventable.
Oh and my hair has finally adapted, or maybe I have adapted to it? Conditioners are hard to find and expensive, so she just gets a shampoo every couple of days and air dry. Funny, I’ve been fighting for years with torture devices to get a certain look when the all-natural is actually quite acceptable. Thanks to my mom’s curl and thick hair (sorry dad I’ve got nothing for you--wink wink, nudge nudge). And as far as the rest of the hair goes, I have been taking quick cold showers and ignoring the razor. The extra coat will be good for winter I’m sure…
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