We were sitting
Not moving, again.
For a long time
My impatience
Swelling, sweltering as still air
sun beating down.
I watched the man
Moving boxes and bags
And satchels and suitcase,
His whole life maybe,
In a grey peacoat
Against the nonexistent cold.
I woke to the rumble
Fading as the engine switches
In gear it doesn’t shake so bad-
The bus sways
Lumbering: a pregnant camel
Darting mouselike in traffic.
Soft whisper breeze!
The top is open, the air
sidles in
Caressing sweat-beaded skin.
I can breathe, and patience
Whisks in with my friend
Wind.
We are moving fast now.
Past endless rows of eucalyptus trees
Dusty green leaves, blood red trunks spindly
Rooted in the pale earth,
reaching skinnily for the pale sky.
Scant shade hunches under the branches
Herds cluster there in tight sheep scrums
But how can they breathe all smushed?
The breeze brings
Outside smells in
Hot pavement, hot dust, hot treebark
Pungent, fresh, medicinal.
The girl, she was next to me.
The one with the pristine white towel.
She is carsick.
See it in her haste, the way
she holds her cheeks?
She is vomiting,
Quietly, quietly.
No smell, no sound.
Only the mika betrays her
Rustling.
She will wipe her mouth with the towel
Tie up the bag and go to sleep.
Will I betray myself?
When I see him
Maybe I will give him a hug
Smile in his eyes
And hope no one I know
Was on this bus
To carry tales of the hidden forbidden
Back to where they matter
Maybe-
I will just take his hand
And we will slip away
Hiding in the city,
Wind crouching behind the leaves,
Among the trees
Slipping slowly by my window.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Arabic Lessons
It finally happened! As fate, or God, or luck would have it, I had pretty much nothing to do with it. I don’t care, it’s still AWESOME!! 30 some odd women, adult women, are now taking Arabic lessons! They have committed to trying to reduce illiteracy in our little village by becoming literate themselves. For many, this means they are stepping into the classroom for the first time in their 50 some years of life. For others it means picking up the chalk and pencil after a much extended break.
The reasons women in my village stop going to school are many. These days, it’s mostly because they have finished all the schooling that is readily available for them. Most families are not comfortable sending their pubescent and pre-pubescent daughters away to school, so once they finish the 6th form, they are done, for good. Those who really care about and are lucky enough to have family somewhere where the girls can safely stay while they study may choose to allow their daughters to continue. However, many don’t have that option. A few families still choose to pull their daughters even earlier. They may need help around the house, or help running the semi-nomadic tents out in the grazing grounds. This is still a vast improvement over days not so very long gone by. It used to be a family would choose maybe one or two kids out of the 6-10 they had to go to school at all. My tutor was one of the only children his parents sent to school. He has shared his literacy with both his younger sister and his wife. He is also a school-teacher here, passing on the gift to some hundreds of kids.
Last week, after months of suspense, the women’s literacy classes started. They started with the generosity of an association from Boulmane, a nearby city. The local preschool teacher got in contact with them (on her own!!!!), and then beat the dirt paths (on her own, between the classes she already teaches!!!!!!!) gathering women’s names and ID numbers so the association in Boulmane could be confident of interest levels. This association then called in the regional Ministry of Agriculture, and together they put up some money. I watched as they handed out the goods so the women could get started. Slates, chalk, pens, pencils and THREE books for each woman! Level 1, Level 2 and an educational reader about agriculture and agricultural science. It was so much fun to see them take the books, and then to come to their first class two days later… bright, excited eyes. Books carried carefully. The odd baby strapped to a back, while it’s mother shifted endlessly from foot to foot to calm it, pen in hand ready to learn. Shy and a bit self-conscious, they didn’t know what to do when the teacher wrote the first letter of the Arabic alphabet on the board. “Aleef! Ah!” she said and turned around to awkward silence. “What… do we… do?” muttered one voice, and the entire room burst into laughter. She hastened to explain, and off they went (like a herd of turtles…). I learned a bit myself, but soon found that I could be of more help guiding hands unused to writing into the proper way to make a circle with a tail on it (“Wa-oh! Oww!).
Just a couple days ago I dropped in on a family that I like to hang out with. They are very, very kind, insisting that I am like another daughter to them, and point blank refusing to let me leave the house without some form of sustenance either in my hands or my belly. Friendly, full of laughter, and out-spoken; they are a good antidote to the unfamiliar families who are still quiet and modest around me. The mother of the family is one of the women studying Arabic for the first time. She was one who had a very difficult time forming the letters that first day. I hadn’t been back for a while, but while we sat by the fire warming our hands, she said “Wait!” jumped up and disappeared. She returned with a sheet of paper completely covered with the number 8 drawn over and over and over and over and over… You could see on it the progression of 8’s. They started out huge, lop-sided, scratchy and barely recognizable. They ended neat, small and quite clearly “8”! She was so proud of herself, yet still self-effacing. She started working on the number 9 while I was sitting there, and her 10-year-old son watched her, giving helpful criticism respectfully and proudly. He too, is happy to see his mother studying. This is one family where the older children have gone on to high school if they wanted, girls and boys. Now, finally, their mother is joining them in the ranks of the educated. I am so happy for them I could shine!
The reasons women in my village stop going to school are many. These days, it’s mostly because they have finished all the schooling that is readily available for them. Most families are not comfortable sending their pubescent and pre-pubescent daughters away to school, so once they finish the 6th form, they are done, for good. Those who really care about and are lucky enough to have family somewhere where the girls can safely stay while they study may choose to allow their daughters to continue. However, many don’t have that option. A few families still choose to pull their daughters even earlier. They may need help around the house, or help running the semi-nomadic tents out in the grazing grounds. This is still a vast improvement over days not so very long gone by. It used to be a family would choose maybe one or two kids out of the 6-10 they had to go to school at all. My tutor was one of the only children his parents sent to school. He has shared his literacy with both his younger sister and his wife. He is also a school-teacher here, passing on the gift to some hundreds of kids.
Last week, after months of suspense, the women’s literacy classes started. They started with the generosity of an association from Boulmane, a nearby city. The local preschool teacher got in contact with them (on her own!!!!), and then beat the dirt paths (on her own, between the classes she already teaches!!!!!!!) gathering women’s names and ID numbers so the association in Boulmane could be confident of interest levels. This association then called in the regional Ministry of Agriculture, and together they put up some money. I watched as they handed out the goods so the women could get started. Slates, chalk, pens, pencils and THREE books for each woman! Level 1, Level 2 and an educational reader about agriculture and agricultural science. It was so much fun to see them take the books, and then to come to their first class two days later… bright, excited eyes. Books carried carefully. The odd baby strapped to a back, while it’s mother shifted endlessly from foot to foot to calm it, pen in hand ready to learn. Shy and a bit self-conscious, they didn’t know what to do when the teacher wrote the first letter of the Arabic alphabet on the board. “Aleef! Ah!” she said and turned around to awkward silence. “What… do we… do?” muttered one voice, and the entire room burst into laughter. She hastened to explain, and off they went (like a herd of turtles…). I learned a bit myself, but soon found that I could be of more help guiding hands unused to writing into the proper way to make a circle with a tail on it (“Wa-oh! Oww!).
Just a couple days ago I dropped in on a family that I like to hang out with. They are very, very kind, insisting that I am like another daughter to them, and point blank refusing to let me leave the house without some form of sustenance either in my hands or my belly. Friendly, full of laughter, and out-spoken; they are a good antidote to the unfamiliar families who are still quiet and modest around me. The mother of the family is one of the women studying Arabic for the first time. She was one who had a very difficult time forming the letters that first day. I hadn’t been back for a while, but while we sat by the fire warming our hands, she said “Wait!” jumped up and disappeared. She returned with a sheet of paper completely covered with the number 8 drawn over and over and over and over and over… You could see on it the progression of 8’s. They started out huge, lop-sided, scratchy and barely recognizable. They ended neat, small and quite clearly “8”! She was so proud of herself, yet still self-effacing. She started working on the number 9 while I was sitting there, and her 10-year-old son watched her, giving helpful criticism respectfully and proudly. He too, is happy to see his mother studying. This is one family where the older children have gone on to high school if they wanted, girls and boys. Now, finally, their mother is joining them in the ranks of the educated. I am so happy for them I could shine!
10 November 2009
Autum ambles to the ending…
It’s late fall, the harvests are almost all in. Only the olive trees still wait for gathering. The people are feeding tree clippings to their animals. They do this before all the leaves fall off, so as to more efficiently use the produce of the trees. This doesn’t allow the soil to be enriched by as many decomposing leaves, but most of the soil in farm fields here in my site is carefully husbanded, so it seems to work out anyway.
I helped with the corn harvest again this year. Not nearly the ordeal it was last year… Last year the corn harvest was done in the rain (it started raining in September and I swear it didn’t stop until December last year). So, the river was at flood and we had to go the really long way around to the bridge (tack on 12+ km roundtrip), and all the paths were slippery with mud. The fields were deep mud, too. The mules sunk in up to their hocks and knees. I remember I slipped and fell on a steep path and the mule I had charge of almost ran me over before I could get a hold of a strong enough tree branch to pull myself up.
This year it was a gorgeous, sunny fall day (we have had many of those this year!). I started helping late, so mostly I just carried a mid-morning snack to the workers who had been there all morning. Then, we finished pulling the corncobs of the stalks (by hand… corn leaves give the best paper cuts you have ever seen), loaded up the mules with bags of cobs, and a few stalks for quick fodder for the cows and sheep, cleaned up from the snack, and hauled it all back to the house. The system of harvest is: the men cut the stalks with short hand-scythes, and lay them on the ground in loose bundles. Then the women follow pulling the corncobs off the stalks, stuffing them into bags and carrying them to the mules. Everyone loads the mules up, and a couple men take the mules from field to house over and over until the corn is all gathered in. The corn is then all piled up somewhere, and whoever has spare time (old men, women of all ages, girls, kids) shuck the corn by hand. The shucked cobs are carried up to the roofs in bags by the able-bodied women, and piled in narrow, long, thin piles to dry in the sun. In my host family’s house this is a communal task completed mostly by extended family. My host father is too busy with his other work (he’s town sheikh, and traditional healer for the region), and my host mother is not able-bodied. They use me when they can, when I remember to offer. I’m sturdy, and not afraid of big, hairy, smelly (but generally very gentle) mules. Besides, I kind of like helping out with harvests. Even in the states I’ll help drive a tractor chopping corn if I get the chance. The smells of corn, corns stalks, and mud all remind me forcibly of Wisconsin in the fall. It’s like a little gulp of home.
Corn in general, actually… in the summer I’ve been known to go sit in a corn field for half an hour just to hear the whisper and rustle of corn leaves growing in a light breeze and full sunlight. It smells good, and sounds better.
It’s getting cold now. After a long, mild fall, it is finally getting chilly. For three days we had powerful winds blowing through. Winter winds. They call it “atho”. The “th” is a soft, emphatic “t”—a sound we don’t really have in English. It’s an apt name though, strong and hard. Atho is unpleasant… it cuts through the thickest of layers, picks up grit and dust and throws it everywhere. If you don’t shut up the house, a fine layer of it coats everything quickly. Today we are granted a reprieve: warm sunlight and a soft breeze again.
I did my laundry and hung it to dry maybe two hours ago. Most of it is already dry! It’s amazing how quickly things will dry here… in the summer my bandanas are dry within 10 minutes of being hung up. My skin is dry, too… fingers peeling and cracking. It’s not gonna get any better with the cold winter months. I apply lotion multiple times daily, and try to protect my hands from harsh soap by wearing gloves for laundry and dishes, but… Well, thus far the dryness just comes and goes, comes and goes. I remember my doctor in the states—2 and a half years ago—looking at my hands, giving me hydrocortisone, and saying “Use that three times daily, and we’ll hope it doesn’t become chronic.” Chronic, that would definitely be the word!Nonetheless, I generally like this weather. Warm and fuzzy clothing is comfortable again! I huddle under warm blankets, relish steaming tea, and contemplate purchasing a better gas space heater. I enjoy the warmth of my computer on my lap! I go to the hammam and sit in the steamy heat and soak it in, not worrying about heat exhaustion like I would in the summer. Fall is a good season. And here it is, almost over. Farewell, fall!
It’s late fall, the harvests are almost all in. Only the olive trees still wait for gathering. The people are feeding tree clippings to their animals. They do this before all the leaves fall off, so as to more efficiently use the produce of the trees. This doesn’t allow the soil to be enriched by as many decomposing leaves, but most of the soil in farm fields here in my site is carefully husbanded, so it seems to work out anyway.
I helped with the corn harvest again this year. Not nearly the ordeal it was last year… Last year the corn harvest was done in the rain (it started raining in September and I swear it didn’t stop until December last year). So, the river was at flood and we had to go the really long way around to the bridge (tack on 12+ km roundtrip), and all the paths were slippery with mud. The fields were deep mud, too. The mules sunk in up to their hocks and knees. I remember I slipped and fell on a steep path and the mule I had charge of almost ran me over before I could get a hold of a strong enough tree branch to pull myself up.
This year it was a gorgeous, sunny fall day (we have had many of those this year!). I started helping late, so mostly I just carried a mid-morning snack to the workers who had been there all morning. Then, we finished pulling the corncobs of the stalks (by hand… corn leaves give the best paper cuts you have ever seen), loaded up the mules with bags of cobs, and a few stalks for quick fodder for the cows and sheep, cleaned up from the snack, and hauled it all back to the house. The system of harvest is: the men cut the stalks with short hand-scythes, and lay them on the ground in loose bundles. Then the women follow pulling the corncobs off the stalks, stuffing them into bags and carrying them to the mules. Everyone loads the mules up, and a couple men take the mules from field to house over and over until the corn is all gathered in. The corn is then all piled up somewhere, and whoever has spare time (old men, women of all ages, girls, kids) shuck the corn by hand. The shucked cobs are carried up to the roofs in bags by the able-bodied women, and piled in narrow, long, thin piles to dry in the sun. In my host family’s house this is a communal task completed mostly by extended family. My host father is too busy with his other work (he’s town sheikh, and traditional healer for the region), and my host mother is not able-bodied. They use me when they can, when I remember to offer. I’m sturdy, and not afraid of big, hairy, smelly (but generally very gentle) mules. Besides, I kind of like helping out with harvests. Even in the states I’ll help drive a tractor chopping corn if I get the chance. The smells of corn, corns stalks, and mud all remind me forcibly of Wisconsin in the fall. It’s like a little gulp of home.
Corn in general, actually… in the summer I’ve been known to go sit in a corn field for half an hour just to hear the whisper and rustle of corn leaves growing in a light breeze and full sunlight. It smells good, and sounds better.
It’s getting cold now. After a long, mild fall, it is finally getting chilly. For three days we had powerful winds blowing through. Winter winds. They call it “atho”. The “th” is a soft, emphatic “t”—a sound we don’t really have in English. It’s an apt name though, strong and hard. Atho is unpleasant… it cuts through the thickest of layers, picks up grit and dust and throws it everywhere. If you don’t shut up the house, a fine layer of it coats everything quickly. Today we are granted a reprieve: warm sunlight and a soft breeze again.
I did my laundry and hung it to dry maybe two hours ago. Most of it is already dry! It’s amazing how quickly things will dry here… in the summer my bandanas are dry within 10 minutes of being hung up. My skin is dry, too… fingers peeling and cracking. It’s not gonna get any better with the cold winter months. I apply lotion multiple times daily, and try to protect my hands from harsh soap by wearing gloves for laundry and dishes, but… Well, thus far the dryness just comes and goes, comes and goes. I remember my doctor in the states—2 and a half years ago—looking at my hands, giving me hydrocortisone, and saying “Use that three times daily, and we’ll hope it doesn’t become chronic.” Chronic, that would definitely be the word!Nonetheless, I generally like this weather. Warm and fuzzy clothing is comfortable again! I huddle under warm blankets, relish steaming tea, and contemplate purchasing a better gas space heater. I enjoy the warmth of my computer on my lap! I go to the hammam and sit in the steamy heat and soak it in, not worrying about heat exhaustion like I would in the summer. Fall is a good season. And here it is, almost over. Farewell, fall!
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Walking the Streets
Why is it that I can expect to be ogled and catcalled and spoken of in slippery or even sleazy terms on almost every single street I walk down in a city/large town here? This is a question that I have been turning over and over and over in my mind, like a worry stone, since I got here. Never, in any other place (not Tanzania, not Ecuador, Mexico, Spain, Argentina, England, Scotland, France, Italy, nor Chicago, Minneapolis, Madison, Portland, San Francisco, Boston nor Naples) have I ever experienced the level and frequency of not-really-comfortable attention on the streets that I have here. In cities, large or small, it happens. Understand, as a fair-complexioned person one gets a substantial amount of attention on the streets in, say Latin America or in Tanzania or in Italy. It’s not the same though. It doesn’t feel the same on my skin, or in my head. That is a second question that I might write about some other time.
I have been hesitating to write about this phenomenon in detail for some time, because I wanted to think it over, and to puzzle out a few of the whys and wherefores before I put my opinion to anything. This is a complex issue, running the gamut of culture, politics, history, and religion. Thus, particularly as a Peace Corps Volunteer blogging about such things, I have to be very careful.
What do I think about this? Culture clash, globalization and adaptation, that’s what I think in five words or less. Morocco has been subject to the influence of many factors over recent and less-recent history. If you go back (way back) and boil it down to generalizations, there were Berbers, and then the Romans came (yes, the Romans of Pax Romana, way back when. They left cool ruins here.), and the Berbers and the Romans figured out how to live together. The next conquerors were the Arabs, (who melded in very nicely after the military take over) and then the Spanish and then the French, though in different ways (who might not have melded so much). And then came globalization and the influence of the US/Western culture through media, economics, and technology sharing. The details are important, but I’m not going there. This isn’t a senior thesis, these are just a few thoughts. Anyway, those are the major players. Over and over, the people of Morocco have been influenced to one degree or another by invaders, Protectorates, movies, and political revolutions. And each new change has created shockwaves, adaptations, and subtly changed the culture of Morocco itself. Thus, the Berbers were over time driven into the mountains, where they still stay, continuing their culture through language, dance, etc., but they have long since been Muslims, every mother’s son and daughter of them. The plains are a mix of Berber, Arab, French, African heritage and culture. Nowadays, the mountains and the plains are full of exchange and trade with each other, all filtered through the lens of religion and cumulative culture. Then add to that the influence of mass media layered over top of it all. Perhaps you can see why I’ve been biding my time trying to figure this out?
Well, I’m not so sure I’ve figured it out, but I have a few observations. Firstly, the Islamic faith is the base upon which much of this culture clash and adaptation occurs. Most every Moroccan at least claims to be Muslim. I have heard a variety of opinions about the sincerity of faith concerning the general population, but the point is that every single Moroccan, whatever their sincerity of faith, is very much under the influence of Islamic morals, rules, and boundaries.
Secondly, those boundaries affect everything. There is a distinct boundary between men and women. This was my first realization, upon an encounter with a deeply religious man who would not even look at me or converse with me, not even when we were working on a project together. I had to let men talk with him for me. This encounter made the divide between men and women real for me. There is room for behavior like his in this culture. It is seen as extreme, but he is respected for his convictions. I will hazard a guess that any man who chooses to completely ignore the presence of a woman for any reason (particularly in a profession setting) in the US would be subject to some form of censure, either from their peers or the woman in question.
There is another boundary between the public and the private. It is a part of the boundary between men and women as well, and I don’t pretend to fully understand it. Here’s what I do get to some degree. Women, in particular, usually change between what they wear at home and what they wear in the streets (or to answer the door) quite a bit. And that doesn’t mean they get prettied up, no, it means they get covered up. For most women here that means covered from neck to wrist and ankle in loose clothing, plus a headscarf that covers at least the hair and probably the neck as well. Interestingly, this difference is mostly in degree. Even in the states I would probably cover up a revealing undershirt to go answer the door, depending upon whom I spied through the window. Of course, that might mean putting on a t-shirt, not a moo-moo. This changing is commonplace, but it was clarified for me when I observed a close friend wearing flattering, western style clothing in her house (to please her husband) and then covering up to go outside in the familiar loose clothing. I asked her about it and she went so far as to say, “I don’t care what I look like outside, I want/need to look beautiful while I am in the house!” I could only blink… surely this is the opposite of what most women in the States think? To us, going out means you ought to look good, if not spectacular, depending on where you are going. The home is where you relax, where you can stop worrying about appearances, because that is where the people who love you are, who will love you even if you look like a sloppy college student half the time. Again, to a degree, this is common ground. Here in Morocco, too, home is where you can relax, but not for the same reasons. Home is where a woman can relax because she doesn’t have to guard her appearance from the men (as much) because they are her close relatives, her protectors, and (of course) her loved ones. In other words, these men can be trusted. Their roles are defined, be it protector, lover, or provider.
Also, the private is what you care for; it is your place, your sanctuary, your little kingdom, and your responsibility. It ends outside your door, and the public is not anyone’s place, nor is it precisely anyone’s responsibility. Technically it is everyone’s but that doesn’t seem to stop many people from instead treating it as though it is no one’s. Thus, the home and its traditions are set and guarded, and much of the culture clash and its reverberations occur on the streets, where no watchful eye gazes.
The streets! Anything could happen in the streets. Freedom from the house, you can go where you choose (no walls), you can look at other people (strangers, even), you may talk to other people, no one is looking over your shoulder, no one is protecting you but you; it is not “safe.” A young man who is just coming up against the feelings puberty is shoving through his veins to his brain can explore what the reaction of a young woman might be to certain comment he would never dare make in earshot of his parents. A young woman dealing with similar hormonal changes can cast eyes at people and enjoy their effects. She would not stop to talk to someone she doesn’t know well, though. That might raise too many eyebrows, and she wants to maintain her honor. Who knows, her future husband may see her and be attracted enough to approach her parents, but only if she is seen as respectable. A married woman must guard herself if she is alone, for her honor and her family’s is in her hands and could be assaulted by one of those young men, maybe. She does not wear very flattering clothes or cast eyes about. Attention is not her aim. A married man can look at all manner of people, man and woman, and wonder. After all, for him, looking is free.
Enough about boundaries, there are more, but enough for now. Now throw into the mix a foreigner, a young woman, who sees her freedom on the streets as well. But maybe not exactly the same kind of freedom. She goes to the streets to be seen and to meet people, quite possibly, but she doesn’t think of seeing and meeting in the same way. She goes to explore, for she has been taught that the world is her playground, same as anyone’s. That being seen or talking to a stranger should affect her honor is a foreign concept. Her choice of clothing is not based on the same parameters that are in effect here. What she sees as perfectly reasonable summer wear looks like the bottom layer of undergarments to most men here. Which has a predictable effect: when they look at her they think immediately of one thing. Sex. And if they can get that, then maybe they can get a passport, too, or maybe money. They try to get her attention any way they can think of, because they know this might be their only chance to meet her. They know the boundaries she lives by (and we do have boundaries, though I’m not sure I would have applied that word before I came here… maybe I would have said bounds, or social mores instead) are different, and more flexible than the boundaries used here. They don’t know them, though, beyond what they see on the not-very-good American movies shown on the movie channels. You and I both know that movies don’t necessarily paint an accurate picture of social values and mores either. Movies exaggerate and focus on the strange or extraordinary for entertainment’s sake. So they yell a phrase they memorized from the subtitled movies, maybe “Kiss me, beautiful!” Or maybe something else.
Which leaves said young foreign woman in a bit of a bind. Any effort to talk to the young man may be seen as a type of flirting (even if the words are along the lines of “Shut up and go back to you mother!”), any glance or glare is sure to be seen the same way (for haven’t the movies shown that Western women are prickly and sassy?), and any gestures that might express frustration are sure to escalate the situation in a bad way. Strategy number one is that of the previously mentioned married women: prevention (don’t dress attractively, and don’t cast your eyes about/don’t look at anyone) and then pretend it didn’t happen if it does happen. It’s just words anyway, and as they say, ‘sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.’ Well, they might be irritating, the 14th or 40th time in a row they are heard… and they might be insulting (American women do have honor… and we don’t like it when it’s impinged upon any more than any one else does) but surely they are no more than water rolling of a duck’s back. So long as one keeps one’s back well oiled. J
Fascinating, right? I think so too. The question and it’s associated thoughts are sure to continue to fascinate me as I turn them over and over and over, like a worry stone in my pocket.
P.S. In pursuit of an understanding of some of the subjects touched on, I have begun reading some of the works of Fatima Mernissi, a noted scholar from Morocco. Her book, Beyond the Veil, is a fascinating scholarly work that has cleared a lot of things up for me, as well as raising a lot of excellent questions. I recommend it, and also (for a lighter read) her memoir Dreams of Trespass. Happy reading!
I have been hesitating to write about this phenomenon in detail for some time, because I wanted to think it over, and to puzzle out a few of the whys and wherefores before I put my opinion to anything. This is a complex issue, running the gamut of culture, politics, history, and religion. Thus, particularly as a Peace Corps Volunteer blogging about such things, I have to be very careful.
What do I think about this? Culture clash, globalization and adaptation, that’s what I think in five words or less. Morocco has been subject to the influence of many factors over recent and less-recent history. If you go back (way back) and boil it down to generalizations, there were Berbers, and then the Romans came (yes, the Romans of Pax Romana, way back when. They left cool ruins here.), and the Berbers and the Romans figured out how to live together. The next conquerors were the Arabs, (who melded in very nicely after the military take over) and then the Spanish and then the French, though in different ways (who might not have melded so much). And then came globalization and the influence of the US/Western culture through media, economics, and technology sharing. The details are important, but I’m not going there. This isn’t a senior thesis, these are just a few thoughts. Anyway, those are the major players. Over and over, the people of Morocco have been influenced to one degree or another by invaders, Protectorates, movies, and political revolutions. And each new change has created shockwaves, adaptations, and subtly changed the culture of Morocco itself. Thus, the Berbers were over time driven into the mountains, where they still stay, continuing their culture through language, dance, etc., but they have long since been Muslims, every mother’s son and daughter of them. The plains are a mix of Berber, Arab, French, African heritage and culture. Nowadays, the mountains and the plains are full of exchange and trade with each other, all filtered through the lens of religion and cumulative culture. Then add to that the influence of mass media layered over top of it all. Perhaps you can see why I’ve been biding my time trying to figure this out?
Well, I’m not so sure I’ve figured it out, but I have a few observations. Firstly, the Islamic faith is the base upon which much of this culture clash and adaptation occurs. Most every Moroccan at least claims to be Muslim. I have heard a variety of opinions about the sincerity of faith concerning the general population, but the point is that every single Moroccan, whatever their sincerity of faith, is very much under the influence of Islamic morals, rules, and boundaries.
Secondly, those boundaries affect everything. There is a distinct boundary between men and women. This was my first realization, upon an encounter with a deeply religious man who would not even look at me or converse with me, not even when we were working on a project together. I had to let men talk with him for me. This encounter made the divide between men and women real for me. There is room for behavior like his in this culture. It is seen as extreme, but he is respected for his convictions. I will hazard a guess that any man who chooses to completely ignore the presence of a woman for any reason (particularly in a profession setting) in the US would be subject to some form of censure, either from their peers or the woman in question.
There is another boundary between the public and the private. It is a part of the boundary between men and women as well, and I don’t pretend to fully understand it. Here’s what I do get to some degree. Women, in particular, usually change between what they wear at home and what they wear in the streets (or to answer the door) quite a bit. And that doesn’t mean they get prettied up, no, it means they get covered up. For most women here that means covered from neck to wrist and ankle in loose clothing, plus a headscarf that covers at least the hair and probably the neck as well. Interestingly, this difference is mostly in degree. Even in the states I would probably cover up a revealing undershirt to go answer the door, depending upon whom I spied through the window. Of course, that might mean putting on a t-shirt, not a moo-moo. This changing is commonplace, but it was clarified for me when I observed a close friend wearing flattering, western style clothing in her house (to please her husband) and then covering up to go outside in the familiar loose clothing. I asked her about it and she went so far as to say, “I don’t care what I look like outside, I want/need to look beautiful while I am in the house!” I could only blink… surely this is the opposite of what most women in the States think? To us, going out means you ought to look good, if not spectacular, depending on where you are going. The home is where you relax, where you can stop worrying about appearances, because that is where the people who love you are, who will love you even if you look like a sloppy college student half the time. Again, to a degree, this is common ground. Here in Morocco, too, home is where you can relax, but not for the same reasons. Home is where a woman can relax because she doesn’t have to guard her appearance from the men (as much) because they are her close relatives, her protectors, and (of course) her loved ones. In other words, these men can be trusted. Their roles are defined, be it protector, lover, or provider.
Also, the private is what you care for; it is your place, your sanctuary, your little kingdom, and your responsibility. It ends outside your door, and the public is not anyone’s place, nor is it precisely anyone’s responsibility. Technically it is everyone’s but that doesn’t seem to stop many people from instead treating it as though it is no one’s. Thus, the home and its traditions are set and guarded, and much of the culture clash and its reverberations occur on the streets, where no watchful eye gazes.
The streets! Anything could happen in the streets. Freedom from the house, you can go where you choose (no walls), you can look at other people (strangers, even), you may talk to other people, no one is looking over your shoulder, no one is protecting you but you; it is not “safe.” A young man who is just coming up against the feelings puberty is shoving through his veins to his brain can explore what the reaction of a young woman might be to certain comment he would never dare make in earshot of his parents. A young woman dealing with similar hormonal changes can cast eyes at people and enjoy their effects. She would not stop to talk to someone she doesn’t know well, though. That might raise too many eyebrows, and she wants to maintain her honor. Who knows, her future husband may see her and be attracted enough to approach her parents, but only if she is seen as respectable. A married woman must guard herself if she is alone, for her honor and her family’s is in her hands and could be assaulted by one of those young men, maybe. She does not wear very flattering clothes or cast eyes about. Attention is not her aim. A married man can look at all manner of people, man and woman, and wonder. After all, for him, looking is free.
Enough about boundaries, there are more, but enough for now. Now throw into the mix a foreigner, a young woman, who sees her freedom on the streets as well. But maybe not exactly the same kind of freedom. She goes to the streets to be seen and to meet people, quite possibly, but she doesn’t think of seeing and meeting in the same way. She goes to explore, for she has been taught that the world is her playground, same as anyone’s. That being seen or talking to a stranger should affect her honor is a foreign concept. Her choice of clothing is not based on the same parameters that are in effect here. What she sees as perfectly reasonable summer wear looks like the bottom layer of undergarments to most men here. Which has a predictable effect: when they look at her they think immediately of one thing. Sex. And if they can get that, then maybe they can get a passport, too, or maybe money. They try to get her attention any way they can think of, because they know this might be their only chance to meet her. They know the boundaries she lives by (and we do have boundaries, though I’m not sure I would have applied that word before I came here… maybe I would have said bounds, or social mores instead) are different, and more flexible than the boundaries used here. They don’t know them, though, beyond what they see on the not-very-good American movies shown on the movie channels. You and I both know that movies don’t necessarily paint an accurate picture of social values and mores either. Movies exaggerate and focus on the strange or extraordinary for entertainment’s sake. So they yell a phrase they memorized from the subtitled movies, maybe “Kiss me, beautiful!” Or maybe something else.
Which leaves said young foreign woman in a bit of a bind. Any effort to talk to the young man may be seen as a type of flirting (even if the words are along the lines of “Shut up and go back to you mother!”), any glance or glare is sure to be seen the same way (for haven’t the movies shown that Western women are prickly and sassy?), and any gestures that might express frustration are sure to escalate the situation in a bad way. Strategy number one is that of the previously mentioned married women: prevention (don’t dress attractively, and don’t cast your eyes about/don’t look at anyone) and then pretend it didn’t happen if it does happen. It’s just words anyway, and as they say, ‘sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.’ Well, they might be irritating, the 14th or 40th time in a row they are heard… and they might be insulting (American women do have honor… and we don’t like it when it’s impinged upon any more than any one else does) but surely they are no more than water rolling of a duck’s back. So long as one keeps one’s back well oiled. J
Fascinating, right? I think so too. The question and it’s associated thoughts are sure to continue to fascinate me as I turn them over and over and over, like a worry stone in my pocket.
P.S. In pursuit of an understanding of some of the subjects touched on, I have begun reading some of the works of Fatima Mernissi, a noted scholar from Morocco. Her book, Beyond the Veil, is a fascinating scholarly work that has cleared a lot of things up for me, as well as raising a lot of excellent questions. I recommend it, and also (for a lighter read) her memoir Dreams of Trespass. Happy reading!
I Got Steam Heat!
How many of you own and frequently use pressure cookers? I thought so, not very many. If my grandmother is reading this, she at least would point out that, while she may not use her pressure cooker frequently any more, it certainly saw heavy use in her days manning the kitchen. I remember, as a small child, sitting on a stool as I played with the left over pie dough on the yellowy-green of the counter running the length of her very narrow and long kitchen, and listening to the intermittent hisses and spits and clicks of her large pressure cooker as it did its duty on the scalloped potatoes. The smells of beef or pork or fish escaping the oven, the heat of the steam shooting out the pressure valve on the pressure cooker, and the delicate strawberries embroidered along the scalloped edges on her perfectly white kitchen curtains. I must have asked her what that thing making all the noise was, because she explained to me what that large pot so furiously spounting steam was. And then proceeded to sing it’s praises, how it saves time, money, and made things tender and sweet in the process.
I have learned the art of the kukut (pressure cooker) here in Morocco. And now, I’m following in Grandma’s footsteps: kukuts rule, other pots drool! Well, there are many uses for the typical pot, perhaps I should not belittle them in my quest to praise the almighty kukut. But in all seriousness, it’s AWESOME. It saves time, tenderizes beans, and makes my butagaz tank last a lot longer than it otherwise would. Lentils take a good hour to cook to softness in a pot (or more, depending on how soft you want it), but a kukut does the same job in under 20 minutes (including the time it takes it come to pressure). Less time is less gas burned for the flame, meaning more gas for later, which means fewer trips up and down my steep and uneven stairs lugging a 3 foot tall almost 2 feet in diameter tank. Much appreciated! Less time cooking also means less time between hungry and not-hungry-anymore-thank-you! Plus, no matter how long you soak a bean, it’s hard to get it properly tender without the help of that added pressure inside the kukut.
So, basically, I’m a fan. Keep that steam shooting out of the pressure valve, let the music of the top piece dancing and skittering and spitting announce to my neighbor’s I am cooking, because I’ve got steam heat taking me all the way to the dinner table, and it’s one thing I will definitely be taking back with me to the States. No kitchen should be without a kukut.
I have learned the art of the kukut (pressure cooker) here in Morocco. And now, I’m following in Grandma’s footsteps: kukuts rule, other pots drool! Well, there are many uses for the typical pot, perhaps I should not belittle them in my quest to praise the almighty kukut. But in all seriousness, it’s AWESOME. It saves time, tenderizes beans, and makes my butagaz tank last a lot longer than it otherwise would. Lentils take a good hour to cook to softness in a pot (or more, depending on how soft you want it), but a kukut does the same job in under 20 minutes (including the time it takes it come to pressure). Less time is less gas burned for the flame, meaning more gas for later, which means fewer trips up and down my steep and uneven stairs lugging a 3 foot tall almost 2 feet in diameter tank. Much appreciated! Less time cooking also means less time between hungry and not-hungry-anymore-thank-you! Plus, no matter how long you soak a bean, it’s hard to get it properly tender without the help of that added pressure inside the kukut.
So, basically, I’m a fan. Keep that steam shooting out of the pressure valve, let the music of the top piece dancing and skittering and spitting announce to my neighbor’s I am cooking, because I’ve got steam heat taking me all the way to the dinner table, and it’s one thing I will definitely be taking back with me to the States. No kitchen should be without a kukut.
Friday, July 24, 2009
22/07/09
I really enjoy hiking. So, I guess I’m lucky that it’s part of my job here! Didn’t stop me from dreading leaving last Saturday for the 20+ km hike ahead of me… I was mostly dreading it because of the time of day we ended up leaving: 2pm, the hottest part of the day. I pack two small water bottles of water, but that doesn’t last long in the heat of the day when you are hiking over the steep and dusty land. The air here is so dry! 40% humidity is considered rather high.
The hike itself is one I’ve already made a few times. The valley I was heading for is part of the SIBE (or Site of Ecological Importance… only in French with something that ‘B’ stands for…) that is a focus of my placement here. Environmental volunteers are supposed to help with the preservation/conservation/elucidation of purpose for these SIBE’s. So I know this path. I know the first sharp climb, the slow rise of the plateau to the gulley that cuts steeply through the bowl of high mountains and providing a steep and exposed path up to the high face of the mountain. I know the turn around the shoulder of the mountain, and the three scalloped valleys the path cuts across, and I know the long descent through the sparse forest into the grazing grounds on the other side. Really it’s only 10 km away, as the crow flies, and I know that’s really not that far. I also knew I wasn’t in quite as good a shape as one might hope if one was trying to keep up with your sheepherder escort… in the heat of the day.
He set a very reasonable pace for me though. And we stopped to rest at the water cistern at the top of the plateau, and wonder of wonders, there was a mule coming up the path behind us. We gratefully threw our backpacks into its carry-basket and joined the two girls who had been riding it. They got off for the passage of the gully. It’s steep and exposed, yes, but also the footing is bad. All sliding rocks and gravel and dust and sharp turns in tricky spots. If your mule goes down (and they do sometimes) it’s best not to be on them if they slide of the path and down the mountain a bit. We made the passage uneventfully, and I began my arguments with my sheepherder guide. He wanted me to ride the mule, and was unwilling to take the place of the two young girls who were having a harder time keeping up with him than I. I did give in for a bit, but that was (in that moment anyway) less about being tired and more about enjoying riding something vaguely horselike.
We made the decent through the trees, and left the girls and their mule at their families tent, and made our way across the valley. I was practically running to keep up with my shepherd. And then we turned with the path. Up. Straight up, for a final mile and a half (a couple of km) at about a 25% to 30% grade. It felt like 45%, I swear! After 4 hours of hiking, riding, and trying to keep up I was TIRED. For some reason, my hip flexors seemed to be taking the entirety of the load, because the rest of my legs were only mildly tired. It hurt to lift my legs, though, and so I just kept on, step by step. Counting the boulders as we passed them till we finally came to our destination: the tent of the president of an association I work. There I dropped my bag on the floor and collapsed, exhausted. It was all I could do not to lie down right there, but I knew that would inspire worried words… as it was they were exhorting me not to die. Which I was nowhere near doing, for the record. I have had a much harder time breathing after many a track sprint workout, thank you!
On the way back, GPS information gathered, I made the hike by myself. I enjoyed it, stopping in the shade, looking about me to really enjoy the sweeping vistas obscured only by the summer heat haze, and even taking pictures like a tourist! I veered off the path to look at a big cap of rock and enjoy the view. And I still made the hike in just over 4 1/2 hours. Which was about how much time it had taken me and the shepherd the day before. This time, though, I wasn’t exhausted. I even had enough energy to dance at the final stage of my neighbor’s wedding!
The hike itself is one I’ve already made a few times. The valley I was heading for is part of the SIBE (or Site of Ecological Importance… only in French with something that ‘B’ stands for…) that is a focus of my placement here. Environmental volunteers are supposed to help with the preservation/conservation/elucidation of purpose for these SIBE’s. So I know this path. I know the first sharp climb, the slow rise of the plateau to the gulley that cuts steeply through the bowl of high mountains and providing a steep and exposed path up to the high face of the mountain. I know the turn around the shoulder of the mountain, and the three scalloped valleys the path cuts across, and I know the long descent through the sparse forest into the grazing grounds on the other side. Really it’s only 10 km away, as the crow flies, and I know that’s really not that far. I also knew I wasn’t in quite as good a shape as one might hope if one was trying to keep up with your sheepherder escort… in the heat of the day.
He set a very reasonable pace for me though. And we stopped to rest at the water cistern at the top of the plateau, and wonder of wonders, there was a mule coming up the path behind us. We gratefully threw our backpacks into its carry-basket and joined the two girls who had been riding it. They got off for the passage of the gully. It’s steep and exposed, yes, but also the footing is bad. All sliding rocks and gravel and dust and sharp turns in tricky spots. If your mule goes down (and they do sometimes) it’s best not to be on them if they slide of the path and down the mountain a bit. We made the passage uneventfully, and I began my arguments with my sheepherder guide. He wanted me to ride the mule, and was unwilling to take the place of the two young girls who were having a harder time keeping up with him than I. I did give in for a bit, but that was (in that moment anyway) less about being tired and more about enjoying riding something vaguely horselike.
We made the decent through the trees, and left the girls and their mule at their families tent, and made our way across the valley. I was practically running to keep up with my shepherd. And then we turned with the path. Up. Straight up, for a final mile and a half (a couple of km) at about a 25% to 30% grade. It felt like 45%, I swear! After 4 hours of hiking, riding, and trying to keep up I was TIRED. For some reason, my hip flexors seemed to be taking the entirety of the load, because the rest of my legs were only mildly tired. It hurt to lift my legs, though, and so I just kept on, step by step. Counting the boulders as we passed them till we finally came to our destination: the tent of the president of an association I work. There I dropped my bag on the floor and collapsed, exhausted. It was all I could do not to lie down right there, but I knew that would inspire worried words… as it was they were exhorting me not to die. Which I was nowhere near doing, for the record. I have had a much harder time breathing after many a track sprint workout, thank you!
On the way back, GPS information gathered, I made the hike by myself. I enjoyed it, stopping in the shade, looking about me to really enjoy the sweeping vistas obscured only by the summer heat haze, and even taking pictures like a tourist! I veered off the path to look at a big cap of rock and enjoy the view. And I still made the hike in just over 4 1/2 hours. Which was about how much time it had taken me and the shepherd the day before. This time, though, I wasn’t exhausted. I even had enough energy to dance at the final stage of my neighbor’s wedding!
poof
Poof!
This is what I used to always say upon turning around and finding that a close friend of mine had disappeared into thin air. “She poofed!” I would exclaim. Well, the month of June just poofed. Between an end-of-May early June trip to Meknes with Anthony, mid-service medicals in conjunction with the Rabat Jazz Festival, and site visit (when my Program Manager or his assistant come to my site to give everyone a kick in the butt), June just about evaporated!
It was fun, though. There are volumes I could write about each; so many interesting places, great music, epic wild goose chases, and even a couple opportunities to see people really inspired.
A synopsis:
Meknes is great, it’s like Fez only chilled out. Fez is big, and full to overflowing with tourists this time of year. Meknes is smaller, has fewer tourists and feels a little more affluent for some reason… but you can find perfectly affordable hotels there nonetheless. Even on a Peace Corps budget. J Nearby are the city of Moulay Idris and the Roman ruins called Volubilis. Moulay Idris is one of the most holy cities in Morocco, and Moroccans and Arabs from other places alike take pilgrimages there. I happened to be wearing a headscarf to hide from the sun, and Anthony happened to be sporting a beard, and we had a very difficult time convincing a man that we weren’t Muslims, and therefore could not go into the mosque there. It’s truly lovely, perched on a hill with cliffs on one side of it. Volubilis is… well to paraphrase a friend “AWESOOMMMEEE!!!!!” No, seriously, it’s cool. It’s an extensive set of ruins that have been partially rebuilt but are largely open to wandering around. With nothing but a guidebook in hand and sunscreen and a water bottle, you can explore that place all day quite happily. There is MUCH to see, and most of it isn’t roped off at all. You might as well be the first person to stumble across that nearly pristine mosaic of Venus in the ruins of an old house, and you can sit on the steps of the old forum and watch the storks feeding their chicks in their huge nest built atop an old column in the ruins of the basilica.
Mid-service Medicals… what is that? Well, that’s when volunteers who have been in-country for a year go to the Peace Corps medical staff for a check-up or, as the case may be, a tune-up. We get screened for parasites, go to the dentist, have a physical, etc. It’s fun, though, because the entire stage (the group I came to Morocco with) gathers, and we get to hang out! This happens infrequently. Most fortunately, our MSM’s happened right near the time the annual Rabat jazz festival, Jazz au Chellah, occurred. Jazz au Chellah hosts many musicians from Europe, Morocco and Sub-Saharan Africa. Some of the artists are forgettable, but some are amazing. Each night they pair an artist from Europe and/or Sub-Saharan Africa with and artist from Morocco. At the end of the night the play together, and it can be really, really awesome. This is the second year I have been lucky enough to attend. Also exciting about Rabat was a trip to the beach. An adventure that included city buses, taxis, advice from taxis, a long walk to find a place to change into a swimming suit, and a big beach full of Moroccans, with rocks on either side and a powerful rip current in the middle. We volunteers had fun exploring both Rabat and some other towns nearby more fully. I went on another city-bus adventure to find a friend from my site who usually lives in Rabat. Moroccans are so helpful! I had nothing but a slip of paper with my phonetic scramble of the words my friend gave me to get the right bus, and by asking directions, people got me to the right bus station, right bus, and the right stop. It was magical when I got to an unremarkable market way outside of the city to see her standing there in jellaba and hajib to greet me, calling my name to make sure I got off the bus! Lunch and tea and then return to the city for a stage meeting with Program Manager…
Who shortly thereafter arrived at my humble abode (site) in the mountains. I spent a good bit of time prior to his arrival running around and making phone calls trying to get meetings arranged for him. When he did come, we were off and running immediately. Four meetings in one day, but it was worth it! Or, well… some of it was definitely worth it, and some of it was frustrating. Some projects are moving forward steadily, some are brand new and exciting, and one is frustrating because the members of this one association can’t seem to make up their mind about what it is they want. We’re running in circles until they make up their collective mind. Another meeting is in order, but how to arrange it? They took time out of their (admittedly very busy right now) schedules only because my Program Manger was here. And the president couldn’t even make it… well, that’s life. But it was good, and hopefully we’ll get everything else properly arranged… J
So, that was my June. Poof! The beginning of summer, warm but not hot, fruits and veggies just starting to come in… apricots are the first to come in season, then peaches, plums, grapes, figs, apples, pomegranates… perhaps, before I know it I’ll be breaking open my last pomegranate and waving goodbye to wearing only one layer of clothing again. That is, if July and August poof like June did!
This is what I used to always say upon turning around and finding that a close friend of mine had disappeared into thin air. “She poofed!” I would exclaim. Well, the month of June just poofed. Between an end-of-May early June trip to Meknes with Anthony, mid-service medicals in conjunction with the Rabat Jazz Festival, and site visit (when my Program Manager or his assistant come to my site to give everyone a kick in the butt), June just about evaporated!
It was fun, though. There are volumes I could write about each; so many interesting places, great music, epic wild goose chases, and even a couple opportunities to see people really inspired.
A synopsis:
Meknes is great, it’s like Fez only chilled out. Fez is big, and full to overflowing with tourists this time of year. Meknes is smaller, has fewer tourists and feels a little more affluent for some reason… but you can find perfectly affordable hotels there nonetheless. Even on a Peace Corps budget. J Nearby are the city of Moulay Idris and the Roman ruins called Volubilis. Moulay Idris is one of the most holy cities in Morocco, and Moroccans and Arabs from other places alike take pilgrimages there. I happened to be wearing a headscarf to hide from the sun, and Anthony happened to be sporting a beard, and we had a very difficult time convincing a man that we weren’t Muslims, and therefore could not go into the mosque there. It’s truly lovely, perched on a hill with cliffs on one side of it. Volubilis is… well to paraphrase a friend “AWESOOMMMEEE!!!!!” No, seriously, it’s cool. It’s an extensive set of ruins that have been partially rebuilt but are largely open to wandering around. With nothing but a guidebook in hand and sunscreen and a water bottle, you can explore that place all day quite happily. There is MUCH to see, and most of it isn’t roped off at all. You might as well be the first person to stumble across that nearly pristine mosaic of Venus in the ruins of an old house, and you can sit on the steps of the old forum and watch the storks feeding their chicks in their huge nest built atop an old column in the ruins of the basilica.
Mid-service Medicals… what is that? Well, that’s when volunteers who have been in-country for a year go to the Peace Corps medical staff for a check-up or, as the case may be, a tune-up. We get screened for parasites, go to the dentist, have a physical, etc. It’s fun, though, because the entire stage (the group I came to Morocco with) gathers, and we get to hang out! This happens infrequently. Most fortunately, our MSM’s happened right near the time the annual Rabat jazz festival, Jazz au Chellah, occurred. Jazz au Chellah hosts many musicians from Europe, Morocco and Sub-Saharan Africa. Some of the artists are forgettable, but some are amazing. Each night they pair an artist from Europe and/or Sub-Saharan Africa with and artist from Morocco. At the end of the night the play together, and it can be really, really awesome. This is the second year I have been lucky enough to attend. Also exciting about Rabat was a trip to the beach. An adventure that included city buses, taxis, advice from taxis, a long walk to find a place to change into a swimming suit, and a big beach full of Moroccans, with rocks on either side and a powerful rip current in the middle. We volunteers had fun exploring both Rabat and some other towns nearby more fully. I went on another city-bus adventure to find a friend from my site who usually lives in Rabat. Moroccans are so helpful! I had nothing but a slip of paper with my phonetic scramble of the words my friend gave me to get the right bus, and by asking directions, people got me to the right bus station, right bus, and the right stop. It was magical when I got to an unremarkable market way outside of the city to see her standing there in jellaba and hajib to greet me, calling my name to make sure I got off the bus! Lunch and tea and then return to the city for a stage meeting with Program Manager…
Who shortly thereafter arrived at my humble abode (site) in the mountains. I spent a good bit of time prior to his arrival running around and making phone calls trying to get meetings arranged for him. When he did come, we were off and running immediately. Four meetings in one day, but it was worth it! Or, well… some of it was definitely worth it, and some of it was frustrating. Some projects are moving forward steadily, some are brand new and exciting, and one is frustrating because the members of this one association can’t seem to make up their mind about what it is they want. We’re running in circles until they make up their collective mind. Another meeting is in order, but how to arrange it? They took time out of their (admittedly very busy right now) schedules only because my Program Manger was here. And the president couldn’t even make it… well, that’s life. But it was good, and hopefully we’ll get everything else properly arranged… J
So, that was my June. Poof! The beginning of summer, warm but not hot, fruits and veggies just starting to come in… apricots are the first to come in season, then peaches, plums, grapes, figs, apples, pomegranates… perhaps, before I know it I’ll be breaking open my last pomegranate and waving goodbye to wearing only one layer of clothing again. That is, if July and August poof like June did!
Monday, June 8, 2009
fun with bureaucracy
Today was magnificent. I made a special trip to the nearby provincial capital for the express purpose of finishing of some paperwork that needed doing. Firstly, a vacaction day request. Secondly, the replacement of a stamp that is needed for my carte de sejour; my working visa equivalent. Really its magical how much time one can use up when one combines French bureaucracy Moroccan style with my own procrastination and the vagrancies of transport and circumstance...
So:
First to the Water and Forest Department. I had called ahead several times last week to attempt to find out when my counterpart would be in his office. Unfortunately, the phone number wouldn't work. Thus, I was flying blind, hoping that he would be there. Predicatably, he wasn't. I found this out by talking to the one person there who I have a language in common with: a secretary who speaks a version of Berber reasonably close the one I know. I have to remember words back from Ouarzazate, but it works. He was in Rabat, and to be back tomorrow. So I wait for the other guy, the Chief, to come back. She said he would come in... he didn't. At least, I gave up waiting for him to come back after three hours sitting there (reading a good book, the Dark Star Safari). I arranged with the secretary to call me tomorrow, and left a photocopy of the vacation days request form with her to make things as easy as possible tomorrow. I left, and went to go check up on my site mate who is beginning her technical training at the hospital here.
Task 1 having failed, I moved on to Task 2.
So, I find the Gendarmerie Royale, and ask them if they have the stamp I need. No, I am told, but they have it at the Provence, the Amanala. ie. the big complex where the government bigwigs work. I go, and the guard at the gate stops me until my Qaid's secretary magically appears and tells me 1) where to go and 2) vouches for me. I go to the security office and wait for the guy to register my name in the books... he then escorts me into the big, huge, fancy building with the shiny marble and the courtyard of desert plants inside and the huge, beautifully tiled stairs. Up we go, but the man he wanted isn't there. So he talks to the guard, who refers him to another guy, who calls over another guy, who says put her in a room to wait for the orginal guy to come back from lunch. So another guard goes to get the key to an empty room where I am stashed for... about 45 minutes. The guy finally comes in, I explain to him in my broken Moroccan Arabic what I want, he seems confused, but nods and leaves. Another guy comes in. He says, we don't have that here. I explain that the Gendarmerie Royale said they do... and then I am lead all over the complex, hither and thither, wondering what on earth is going on... finally to an office, where I finally have an epiphany. I'll just ask Eric... he did this before, he should know where to go. Turns out it's in a little cell phone store in the middle of town... I extricate myself from the Provencial Offices and march over to the store. After much wandering and a bit of asking, I locate it, and ask the storekeeper to change my stamp... only to discover there isn't another stamp. We call my gendarme, the storekeeper searches again, but it doesn't exist. He tells me to go ask the 'Bulis', ie. the police. I decide to go buy toilet paper instead.
Thus, today, I have accomplished... the purchase of four lovely, lightly packaged rolls of toilet paper. We may hope for better things tomorrow. ;)
So:
First to the Water and Forest Department. I had called ahead several times last week to attempt to find out when my counterpart would be in his office. Unfortunately, the phone number wouldn't work. Thus, I was flying blind, hoping that he would be there. Predicatably, he wasn't. I found this out by talking to the one person there who I have a language in common with: a secretary who speaks a version of Berber reasonably close the one I know. I have to remember words back from Ouarzazate, but it works. He was in Rabat, and to be back tomorrow. So I wait for the other guy, the Chief, to come back. She said he would come in... he didn't. At least, I gave up waiting for him to come back after three hours sitting there (reading a good book, the Dark Star Safari). I arranged with the secretary to call me tomorrow, and left a photocopy of the vacation days request form with her to make things as easy as possible tomorrow. I left, and went to go check up on my site mate who is beginning her technical training at the hospital here.
Task 1 having failed, I moved on to Task 2.
So, I find the Gendarmerie Royale, and ask them if they have the stamp I need. No, I am told, but they have it at the Provence, the Amanala. ie. the big complex where the government bigwigs work. I go, and the guard at the gate stops me until my Qaid's secretary magically appears and tells me 1) where to go and 2) vouches for me. I go to the security office and wait for the guy to register my name in the books... he then escorts me into the big, huge, fancy building with the shiny marble and the courtyard of desert plants inside and the huge, beautifully tiled stairs. Up we go, but the man he wanted isn't there. So he talks to the guard, who refers him to another guy, who calls over another guy, who says put her in a room to wait for the orginal guy to come back from lunch. So another guard goes to get the key to an empty room where I am stashed for... about 45 minutes. The guy finally comes in, I explain to him in my broken Moroccan Arabic what I want, he seems confused, but nods and leaves. Another guy comes in. He says, we don't have that here. I explain that the Gendarmerie Royale said they do... and then I am lead all over the complex, hither and thither, wondering what on earth is going on... finally to an office, where I finally have an epiphany. I'll just ask Eric... he did this before, he should know where to go. Turns out it's in a little cell phone store in the middle of town... I extricate myself from the Provencial Offices and march over to the store. After much wandering and a bit of asking, I locate it, and ask the storekeeper to change my stamp... only to discover there isn't another stamp. We call my gendarme, the storekeeper searches again, but it doesn't exist. He tells me to go ask the 'Bulis', ie. the police. I decide to go buy toilet paper instead.
Thus, today, I have accomplished... the purchase of four lovely, lightly packaged rolls of toilet paper. We may hope for better things tomorrow. ;)
Monday, June 1, 2009
Mountains and Weather
So often when I go for a walk, I stop and marvel at the land surrounding me. It is harsh, steep, rocky, grand, majestic, naked, depleted, elemental, and beautiful. In the spring the slopes bloom a dusky green as every grass and bush type thing makes a dash at reproduction before the powerful summer sun burns all but the hardiest to a dull or bright gold.
With that summer sun come the storms. As in many mountain ranges, the mountains here provide a daily weather cycle. The sun pours energy into the air, the ground, the plants, and water evaporates, heat rises, air moves. It rises, channeled by the slopes of the ground until it reaches the cold heights where it condenses and “poof!” cumulus clouds are born. Over the course of the day, these little clouds grow into thunderheads. If rain clouds were already there that morning, then these thunderstorms grow big. These storms move across the mountains quickly, and the mountains rake the fingers of their high peaks through the clouds, forcing them up, forcing out rain, snow, and hail as they reclaim the water the sun drew out of them that morning. The rain settles into the ground, setting the stage for the following day when the sun rises into a once more clear sky.
This is so regular and predictable that (as are the usually accompanying power outages) that no one does their laundry in the afternoon. Not even me anymore. J You just have to bring it in half-dried if you do. We all keep candles handy, too.
Today was no different; we got a pretty good storm. Gusty winds, boiling clouds, yellow light, hail, curtains of rain. I had taken a nap, and awoke to a prematurely darkened sky and the constant rumble of thunder from the west. Ominous gusts of wind threw dust, sand, and dirt into the air. I walked to the side of my porch to assess what was coming. Pale grey, but turbulent clouds were mounting up behind Sarat (the peak west of us) and tumbling over. Lightning sparkled across the sky nearly continuously, and the thunder echoed metallically off the mountains. I took my clothes in and parked myself on my porch to watch the storm come. The wind picked up and I watched as curtains of rain dove down between the mountains and me across the way, driven by the wind. It reminded me of large flocks of ducks diving out of the sky to a lake to land in. That lake was soon to be my porch, and I retreated to a window view to watch women and children fight the rain and wind as they hurried to shelter. With no more preambles, it came down hard, and then a sharper tapping sound from my roof announced the change of rain to hail. I remembered the cement downstairs and ran to try to cover it more effectively. The rain was knocking gravel and rocks out of my neighbor’s wall all over my steps, and water was pouring out of the pipe from my roof onto my porch, where an impatient lake of brown water waited to swirl out of the downspout off my porch. Hail smacked my head, as I ran up and down the stairs, trying to manage the water and the cement. A peek inside my house revealed that only the normal problem spots were leaking, and not too badly at that either. L-hamdullah! In a few short minutes the storm had passed, leaving trails of bright brown water wending their way down the mountains.
Sometimes when I’m out walking, I imagine the mountain peaks are reaching up to slap hands—High five! —with the clouds as they drift over. As if they say, “Way to go on that last gullywasher, man! Did you see those little human-people scurry??! Righteous, dude.”
With that summer sun come the storms. As in many mountain ranges, the mountains here provide a daily weather cycle. The sun pours energy into the air, the ground, the plants, and water evaporates, heat rises, air moves. It rises, channeled by the slopes of the ground until it reaches the cold heights where it condenses and “poof!” cumulus clouds are born. Over the course of the day, these little clouds grow into thunderheads. If rain clouds were already there that morning, then these thunderstorms grow big. These storms move across the mountains quickly, and the mountains rake the fingers of their high peaks through the clouds, forcing them up, forcing out rain, snow, and hail as they reclaim the water the sun drew out of them that morning. The rain settles into the ground, setting the stage for the following day when the sun rises into a once more clear sky.
This is so regular and predictable that (as are the usually accompanying power outages) that no one does their laundry in the afternoon. Not even me anymore. J You just have to bring it in half-dried if you do. We all keep candles handy, too.
Today was no different; we got a pretty good storm. Gusty winds, boiling clouds, yellow light, hail, curtains of rain. I had taken a nap, and awoke to a prematurely darkened sky and the constant rumble of thunder from the west. Ominous gusts of wind threw dust, sand, and dirt into the air. I walked to the side of my porch to assess what was coming. Pale grey, but turbulent clouds were mounting up behind Sarat (the peak west of us) and tumbling over. Lightning sparkled across the sky nearly continuously, and the thunder echoed metallically off the mountains. I took my clothes in and parked myself on my porch to watch the storm come. The wind picked up and I watched as curtains of rain dove down between the mountains and me across the way, driven by the wind. It reminded me of large flocks of ducks diving out of the sky to a lake to land in. That lake was soon to be my porch, and I retreated to a window view to watch women and children fight the rain and wind as they hurried to shelter. With no more preambles, it came down hard, and then a sharper tapping sound from my roof announced the change of rain to hail. I remembered the cement downstairs and ran to try to cover it more effectively. The rain was knocking gravel and rocks out of my neighbor’s wall all over my steps, and water was pouring out of the pipe from my roof onto my porch, where an impatient lake of brown water waited to swirl out of the downspout off my porch. Hail smacked my head, as I ran up and down the stairs, trying to manage the water and the cement. A peek inside my house revealed that only the normal problem spots were leaking, and not too badly at that either. L-hamdullah! In a few short minutes the storm had passed, leaving trails of bright brown water wending their way down the mountains.
Sometimes when I’m out walking, I imagine the mountain peaks are reaching up to slap hands—High five! —with the clouds as they drift over. As if they say, “Way to go on that last gullywasher, man! Did you see those little human-people scurry??! Righteous, dude.”
Disillusion: verb
we pretended to have a happy marriage because we didn't want to disillusion the children disabuse, enlighten, set straight, open someone's eyes; disenchant, shatter someone's illusions, disappoint, make sadder and wiser. antonym deceive
A synonymous phrase might be ‘to take off the rose-tinted glasses,’ or ‘to break the news’ or ‘to tell him/her how it really is.’ As you can see, this word is very much negative in both definition and connotation. Yet, it is necessary to see the truth (be what it may) before one can choose the most logical, effective course of action. Otherwise one can only make decisions based on what one thinks one knows. So, in some ways, it might not be such a negative thing after all… once one gets over the accompanying disappointment and avoids sliding into a “shlump” of discouragement… for after all, “un-shlumping oneself is not easily done.” (thanks Dr. Seuss!)
Recently I’ve been confronted with some realities, both here in my village and in the whole of Africa. In my own village, there have been some nasty accusations of money-pocketing (embezzlement, essentially) by some officials in connection with this first project I am involved with. I have followed up the reports with other officials, who I trust, and have been told that the accusations are nothing but lies. Lies meant to throw me off, discourage me… but still I am unsure. Which means that these “trusted” officials may, in fact, be complicit in whatever may or may not be going on. I keep asking around, we shall see what comes to light. On a much, much larger scale, I was reminded how important sustainability is for successful development. A newspaper article and a book both elucidated the debilitating nature of un-sustainable development work very clearly. The scale and import of this I had not known before… I had no real idea. I had an idea, and intellectual understanding, but I didn’t really “get it.” I didn’t put the pieces together, how the huge infusion of money from government to government can actually fuel corruption. Or, on a smaller scale, how a nice organization can provide negative reinforcement for entrepreneurship.
Sustainability is a current buzzword of the development world and its related academic world. Basically, it is the quality of a certain activity/project/development scheme a to be able to continue over the long-term. More important is sustainability on the level of the local. If a Peace Corps Volunteer runs a project that creates a niche for itself that cannot be carried on in the absence of that PCV once they leave, that project is not sustainable. Thus, I find myself in the unique position to be able to do something about all this. I can do my darnedest to make sure that all I do here is, in fact, sustainable. Without me or another properly idealistic American living in my little village. And that goal right there makes all kinds of difference in how you plan and implement. It requires a lot more effort in the way of planning, and education. It’s so good to be reminded of these things, though! I welcome the challenge these realizations provide, for they represent an opportunity to make a long-term difference as opposed to a giving out temporary bandaids.
we pretended to have a happy marriage because we didn't want to disillusion the children disabuse, enlighten, set straight, open someone's eyes; disenchant, shatter someone's illusions, disappoint, make sadder and wiser. antonym deceive
A synonymous phrase might be ‘to take off the rose-tinted glasses,’ or ‘to break the news’ or ‘to tell him/her how it really is.’ As you can see, this word is very much negative in both definition and connotation. Yet, it is necessary to see the truth (be what it may) before one can choose the most logical, effective course of action. Otherwise one can only make decisions based on what one thinks one knows. So, in some ways, it might not be such a negative thing after all… once one gets over the accompanying disappointment and avoids sliding into a “shlump” of discouragement… for after all, “un-shlumping oneself is not easily done.” (thanks Dr. Seuss!)
Recently I’ve been confronted with some realities, both here in my village and in the whole of Africa. In my own village, there have been some nasty accusations of money-pocketing (embezzlement, essentially) by some officials in connection with this first project I am involved with. I have followed up the reports with other officials, who I trust, and have been told that the accusations are nothing but lies. Lies meant to throw me off, discourage me… but still I am unsure. Which means that these “trusted” officials may, in fact, be complicit in whatever may or may not be going on. I keep asking around, we shall see what comes to light. On a much, much larger scale, I was reminded how important sustainability is for successful development. A newspaper article and a book both elucidated the debilitating nature of un-sustainable development work very clearly. The scale and import of this I had not known before… I had no real idea. I had an idea, and intellectual understanding, but I didn’t really “get it.” I didn’t put the pieces together, how the huge infusion of money from government to government can actually fuel corruption. Or, on a smaller scale, how a nice organization can provide negative reinforcement for entrepreneurship.
Sustainability is a current buzzword of the development world and its related academic world. Basically, it is the quality of a certain activity/project/development scheme a to be able to continue over the long-term. More important is sustainability on the level of the local. If a Peace Corps Volunteer runs a project that creates a niche for itself that cannot be carried on in the absence of that PCV once they leave, that project is not sustainable. Thus, I find myself in the unique position to be able to do something about all this. I can do my darnedest to make sure that all I do here is, in fact, sustainable. Without me or another properly idealistic American living in my little village. And that goal right there makes all kinds of difference in how you plan and implement. It requires a lot more effort in the way of planning, and education. It’s so good to be reminded of these things, though! I welcome the challenge these realizations provide, for they represent an opportunity to make a long-term difference as opposed to a giving out temporary bandaids.
Monday, May 25, 2009
some thoughts on the turn of a year
How on earth did it get to be May 21 already? Well, here we are then, and I am officially a 2nd year volunteer as of Tuesday. Neat, huh? That means I am halfway through with my time as an actual volunteer and over halfway done with the time I have allotted my self to live in Morocco. Or, as my thoughts ran about 2 weeks ago: part II of "Jini’s" Peace Corps experience has officially begun. That thought ran across my mind the evening I went to go and meet my sitemate, Meg, to show her the way to our little village. The new routine has yet to establish itself, probably won’t establish itself until she moves out of home stay and into her house.
I keep finding myself thinking about this year vs. last year. And what it was like getting dropped into this little village, alone, and figuring out how to speak and who I was going to be, here, at the same time. It wasn’t much fun, actually. I didn’t realize it at the time, as I was just putting one foot in front of the other, one word after the next. That in-the-zone dodged mindset that running cross-country with asthma teaches one. Thankfully, all things pass. J Some 2 to 4 months later, I had learned enough to be able to hold actual conversations in our obscure little dialect here, and, more importantly, had found what looked like a workable way for me to be here. I had some ideas for projects, I had helped others complete their projects, I had learned how to cook, was living in my own house, had my own pets, and was slowly establishing myself as myself (instead of that-girl-staying-with-the-sheikh). Mom commented on the phone at that time: "you sound much happier now than you did during the summer." And I realized, I am! And, I am glad to report, I still am! Projects move along… slowly… but they do move all the same. I have good friends here, a sweet (in the both old-fashioned sense, and the sweet-awesome sense) boyfriend, good Moroccan friends, and a slow-born but no less real affection for this land, this place. I figured out a way to not feel spiritually alone, too. That was key. I still don’t know if two years will be "enough" time for me here, or if I’ll extend, or if sometime in the next couple months I will suddenly realize that I am "done" with life here. It happens. We’ve lost 6, I think, volunteers from my stage (including both Health and Environment). Some broke themselves on the mountains or were broken by parasites, some got sick of the …slowly… aspect of things here, some became discouraged by the ministry they work with, some just wanted to go home. I can only hope that if I should find myself feeling "done" that I will find it in me to finish what I have begun. Because, as my brother says, "that’s how I do!" The first volunteer to live in O. Ali was a health volunteer who called it quits after three months. Meg is her replacement. I am doing what I can to help her adjust to life here with more ease than I did. Because there is MUCH for us to do here, though it isn’t always easy to see how one ought to do it. And because—selfishly—I like having another volunteer here. For company. For when I want to cook up a good stir-fry and share it with someone that will eat it from enjoyment and not because they feel bad for my effort. Isolated Moroccans are notorious for not liking food they aren’t used to. J
So, this is phase two, part II, the halfway point. Restlessness resurfaces after months of focused effort on settling myself in this place. Projects move ahead… slowly… and I say good-bye to friends who were here a year before me. In one year, that will be me.
I keep finding myself thinking about this year vs. last year. And what it was like getting dropped into this little village, alone, and figuring out how to speak and who I was going to be, here, at the same time. It wasn’t much fun, actually. I didn’t realize it at the time, as I was just putting one foot in front of the other, one word after the next. That in-the-zone dodged mindset that running cross-country with asthma teaches one. Thankfully, all things pass. J Some 2 to 4 months later, I had learned enough to be able to hold actual conversations in our obscure little dialect here, and, more importantly, had found what looked like a workable way for me to be here. I had some ideas for projects, I had helped others complete their projects, I had learned how to cook, was living in my own house, had my own pets, and was slowly establishing myself as myself (instead of that-girl-staying-with-the-sheikh). Mom commented on the phone at that time: "you sound much happier now than you did during the summer." And I realized, I am! And, I am glad to report, I still am! Projects move along… slowly… but they do move all the same. I have good friends here, a sweet (in the both old-fashioned sense, and the sweet-awesome sense) boyfriend, good Moroccan friends, and a slow-born but no less real affection for this land, this place. I figured out a way to not feel spiritually alone, too. That was key. I still don’t know if two years will be "enough" time for me here, or if I’ll extend, or if sometime in the next couple months I will suddenly realize that I am "done" with life here. It happens. We’ve lost 6, I think, volunteers from my stage (including both Health and Environment). Some broke themselves on the mountains or were broken by parasites, some got sick of the …slowly… aspect of things here, some became discouraged by the ministry they work with, some just wanted to go home. I can only hope that if I should find myself feeling "done" that I will find it in me to finish what I have begun. Because, as my brother says, "that’s how I do!" The first volunteer to live in O. Ali was a health volunteer who called it quits after three months. Meg is her replacement. I am doing what I can to help her adjust to life here with more ease than I did. Because there is MUCH for us to do here, though it isn’t always easy to see how one ought to do it. And because—selfishly—I like having another volunteer here. For company. For when I want to cook up a good stir-fry and share it with someone that will eat it from enjoyment and not because they feel bad for my effort. Isolated Moroccans are notorious for not liking food they aren’t used to. J
So, this is phase two, part II, the halfway point. Restlessness resurfaces after months of focused effort on settling myself in this place. Projects move ahead… slowly… and I say good-bye to friends who were here a year before me. In one year, that will be me.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
welcome
Welcome to Ait Ali, home of the most confusing Tamzight/Darija/Tarifit spoken in Morocco! A bit of an exaggeration, but that’s how I felt like welcoming my site mate. It’s great, actually, that the Peace Corps has taken my suggestion and placed a Health Volunteer in my site. She’s great! She’s smart, enthusiastic, and most importantly, game to take on the formidable task of learning how to talk to people here.
She’s been here for about a week now, and people are slowly getting used to the idea that I’m not the only volunteer in town anymore. They keep saying, “oh, she doesn’t know Tashelheit.” I remember how frustrating it was! Oh man, it was so hard. I’m more than happy to try to help her with every single little language trick I have learned here. The cool thing is that, as she methodically goes through the language learning words, I’m learning things too. My goal, last year, was to learn how to be understood. I stopped worrying about grammar, exactness, and worked on mastering the sounds, the basic words, basic phrases, and basically just trying to survive. Now that my site mate is here, she is attacking our version of Tashelheit methodically and aggressively. It’s great. I’m filling in so many holes in my language!
The other fun thing is that she is a dance instructor and longtime yoga student. So I can learn both dance and yoga from her! Hopefully, I mean we’ll see. Also she loves fantasy books and likes hiking. If you know me, you know that I think these are important character traits. :) Hopefully we can also collaborate on projects, working on improving things, educating people about both health and the environment. I’m excited!
She’s been here for about a week now, and people are slowly getting used to the idea that I’m not the only volunteer in town anymore. They keep saying, “oh, she doesn’t know Tashelheit.” I remember how frustrating it was! Oh man, it was so hard. I’m more than happy to try to help her with every single little language trick I have learned here. The cool thing is that, as she methodically goes through the language learning words, I’m learning things too. My goal, last year, was to learn how to be understood. I stopped worrying about grammar, exactness, and worked on mastering the sounds, the basic words, basic phrases, and basically just trying to survive. Now that my site mate is here, she is attacking our version of Tashelheit methodically and aggressively. It’s great. I’m filling in so many holes in my language!
The other fun thing is that she is a dance instructor and longtime yoga student. So I can learn both dance and yoga from her! Hopefully, I mean we’ll see. Also she loves fantasy books and likes hiking. If you know me, you know that I think these are important character traits. :) Hopefully we can also collaborate on projects, working on improving things, educating people about both health and the environment. I’m excited!
bees
Ait Ali is humming again. I remember last year, my head was all fuzzy with changed sleep patterns, new food, and an avalanche of new words. I stepped out onto my host family’s roof/balcony and heard this all encompassing humming. At the time I thought, “Sweet heaven, that canNOT be the flies… but there are a lot of flies… ooog.” It wasn’t flies though. It’s bees. Hundreds of thousands of bees. Hurrying to every flower they can find. The air is abuzz with their activity.
Ait Ali is known for it’s honey. There are a couple kinds made here. There is rosemary honey, or “white honey” as they call it. It is white, too, especially when it crystallizes. Pure, sparkly, creamy white. It’s delicious. There is also “black honey,” which isn’t quite black, but it is very dark. Its flavor is complex and delicious. It is not easy to get your hands on any of this honey, though. Those who have their own hives (most people) eat all the honey themselves. The cooperative sells the honey in big cities. The women’s association sells the honey to the first comers, I guess, and the que fills up fast.
This year is supposed to be really good for the bees. We had a lot of rain in the spring, so there were just bunches of flowers. The bees responded by reproducing. Hive after hive swarmed, and the beekeeper experts would don home-made bee hats, and coax the bees into a big basket with the help of a large metal spoon. A honey bee swarm is when the number of bees gets to big for the physical size of the hive. The queen then lays a new queen egg, and once she matures, she leaves. She takes half the hive with her, and they start a new hive somewhere else. Bees are much more aggressive when they are getting ready to swarm. They just come after you randomly sometimes. At different times, one part of the village would suddenly become dangerous to traverse. People would drape scarves over their heads and run. My host family’s bees swarmed, too.. they swarmed to right outside my front door. One morning I stepped outside my door, and locked it, and as I walked away, I thought “Gee, that sounds like a whole lot of bees really close by…” and I turned my head to see a couple thousand of them clustered on a small log sticking out of my neighbors wall, hanging on each other like the monarchs do in Mexico. A solid mass of humming, buzzing, worried bees. I stood stock still and stared, and then quietly walked away. A short time later the bee-man came with his bee-hat, his basket, his metal spoon and his sting-impervious hands and feet.
I like the bees. I like bees even better when they like me. Maybe someday I will be a beekeeper and grow medicinal plants (rosemary, lavender, sage…) for my bees to drink nectar from and make delicious honey. I think it would be fun!
Ait Ali is known for it’s honey. There are a couple kinds made here. There is rosemary honey, or “white honey” as they call it. It is white, too, especially when it crystallizes. Pure, sparkly, creamy white. It’s delicious. There is also “black honey,” which isn’t quite black, but it is very dark. Its flavor is complex and delicious. It is not easy to get your hands on any of this honey, though. Those who have their own hives (most people) eat all the honey themselves. The cooperative sells the honey in big cities. The women’s association sells the honey to the first comers, I guess, and the que fills up fast.
This year is supposed to be really good for the bees. We had a lot of rain in the spring, so there were just bunches of flowers. The bees responded by reproducing. Hive after hive swarmed, and the beekeeper experts would don home-made bee hats, and coax the bees into a big basket with the help of a large metal spoon. A honey bee swarm is when the number of bees gets to big for the physical size of the hive. The queen then lays a new queen egg, and once she matures, she leaves. She takes half the hive with her, and they start a new hive somewhere else. Bees are much more aggressive when they are getting ready to swarm. They just come after you randomly sometimes. At different times, one part of the village would suddenly become dangerous to traverse. People would drape scarves over their heads and run. My host family’s bees swarmed, too.. they swarmed to right outside my front door. One morning I stepped outside my door, and locked it, and as I walked away, I thought “Gee, that sounds like a whole lot of bees really close by…” and I turned my head to see a couple thousand of them clustered on a small log sticking out of my neighbors wall, hanging on each other like the monarchs do in Mexico. A solid mass of humming, buzzing, worried bees. I stood stock still and stared, and then quietly walked away. A short time later the bee-man came with his bee-hat, his basket, his metal spoon and his sting-impervious hands and feet.
I like the bees. I like bees even better when they like me. Maybe someday I will be a beekeeper and grow medicinal plants (rosemary, lavender, sage…) for my bees to drink nectar from and make delicious honey. I think it would be fun!
Aftermath Part III
There are about 180 bags of cement sitting in my basement. The remaining 20 have been transported up the river to the site of the repair of one of the irrigation ditches. Every morning I am awoken by a dull banging on my door at around 7 am. This is the boy who carries the bags 2 at a time on his mule up to the construction site. I walked up there myself two days ago with my camera, and got some good pictures! Where there used to be a sheer wall of crumbly, dry dirt there is now a carefully constructed rock wall cut into the side of the cliff, and paved on top like a sidewalk in the US. Like some one needed to make a fancy path for some reason. Right now they are working on the sides of the irrigation ditches, having carried several large planks of wood up there to serve as molds for the concrete. It looks good! I’m excited, and relieved, to see the work in progress.
I also went over to look at the other irrigation ditch that they laid with plastic for temporary watering purposes. To be honest I wondered a bit when they told me about the temporary plastic. Couldn’t we find a way to make that permanent? Plastic is much cheaper than the cement I have already purchased. But after seeing it, I am again relieved. The plastic, being uncontinuous, leaks, and where it leaks, the water escapes into the crumbly dirt and it does it’s thing. That is, it crumbles. There are a whole bunch of new rock, tree, dirt and other stuff fallen into the riverbed. So, in the interest of the irrigation ditches lasting any time at all, the cement is in fact necessary. My understanding of the scale of the problem of the irrigation system came slowly. First I walked up one side of the river, then I walked up the river bed, and finally up the other side of the river. It was on this third trip I really understood the engineering problem these ditches represented. Smack in the middle of 100 ft cliffs of crumbly soil was where the ditches had to go for a gravity-powered system to work. But due to the flooding, the riverbed run right up to the base of cliffs, and when the river is at flood, it doesn’t take much time at all for the river to eat away the cliff causing the whole thing to fall into the river. Again. That’s right, this could easily happen again. Thanks to my father, I keep thinking: “We need a better mousetrap.” The problem with better mousetraps is that they require more money and people who are actually engineers, not just engineer’s daughters. I can envision all I want but I don’t know what it takes to make it actually happen… for now, the villagers and I have settled for the original mousetrap. We are all praying God sends rain in more moderation this year.
I also went over to look at the other irrigation ditch that they laid with plastic for temporary watering purposes. To be honest I wondered a bit when they told me about the temporary plastic. Couldn’t we find a way to make that permanent? Plastic is much cheaper than the cement I have already purchased. But after seeing it, I am again relieved. The plastic, being uncontinuous, leaks, and where it leaks, the water escapes into the crumbly dirt and it does it’s thing. That is, it crumbles. There are a whole bunch of new rock, tree, dirt and other stuff fallen into the riverbed. So, in the interest of the irrigation ditches lasting any time at all, the cement is in fact necessary. My understanding of the scale of the problem of the irrigation system came slowly. First I walked up one side of the river, then I walked up the river bed, and finally up the other side of the river. It was on this third trip I really understood the engineering problem these ditches represented. Smack in the middle of 100 ft cliffs of crumbly soil was where the ditches had to go for a gravity-powered system to work. But due to the flooding, the riverbed run right up to the base of cliffs, and when the river is at flood, it doesn’t take much time at all for the river to eat away the cliff causing the whole thing to fall into the river. Again. That’s right, this could easily happen again. Thanks to my father, I keep thinking: “We need a better mousetrap.” The problem with better mousetraps is that they require more money and people who are actually engineers, not just engineer’s daughters. I can envision all I want but I don’t know what it takes to make it actually happen… for now, the villagers and I have settled for the original mousetrap. We are all praying God sends rain in more moderation this year.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Aftermath, Part 2
Last month, I was visiting some people I know in the Ifrane area, and through a series off (ultimately very fortunate!) circumstances, I met a couple studying at the Ifrane university. We were crashing at the same people's house as I. They happened to mention that they had been entrusted with some money donated from the US for relief after the big earthquake in Casablanca in the last few years... and I spoke up. Mentioned that there had been major infrastructure damage and that we could definitely use the monetary help. Time passed... there were texts, phone calls, and more of the same, until I got the great news!! The director of the relief money would be very happy to see the money used in my little village!!
Followed a trip to pick up the money... it's truly terrifying to be entrusted with large amounts of cash... I know now I will never be a banker! Not that there was any doubt before... and measuring mission...
To be continued...
Followed a trip to pick up the money... it's truly terrifying to be entrusted with large amounts of cash... I know now I will never be a banker! Not that there was any doubt before... and measuring mission...
To be continued...
Aftermath, Part 1
Perhaps you remember the flooding last fall? If only from reading my blog, you may have heard of it. We are still struggling with the aftermath of it here. I remember going to watch our little creek of a river turned into a raging torrent of coffee-with-cream colored water that roared like a giant rock polisher with the village. We would gather on cliffs overlooking the valley and watch the river pull cliffs down, over run fields, and rip full grown trees out by the roots. The men and women looked grim: sad, troubled, beaten, frustrated… even the ones whose fields were high enough to be safe from being bodily carried away. I didn’t understand why. I understood a little better when I was told that the irrigation system had been badly hurt by the flooding. I understood more when I went to go see it myself. Where the ditches weren’t filled or buried by rockslides, they had been sheered away by the water, leaving a crumbly wall of dirt and rock behind. And then I began to think about how many fields rely on that river water for irrigation… somewhere between 60% and 70% of them… and I really began to understand the worry. But the pessimism confused me. Surely there would be money forthcoming. I had read in newspapers about millions of dirhams that had been set aside specifically to repair flood-damaged infrastructure. Surely this qualified…! But time has slipped by, and the only repairs have been the emptying, by hand, of one of the three big ditches to take advantage of a seasonal spring that is currently flowing. I talked to one family that is planning to move out to our souk town this summer. They’ve had enough; they say this life is too hard. I talked to another man and his family. His words were, "there is no life here anymore. No fields, no work, nothing." So, we’ve begun looking for outside funding for repairs. Because one thing is clear: this village needs those irrigation ditches to survive. And it needs them all summer long, even when the seasonal springs stop flowing.
The Idarab
After I made my way back from Figuig, I got stuck in site for almost a week. No, there wasn’t a late snowstorm, although I did, ironically, loose power. It begins to seem that if I am stuck site, I will also loose power. :) That was the result of a little windstorm, though. The reason I got stuck in site is the same reason we still haven’t had the Women’s Wellness Workshop, even though it was scheduled to occur last Monday. The greater part of Morocco has been more or less immobilized for the past week due to the striking of all road bound public transport. People say "they are doing an Idarab." The deal is, they want to change one of the accident laws, and there’s a big meeting of all the transportation big wigs soon, and they wanted to get their attention. Well, they got a lot of peoples attention, alright! The only functioning public transport was the train, expensive bus lines and those local transport you could convince to risk running the gauntlet of the striking transport folk. The most reliable form of transportation in the bled (backcountry) was to try to catch a ride with someone. People were either thumbing it or pulling strings to get around. I just hunkered down in site and decided to ride it out, after much frustration trying to get to the W.W.Workshop.
I and my two chosen women attempted to leave for the workshop, but got no further than my souk town… we were informed by text that the workshop had to be postponed because most of the women couldn’t make it due to the strike. We rescheduled for 3 days later. But had to delay again, because the strike still wasn’t over yet. And then we had to push it back again… by this time, we decided to push it back by 10 days to be sure the strike would be well and truly over! The interesting thing is that even the people who would normally carry vegetables to market aren’t going, and so there’s a temporary food shortage in many places. I myself got caught out and had to borrow some little carrots, a zuccini and one old, small, but delicious tomato from my best friend in site. To give you an idea of the scope of the strike, the Safety and Security Coordinator for all of Peace Corps Morocco was sending out texts telling us the status of the strike and what the travel policies were concerning it. So, this morning, I finally received the text telling me that the strike was OVER, lHamdulillah!! All prayers that it will not commence, and that the Workshop will go smoothly and wonderfully, and that both of my women will be able to go!
I and my two chosen women attempted to leave for the workshop, but got no further than my souk town… we were informed by text that the workshop had to be postponed because most of the women couldn’t make it due to the strike. We rescheduled for 3 days later. But had to delay again, because the strike still wasn’t over yet. And then we had to push it back again… by this time, we decided to push it back by 10 days to be sure the strike would be well and truly over! The interesting thing is that even the people who would normally carry vegetables to market aren’t going, and so there’s a temporary food shortage in many places. I myself got caught out and had to borrow some little carrots, a zuccini and one old, small, but delicious tomato from my best friend in site. To give you an idea of the scope of the strike, the Safety and Security Coordinator for all of Peace Corps Morocco was sending out texts telling us the status of the strike and what the travel policies were concerning it. So, this morning, I finally received the text telling me that the strike was OVER, lHamdulillah!! All prayers that it will not commence, and that the Workshop will go smoothly and wonderfully, and that both of my women will be able to go!
Spiderman, Spiderman...
…does whatever a spider can… how many of you all remember the little jingle at the beginning of the original Spiderman comics? Well, now there are a couple of Berbers in the Middle Atlas Mountains that do. I sang it for them. J It’s amazing what little scraps of pop-culture seep into life here. Sometimes completely unappreciated, sometimes known and loved… or at least appreciated… like the Dora the Explorer backpack my little neighbor girl wears to school every day. I asked her if she knew the name of the girl on her backpack… she said no, but then I told her. But I couldn’t find a way to explain Dora the Explorer and hold her 5-year-old attention span. More universal is the appeal of hip-hop to teenagers. The love it for the same reason American teenagers do: it’s hot, it’s danceable, and their parents don’t like it. But back to Spiderman.
There was a little gum wrapper lying on the table at the house where I ate kaskarot, the late afternoon meal, today. The little boy picked it up and waved it at me, and from the depths of my memory emerged this little jingle… Spiderman, Spiderman… I couldn’t help myself, I was suddenly singing it to them. They liked it, and asked me, what does it say? So, here I was, explaining Spiderman to them, and reviewing my thievery vocabulary at the same time. This led into a conversation about which spiders in the region are poisonous to humans and which are not. **Note to self, the big ones that crawl around on the floor are the ismn (bad) ones… which means the family that used to reside in my bathroom are better off gone… I used to call them Big Scary, Little Scary, and Mama Scary. For obvious reasons. I digress… So, they asked me to sing it again, and again, and now… despite listening to Radiohead and Led Zepplin, there’s this little jingle floating around in my head…
"Spiderman, Spiderman.
Does whatever a spider can.
Spins a web, through the skies
Catches crooks, just like flies.
Look out, here comes the Spiderman…"
There was a little gum wrapper lying on the table at the house where I ate kaskarot, the late afternoon meal, today. The little boy picked it up and waved it at me, and from the depths of my memory emerged this little jingle… Spiderman, Spiderman… I couldn’t help myself, I was suddenly singing it to them. They liked it, and asked me, what does it say? So, here I was, explaining Spiderman to them, and reviewing my thievery vocabulary at the same time. This led into a conversation about which spiders in the region are poisonous to humans and which are not. **Note to self, the big ones that crawl around on the floor are the ismn (bad) ones… which means the family that used to reside in my bathroom are better off gone… I used to call them Big Scary, Little Scary, and Mama Scary. For obvious reasons. I digress… So, they asked me to sing it again, and again, and now… despite listening to Radiohead and Led Zepplin, there’s this little jingle floating around in my head…
"Spiderman, Spiderman.
Does whatever a spider can.
Spins a web, through the skies
Catches crooks, just like flies.
Look out, here comes the Spiderman…"
Thursday, April 9, 2009
spring camp
there is a small city, hemmed in by mountains, at the end of the Moroccan map. Figuig, city of palms, cut off from its Berber brothers in algeria, walled city. thats where i went to help out with spring camp. the only people i knew there were antonio and dunia (to use their moroccan names), but it turns out we had a really great crew! all good workers, cheerful, even in the face of adversity. i had so much fun getting to know them and having fun bringing the american to english language immersion spring camp!
figuig is a very long way from just about anywhere. it took me two days to get to Bouarfa, where we were stuck for a night because of the torrential rains. Figuig is in the desert. just across the border there are proper Saharan ergs (dunefields). but the drive down looked more like... the Serengeti. it's a high plateau, flat mostly, some slow-rolling hills, and the occasional small, rocky, morocco style mountain massif thrusting through. but it was all covered with... grass... and flowers... great streaks of purple, yellow, green, reaching to the horizon! sosososo beautiful. i miss green!!! the bus ride down from oujda takes a few hours. and it was allllll greeennnnn.... sigh of contentment...
camp was fun. the kids enjoyed it, when they weren't busy being too cool for school (some things never change). we had a raining inside incident involving all of the girls lugging their mattresses to the guys room to sleep without being dripped on from above. we had a door become unopenable, and the lock had to be knocked off with a sledgehammer. we had the 'pink vest boy', desire of the heart of every moroccan teenage girl. we had leapfrog, charades, dancing, halloween, and lots of english classes. we had a traditional wedding drum song, and one of the girls was 'taken by the music' and did the crazy hair dance. the environment club (me, antonio, nate and 15 kids) planted a medicinal plants garden (so much fun!! getting my hands in the dirt felt great!). we went for a hike to a fish-farm/irrigation pool.
we had the 'walled city' effect. people who have been subject to raiders for centuries (and still have the walls to prove it), who are separated from their trading routes by rather arbitrary borders that are now indefinitely closed, who are proudly berber in the very Arab eastern region, are walled people. they dont trust us or each other very well. and it made it hard to do silly team building activities that americans like to do at camp. you could literally see the tension between kids from different towns at times. there was a fight. did we make any headway? maybe. its hard to tell. but we tried!!! team-building, emphasis on togetherness, not joining in the between town teasing.
we had a theft, and a huge convention, and a semi-miraculous return of the stolen item, after tears, lectures, threats, tears, police, worries about honor and reputation, promises that a thing stolen from a moroccan would have had the same reaction, and finally... we got it back. thank God!
and then the kids left. and some of them cried to leave. whether they were sad to leave us, or their new girlfriend, or something else... at least they had a good time! i pray they learned something too.
figuig is a very long way from just about anywhere. it took me two days to get to Bouarfa, where we were stuck for a night because of the torrential rains. Figuig is in the desert. just across the border there are proper Saharan ergs (dunefields). but the drive down looked more like... the Serengeti. it's a high plateau, flat mostly, some slow-rolling hills, and the occasional small, rocky, morocco style mountain massif thrusting through. but it was all covered with... grass... and flowers... great streaks of purple, yellow, green, reaching to the horizon! sosososo beautiful. i miss green!!! the bus ride down from oujda takes a few hours. and it was allllll greeennnnn.... sigh of contentment...
camp was fun. the kids enjoyed it, when they weren't busy being too cool for school (some things never change). we had a raining inside incident involving all of the girls lugging their mattresses to the guys room to sleep without being dripped on from above. we had a door become unopenable, and the lock had to be knocked off with a sledgehammer. we had the 'pink vest boy', desire of the heart of every moroccan teenage girl. we had leapfrog, charades, dancing, halloween, and lots of english classes. we had a traditional wedding drum song, and one of the girls was 'taken by the music' and did the crazy hair dance. the environment club (me, antonio, nate and 15 kids) planted a medicinal plants garden (so much fun!! getting my hands in the dirt felt great!). we went for a hike to a fish-farm/irrigation pool.
we had the 'walled city' effect. people who have been subject to raiders for centuries (and still have the walls to prove it), who are separated from their trading routes by rather arbitrary borders that are now indefinitely closed, who are proudly berber in the very Arab eastern region, are walled people. they dont trust us or each other very well. and it made it hard to do silly team building activities that americans like to do at camp. you could literally see the tension between kids from different towns at times. there was a fight. did we make any headway? maybe. its hard to tell. but we tried!!! team-building, emphasis on togetherness, not joining in the between town teasing.
we had a theft, and a huge convention, and a semi-miraculous return of the stolen item, after tears, lectures, threats, tears, police, worries about honor and reputation, promises that a thing stolen from a moroccan would have had the same reaction, and finally... we got it back. thank God!
and then the kids left. and some of them cried to leave. whether they were sad to leave us, or their new girlfriend, or something else... at least they had a good time! i pray they learned something too.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
an old, old conflict
Sometime in the middle of January, I started noticing scarves of red and white or black and white check showing up more and more and more. Especially on young people, both male and female. These scarves are a show of support for Palestine in the continuing saga of war and peace between Palestine and Israel. It’s interesting watching the difference between the news coverage of, say, CNN, BBC, and Al Jaziera. Three different takes on it, three different ways of displaying the fights, three different levels of graphic footage. There is a LOT of support for Palestine here, but not in a scary way. People protest, they talk about it a lot, and they wait to see if the new world leaders can get a handle on the problems… I spoke to an old man, and asked him if he thought there would be peace. He said, "we will wait and see. Inchallah, there will be peace." I hope so! And I hope the support here remains peaceful, for it is only something like that that would put us onto Plan Z: evacuate. And I don’t want to evacuate. I want to be here. I do want peace, though. Fair peace, for both sides.
traditional healing
My host father is a healer. He sets bones, fixes dislocations, sprains and strains, and treats various maladies including colds, arthritis and slow to heal injuries. He’s pretty darn good at bone-setting. I’ve seen him do it, and I’ve seen the results. They are impressive. A compound fracture that protruded the skin is now a mostly functioning arm. Still weak, but hopefully it’ll get there. He makes splints out of cardboard and string, or bamboo and string.
He also brands people. With a nail, and in conjunction with a blessing. It’s called "kt"-ing. This technique can be used on just about anything. On the belly for a cold, on the place of injury or pain for a slow-to-heal break or strain or arthritis or what have you. I’m beginning to wonder what percent of the people here have scars from it. Probably quite a few. The blessing is interesting. He uses a little crystal, of salt, maybe, and waves it in a circle over the area to be treated, while muttering some God-phrases that I really can’t make out at all. He then sticks the crystal in his mouth and blows/spits forcefully over the area three times, says a parting blessing and then commences the branding. After the branding comes another blessing. It seems to have some effect, or at least people think so, for they come to him from all over the village and from other villages, too.
He also has a formidable array of knowledge about various causes and effects, some of which is probably valid and some of which probably isn’t. The other night, after watching him work on a shoulder and wrist, I mentioned that I had had a screw put in my foot to fix a break. He asked if I had taken it out, and I replied no. "But you must take it out!" he said, "or you will get shellal!" And illustrated by shaking his hand like a feeble old person in the grips of Parkinson’s disease. I didn’t quite know what to say… For certainly if this were an important consideration my doctor would have told me. But my host father simply brushed that off with an "ur isin!" ("He doesn’t know!") But he should know. Doctors pay an awful lot in schooling to know just that kind of thing. I can only imagine the lawsuits… "Repair of compound fracture of femur causes Parkinson’s!" No, I don’t think that’s a good cause and effect… but how does one explain that if that were the case, someone would have figured it out by now??? I gave it up as a bad job that time. Next time, we shall see.
He also brands people. With a nail, and in conjunction with a blessing. It’s called "kt"-ing. This technique can be used on just about anything. On the belly for a cold, on the place of injury or pain for a slow-to-heal break or strain or arthritis or what have you. I’m beginning to wonder what percent of the people here have scars from it. Probably quite a few. The blessing is interesting. He uses a little crystal, of salt, maybe, and waves it in a circle over the area to be treated, while muttering some God-phrases that I really can’t make out at all. He then sticks the crystal in his mouth and blows/spits forcefully over the area three times, says a parting blessing and then commences the branding. After the branding comes another blessing. It seems to have some effect, or at least people think so, for they come to him from all over the village and from other villages, too.
He also has a formidable array of knowledge about various causes and effects, some of which is probably valid and some of which probably isn’t. The other night, after watching him work on a shoulder and wrist, I mentioned that I had had a screw put in my foot to fix a break. He asked if I had taken it out, and I replied no. "But you must take it out!" he said, "or you will get shellal!" And illustrated by shaking his hand like a feeble old person in the grips of Parkinson’s disease. I didn’t quite know what to say… For certainly if this were an important consideration my doctor would have told me. But my host father simply brushed that off with an "ur isin!" ("He doesn’t know!") But he should know. Doctors pay an awful lot in schooling to know just that kind of thing. I can only imagine the lawsuits… "Repair of compound fracture of femur causes Parkinson’s!" No, I don’t think that’s a good cause and effect… but how does one explain that if that were the case, someone would have figured it out by now??? I gave it up as a bad job that time. Next time, we shall see.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Hmmam
Yes, that's an actual word, albeit spelled phonetically. Hmmams are the coolest! Actually, the hottest... they are communal baths here in Morocco. Sort of like a sauna, but with multiple rooms of various hotness, and wet. The idea is to get really hot, slough off skin, clean out pores, and wash hair and everything else in a good hot climate. I've really come to enjoy them, and think ther is really no better way to get turly clean.
That said, today takes the cake! I went to a Hmmam in a new city, a pretty big on with two sections for men an dwomen, as opposed to alternating hours like at smaller Hmmams. It was lovely and relaxing, and the people were most helpful. I am currently travellig, and so had to borrow a chair to sit on and a cup to pour water. All of this done in my Arabic... which is realy pretty bad. I call it 'Keyword Arabic'. But everyone was very helpful.
The way it works is you wet doan, and the put a special soap made of olive oil all over, and leave it for a couple minutes. It helps the skin come off once you rinse off and then start scrubbing. And scrubbing... there are special mitts for it. At some point shampooing and conditioning happen, and shaving if you are so inclined. I hear in the mens section they also strech eachother... women typically dont do this. Maybe its because many are also occupied with cleaning off their children.
So I had done all this and thought I was just about done, rinsed off all my soap and shampoo and the little chair and my mitt, and headed on my way. But, little did I know, I was not done! A mother and daughter who I had noticed enjoying their Hmmam together tugged on my hand, and motioned a question: did you have someone scrub your back? I motioned and tried to say that I had done it myself. She, understandind, shook her head in dissapproval, and motioned emphatically for me to sit down in front of her. So, after my protests met with no giving way, I sat myself down, and proceeded to be scrubbed more thoroughly than I have ever been scrubbed before. Back, arms, sides... all rescrubbed! She finished and rinsed me off, handed me my scrub mitt and motioned me to get to work on my legs... again... so I scrubbed away, and then rinsed off. I asked her if I was done (I was learning that my bathing was no longer only my own concern...), and she handed me a loofah with her own soap on it. Lovely soap it turns out. Must have been half oil, because it left my skin amazingly soft. I was finally rinsed off (think buckets helpfully splashed and dumped over my head), and then my things re-rinsed, and I was done. According to all involved. :) I turned, told her 'God bless your parents,' ie. thanked her, and went on my merry and smooth-skinned way. I don't know if I will ever be this clean again!
That said, today takes the cake! I went to a Hmmam in a new city, a pretty big on with two sections for men an dwomen, as opposed to alternating hours like at smaller Hmmams. It was lovely and relaxing, and the people were most helpful. I am currently travellig, and so had to borrow a chair to sit on and a cup to pour water. All of this done in my Arabic... which is realy pretty bad. I call it 'Keyword Arabic'. But everyone was very helpful.
The way it works is you wet doan, and the put a special soap made of olive oil all over, and leave it for a couple minutes. It helps the skin come off once you rinse off and then start scrubbing. And scrubbing... there are special mitts for it. At some point shampooing and conditioning happen, and shaving if you are so inclined. I hear in the mens section they also strech eachother... women typically dont do this. Maybe its because many are also occupied with cleaning off their children.
So I had done all this and thought I was just about done, rinsed off all my soap and shampoo and the little chair and my mitt, and headed on my way. But, little did I know, I was not done! A mother and daughter who I had noticed enjoying their Hmmam together tugged on my hand, and motioned a question: did you have someone scrub your back? I motioned and tried to say that I had done it myself. She, understandind, shook her head in dissapproval, and motioned emphatically for me to sit down in front of her. So, after my protests met with no giving way, I sat myself down, and proceeded to be scrubbed more thoroughly than I have ever been scrubbed before. Back, arms, sides... all rescrubbed! She finished and rinsed me off, handed me my scrub mitt and motioned me to get to work on my legs... again... so I scrubbed away, and then rinsed off. I asked her if I was done (I was learning that my bathing was no longer only my own concern...), and she handed me a loofah with her own soap on it. Lovely soap it turns out. Must have been half oil, because it left my skin amazingly soft. I was finally rinsed off (think buckets helpfully splashed and dumped over my head), and then my things re-rinsed, and I was done. According to all involved. :) I turned, told her 'God bless your parents,' ie. thanked her, and went on my merry and smooth-skinned way. I don't know if I will ever be this clean again!
Monday, February 16, 2009
“Bum-be-dum-bum-buuummm!”
I’ve been teaching English classes at the town primary school. It’s pretty entertaining, and good for me to have a bit of an external schedule to stick to. It started pretty informally, that is, I only talked to the director of the school. He seems to be very enthusiastic about it though. Now we are getting paperwork squared away with the regional office. I sincerely hope it doesn’t cause any problems!
So last Wednesday (I teach on Wednesdays and Thursdays) after class I had a couple of errands to run down town. I came upon a group of my students, girls, all clustered together. They came running up to me, and I noticed a couple of boys on bikes moving away from the girls but watching us. The girls came up to me and said, "what is this?? : You ha a bee asz!!" I had no idea, and asked them to say it again, and if it was in English. "Yes, yes! You ha a bee asss!" A sudden thought came to me… but I didn’t want it to be… what is it again? "You ha a bee ass!!!" Yeah, if it’s in English it must be… You have a big… I asked them who it was who told them this, and they pointed to the same boys on the bikes. Hmmm. I’m thinking, you never know what kids will come up with! And I’m still wondering, who taught them that??? It most certainly was not me! And clearly it’s being applied to me…
I mean, it’s kind of true. Elyse can testify to the fact that I do not fit into her swimming shorts… it’s the way it goes, and frankly I don’t really mind. Except, I didn’t realize people, that is men here were, well, commenting on it. Although, in retrospect I really should have realized that it couldn’t be only happening in the cities. There was this one guy in Marrakech (and it is Kesh, after all) who made a comment about both me and my friend Alicia, in English, in earshot, loud enough for us to hear while walking behind us: "Nice! Very, very nice!"
Which is all pretty funny, really. Once one decides that it just is and won’t change and is therefore best thought of as little as possible, and in as bouncy and irreverent a manner as can be found. Bum-be-dum-bum-buuuummmm!!! J
So last Wednesday (I teach on Wednesdays and Thursdays) after class I had a couple of errands to run down town. I came upon a group of my students, girls, all clustered together. They came running up to me, and I noticed a couple of boys on bikes moving away from the girls but watching us. The girls came up to me and said, "what is this?? : You ha a bee asz!!" I had no idea, and asked them to say it again, and if it was in English. "Yes, yes! You ha a bee asss!" A sudden thought came to me… but I didn’t want it to be… what is it again? "You ha a bee ass!!!" Yeah, if it’s in English it must be… You have a big… I asked them who it was who told them this, and they pointed to the same boys on the bikes. Hmmm. I’m thinking, you never know what kids will come up with! And I’m still wondering, who taught them that??? It most certainly was not me! And clearly it’s being applied to me…
I mean, it’s kind of true. Elyse can testify to the fact that I do not fit into her swimming shorts… it’s the way it goes, and frankly I don’t really mind. Except, I didn’t realize people, that is men here were, well, commenting on it. Although, in retrospect I really should have realized that it couldn’t be only happening in the cities. There was this one guy in Marrakech (and it is Kesh, after all) who made a comment about both me and my friend Alicia, in English, in earshot, loud enough for us to hear while walking behind us: "Nice! Very, very nice!"
Which is all pretty funny, really. Once one decides that it just is and won’t change and is therefore best thought of as little as possible, and in as bouncy and irreverent a manner as can be found. Bum-be-dum-bum-buuuummmm!!! J
Food
Food recently eaten and/or cooked:
Wheat bread. Baba ganoush. All bean chili. Lentils and macaroni and curry. Coffee with bread and olive oil. Breakfast barley. Cheese omelette with toast and Mom’s black-raspberry jam. Egg and tomato spiced and eaten with bread. Grilled cheese and tomato soup. Chocolate chip cookies with flax seeds and whole wheat flower.
I’m expanding my culinary enterprises! It’s fun, and delicious. The baba ganoush though, was a bit of an undertaking. First, make tahini from scratch (it’s pretty simple, just olive oil and sesame seeds) and then roast the eggplant and then throw it in the blender together with other ingredients and blend. Chill. Eat with delicious bread. I’m learning how to use a blender properly. Blenders were rarely used in the house when I was growing up, but I am quickly learning how useful they are, if used enthusiastically and properly. I never would have thought a blender could make tahini paste… but there you have it! They can.
I love making bread, but unlike my friend Adrienne, do not often rustle up the gumption to do it. But the thing is, if I want bread here, I a) buy the bland, dry, white store bread in my souk town and transport it back b) beg it from my neighbors or c) make it myself. So, inspired by Adrienne, guided by the bread book sent from home, and motivated by my desire for delicious wheat bread, I hope to be making bread far more frequently.
Chocolate chip cookies are delicious, and one of the things that seem to have more or less universal appeal. I have given them to many a Moroccan with great success. Other things have had less success, like zuccini bread and pumpkin bread. But chocolate chip cookies, no prob. J Which means I spend a fair amount of time chopping up bars of chocolate.
I found powdered tomato soup in Marjane! What is Marjane? Wal-mart. Wal-mart in Morocco. And thus in French and Arabic. I have spent far too much of my money there… as time goes by I find more and more products that I thought I could only get at Marjane elsewhere. Which is good! I’m glad to be supporting small business owners! It’s just a little more difficult to unearth things in tHanuts sometimes. THanuts tend to be all higgledy-piggledly in organization. Well, to the casual observer that is. I’m sure the storeowners would say otherwise. The powdered tomato soup, though… that’s gonna be hard to find elsewhere. I guess I’ll just have to use it sparingly. But for the occasional lunch of grilled cheese and tomato soup, I may just be willing to go to Marjane. Wal-mart. Sigh. Globalization is evident everywhere you go… I remember watching a Target go up in the 5 months I was in Dar es Salaam… and just recently I realized that one of the reasons the herders here have such large herds of goats and sheep is that they can sell them to city folk at a good price for the annual feasts. On the other hand, I just bought the most delicious eggs from my neighbor. There’s an interesting mix of local and decidedly not local food in my kitchen. I know which one is easier on my conscience, though.
Ps: the other thing i recently ate for the first time was... alfalfa! Yup, that's right, cow food. Carefully chopped, steamed, spiced and oiled, it was, in fact, delicious. I am only wondering, can it possibly have had any nutritional goodness in it??
Wheat bread. Baba ganoush. All bean chili. Lentils and macaroni and curry. Coffee with bread and olive oil. Breakfast barley. Cheese omelette with toast and Mom’s black-raspberry jam. Egg and tomato spiced and eaten with bread. Grilled cheese and tomato soup. Chocolate chip cookies with flax seeds and whole wheat flower.
I’m expanding my culinary enterprises! It’s fun, and delicious. The baba ganoush though, was a bit of an undertaking. First, make tahini from scratch (it’s pretty simple, just olive oil and sesame seeds) and then roast the eggplant and then throw it in the blender together with other ingredients and blend. Chill. Eat with delicious bread. I’m learning how to use a blender properly. Blenders were rarely used in the house when I was growing up, but I am quickly learning how useful they are, if used enthusiastically and properly. I never would have thought a blender could make tahini paste… but there you have it! They can.
I love making bread, but unlike my friend Adrienne, do not often rustle up the gumption to do it. But the thing is, if I want bread here, I a) buy the bland, dry, white store bread in my souk town and transport it back b) beg it from my neighbors or c) make it myself. So, inspired by Adrienne, guided by the bread book sent from home, and motivated by my desire for delicious wheat bread, I hope to be making bread far more frequently.
Chocolate chip cookies are delicious, and one of the things that seem to have more or less universal appeal. I have given them to many a Moroccan with great success. Other things have had less success, like zuccini bread and pumpkin bread. But chocolate chip cookies, no prob. J Which means I spend a fair amount of time chopping up bars of chocolate.
I found powdered tomato soup in Marjane! What is Marjane? Wal-mart. Wal-mart in Morocco. And thus in French and Arabic. I have spent far too much of my money there… as time goes by I find more and more products that I thought I could only get at Marjane elsewhere. Which is good! I’m glad to be supporting small business owners! It’s just a little more difficult to unearth things in tHanuts sometimes. THanuts tend to be all higgledy-piggledly in organization. Well, to the casual observer that is. I’m sure the storeowners would say otherwise. The powdered tomato soup, though… that’s gonna be hard to find elsewhere. I guess I’ll just have to use it sparingly. But for the occasional lunch of grilled cheese and tomato soup, I may just be willing to go to Marjane. Wal-mart. Sigh. Globalization is evident everywhere you go… I remember watching a Target go up in the 5 months I was in Dar es Salaam… and just recently I realized that one of the reasons the herders here have such large herds of goats and sheep is that they can sell them to city folk at a good price for the annual feasts. On the other hand, I just bought the most delicious eggs from my neighbor. There’s an interesting mix of local and decidedly not local food in my kitchen. I know which one is easier on my conscience, though.
Ps: the other thing i recently ate for the first time was... alfalfa! Yup, that's right, cow food. Carefully chopped, steamed, spiced and oiled, it was, in fact, delicious. I am only wondering, can it possibly have had any nutritional goodness in it??
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Marrakech
Marrakech!!
It’s one of two truly famous cities in Morocco, and frankly one of two truly dangerous cities. You know, like New York City… or maybe Los Angles… actually, I don’t know that there’s a comparable city in the US. I had yet to visit it, and wasn’t really itching to, either. There have been some not-so-fun stories comin’ out of that city from other PCVs. I however, had a lot of fun there! Yes, a woman swindled me out of 10 DH for a poor quality Fatima-flower in henna on my hand, but that’s fine. My fault for sitting down.
Every year in Marrakech there is an international marathon. I came down to watch Anthony, Sarah, and Moira run the full and a couple others run the half. Little did I know that about 15 PCVs total were signed up to race! So there was quite a bunch of us, either running or serving as moral support. I ended up running around the city on foot quite a bit without even racing. I didn’t run no 42.5 km (26.2 miles), though! It was fun hanging out at the finish line and seeing all the different runners come in. There was one girl (I believe she was the winner of the full) who looked like she was from the Ethiopia region of Africa, and un-numbered French people, even a woman who has now run well over 40 marathons on most of the continents I think. For those runners of you, most of the PCVs running either half or full didn’t come in with blistering times. For the full, only one of us came in under 4 hours. But then, it’s not always easy to train properly in the back of beyond! One of my friends is a talented runner, and he gave up on the marathon because training was proving to be insufficient. Well, I was still inspired to train and see what happens next year. Even though my site is basically a town on the side of a steep and rocky mountain. Most of the terrain is therefore quite hilly and the ground often made up of 2-inch diameter up to head-sized rocks. Perfect for long distance running! J
We also found this neat café, Earth Café, on one of the side streets there. A vegetarian café. Actually, I’m pretty sure it was vegan, which is quite simply astounding to find in Morocco! Meat is a big deal here. The food was great, so was the atmosphere, and then the owner came to chat with us. Turns out he’s a Moroccan who has lived and run restaurants in Sydney, Australia, Los Angeles and NYC. Here he runs his café and an educational farm. The kind of deal where people can go stay there and work and learn where their food comes from. Super cool, and the guy’s attitude was amazing. It was fun to see the response of the PCVs. Some volunteers become quite jaded, and to see them inspired by this guy’s positivity was awesome. I, too, felt lifted by it. Highly recommended if ever you go to Marrakech. It’s near the hotel Sindi Sud, if that helps. J
The thing about Marrakech is how far away it is. It’s a 13 hour bus ride direct, and a good deal further if you go round the long way. However, that distance means it’s a good bit further south, which was fantastic! Warmth! Hurry up spring!
It’s one of two truly famous cities in Morocco, and frankly one of two truly dangerous cities. You know, like New York City… or maybe Los Angles… actually, I don’t know that there’s a comparable city in the US. I had yet to visit it, and wasn’t really itching to, either. There have been some not-so-fun stories comin’ out of that city from other PCVs. I however, had a lot of fun there! Yes, a woman swindled me out of 10 DH for a poor quality Fatima-flower in henna on my hand, but that’s fine. My fault for sitting down.
Every year in Marrakech there is an international marathon. I came down to watch Anthony, Sarah, and Moira run the full and a couple others run the half. Little did I know that about 15 PCVs total were signed up to race! So there was quite a bunch of us, either running or serving as moral support. I ended up running around the city on foot quite a bit without even racing. I didn’t run no 42.5 km (26.2 miles), though! It was fun hanging out at the finish line and seeing all the different runners come in. There was one girl (I believe she was the winner of the full) who looked like she was from the Ethiopia region of Africa, and un-numbered French people, even a woman who has now run well over 40 marathons on most of the continents I think. For those runners of you, most of the PCVs running either half or full didn’t come in with blistering times. For the full, only one of us came in under 4 hours. But then, it’s not always easy to train properly in the back of beyond! One of my friends is a talented runner, and he gave up on the marathon because training was proving to be insufficient. Well, I was still inspired to train and see what happens next year. Even though my site is basically a town on the side of a steep and rocky mountain. Most of the terrain is therefore quite hilly and the ground often made up of 2-inch diameter up to head-sized rocks. Perfect for long distance running! J
We also found this neat café, Earth Café, on one of the side streets there. A vegetarian café. Actually, I’m pretty sure it was vegan, which is quite simply astounding to find in Morocco! Meat is a big deal here. The food was great, so was the atmosphere, and then the owner came to chat with us. Turns out he’s a Moroccan who has lived and run restaurants in Sydney, Australia, Los Angeles and NYC. Here he runs his café and an educational farm. The kind of deal where people can go stay there and work and learn where their food comes from. Super cool, and the guy’s attitude was amazing. It was fun to see the response of the PCVs. Some volunteers become quite jaded, and to see them inspired by this guy’s positivity was awesome. I, too, felt lifted by it. Highly recommended if ever you go to Marrakech. It’s near the hotel Sindi Sud, if that helps. J
The thing about Marrakech is how far away it is. It’s a 13 hour bus ride direct, and a good deal further if you go round the long way. However, that distance means it’s a good bit further south, which was fantastic! Warmth! Hurry up spring!
Overview of January
4 February 2009
Wow, January just flew by! Which is good, seeing as it’s the second coldest, and darkest month here. December is both colder and darker. Now, spring is tussling with winter over who possesses this land. It’s still very cold a night sometimes, but the sun (when it breaks through the winter storms that march along the mountains whipped by gusts of wind) is fierce to my now pale skin. Yes, that’s right, I’ve already been sun-burned. In February.
January flew by because I was either hosting someone in my site or out of site on a lot of those weekends. After Adrienne left, Natalie came to help me care for Trouble as he healed, and then Erin came up to evaluate my site for a new health volunteer. Lots of fun hosting everyone, but after all the hosting followed by traveling for meetings, marathons, and naming ceremonies, I was cashed! So, these last days of January and first days of February have included some good down time.
It looks like I’m going to get a site mate in April or May! I’m excited about that, and hoping for the best. Peace Corps really wants to send a man, but the villagers want another girl “like me.” There are pros and cons either way. It would be good to have a guy, because he could reach out to the men of the village more effectively than ever I could, especially on issues of STIs. A man would also help them to get a wider picture of what US culture looks like in a person than a woman would. A woman, though, is an easier fit into the culture here. She isn’t a threat to the woman of the village’s honor (and thus no competition to the men either). She can work with the women easily, visit homes more easily, broach difficult topics with families more easily because of that one reason. So we shall see.
My own projects go so slowly! A new horizon or two of challenges has appeared with the building of the Women’s Center. The first and most difficult is that of infighting within the association I’m trying to work with. This fighting existed long before I was here, and now… now it continues. What do they want to do with the honey? Sell it and keep the money for helping out with building the building? Eat it and enjoy it? A lot of this seems to stem from a general lack of administrative organization and good decision-making skills. Unsurprising as none of these women have much experience in this sort of organization, and compromises don’t seem to have been forth-coming. Following that are mis-understandings, and who knows? Accusations have certainly run thick from certain quarters. I still have hope though, because they have (several of them, anyway) a strong will to succeed. And I have to believe that where there is a will… we will find a way. I started teaching English in the school. I hope that out of that and Environmental Education Club will get started. Certainly the kids are enthusiastic about learning English! There’s one older boy who comes, we can call him Joe, a friend of mine and a member of my extended host family. He’s the only person of his age who comes, and also the only of my students who will bring in long lists of words to learn. His enthusiasm makes me happy, but it also makes me sad. He’s not finishing high school, I’m pretty sure because his family needs help at home. He’s a sharp cookie, too, and a full education is something he would take advantage of, I’m sure! Literacy lessons for the women have still not happened… a million small delays in finding a place to hold them… a million more in my search for a woman teacher… And in my other project, the herders are out to pasture and that makes it really, really hard to hold a meeting. So that goes uber slowly. In short, patience and stubborn persistence seem to be my two best skills right now. J I think I can thank my time on crutches for developing those traits in me… never thought that time would have a direct impact on my later life like this!
There, that’s a bit of a summary about the past few weeks. Peace to all ya’ll!
Wow, January just flew by! Which is good, seeing as it’s the second coldest, and darkest month here. December is both colder and darker. Now, spring is tussling with winter over who possesses this land. It’s still very cold a night sometimes, but the sun (when it breaks through the winter storms that march along the mountains whipped by gusts of wind) is fierce to my now pale skin. Yes, that’s right, I’ve already been sun-burned. In February.
January flew by because I was either hosting someone in my site or out of site on a lot of those weekends. After Adrienne left, Natalie came to help me care for Trouble as he healed, and then Erin came up to evaluate my site for a new health volunteer. Lots of fun hosting everyone, but after all the hosting followed by traveling for meetings, marathons, and naming ceremonies, I was cashed! So, these last days of January and first days of February have included some good down time.
It looks like I’m going to get a site mate in April or May! I’m excited about that, and hoping for the best. Peace Corps really wants to send a man, but the villagers want another girl “like me.” There are pros and cons either way. It would be good to have a guy, because he could reach out to the men of the village more effectively than ever I could, especially on issues of STIs. A man would also help them to get a wider picture of what US culture looks like in a person than a woman would. A woman, though, is an easier fit into the culture here. She isn’t a threat to the woman of the village’s honor (and thus no competition to the men either). She can work with the women easily, visit homes more easily, broach difficult topics with families more easily because of that one reason. So we shall see.
My own projects go so slowly! A new horizon or two of challenges has appeared with the building of the Women’s Center. The first and most difficult is that of infighting within the association I’m trying to work with. This fighting existed long before I was here, and now… now it continues. What do they want to do with the honey? Sell it and keep the money for helping out with building the building? Eat it and enjoy it? A lot of this seems to stem from a general lack of administrative organization and good decision-making skills. Unsurprising as none of these women have much experience in this sort of organization, and compromises don’t seem to have been forth-coming. Following that are mis-understandings, and who knows? Accusations have certainly run thick from certain quarters. I still have hope though, because they have (several of them, anyway) a strong will to succeed. And I have to believe that where there is a will… we will find a way. I started teaching English in the school. I hope that out of that and Environmental Education Club will get started. Certainly the kids are enthusiastic about learning English! There’s one older boy who comes, we can call him Joe, a friend of mine and a member of my extended host family. He’s the only person of his age who comes, and also the only of my students who will bring in long lists of words to learn. His enthusiasm makes me happy, but it also makes me sad. He’s not finishing high school, I’m pretty sure because his family needs help at home. He’s a sharp cookie, too, and a full education is something he would take advantage of, I’m sure! Literacy lessons for the women have still not happened… a million small delays in finding a place to hold them… a million more in my search for a woman teacher… And in my other project, the herders are out to pasture and that makes it really, really hard to hold a meeting. So that goes uber slowly. In short, patience and stubborn persistence seem to be my two best skills right now. J I think I can thank my time on crutches for developing those traits in me… never thought that time would have a direct impact on my later life like this!
There, that’s a bit of a summary about the past few weeks. Peace to all ya’ll!
Monday, January 12, 2009
An Eulogy of Sorts
I have lost one of my kittens. I will post a picture of both of them here. The tabby one’s name was Sean or Knuzzle, and the other’s name is Travis or Trouble.
About a week ago, I and my friend Adrienne (who was visiting) woke up and began making breakfast when we heard a strange sound. I turned to watch the younger of my two kittens, Knuzzle, vomit a strange yellow liquid. I cleaned it up and remarked that I hope he wasn’t sick, or that he hadn’t eaten something rotten. You see, he had been perfectly rambunctiously normal the night before. I thought he would rid himself of whatever it was and be fine. But as the day progressed he continued to vomit every few hours, and refused to eat or drink. I began to worry that perhaps he was getting dangerously dehydrated. But I didn’t know what it was, still hoping that it would pass in good time. All through the night he continued to vomit at intervals, looking more and more depressed and tired. The following morning I contemplated going to Outat L-Haj for to see the veterinarian there, but instead opted to call the Canadian vet in Fez. Who was spectacularly unhelpful. Increasingly worried, I watched my little Knuzzle deteriorate. He lost weight, he hid from us. I went out and got the number of another veterinarian, and tried to call him. No answer. I had to go to a meeting with my ladies, and because of this I did not take the last transit into town… later that evening, Adrienne and I watched my little kitten struggle into death. I wrapped him in a cloth with teddy bears on it. I cried. I cuddled my remaining kitten.
The next morning Adrienne and I awoke to a most unwelcome noise: my second kitten had contracted whatever it was. I made my decision without deliberating, put my cat into a box with a soft cloth, packed a backpack and caught the first transit to Outat. Adrienne graciously agreed to teach English to 30 plus kids-without knowing more than 5 words of the local language-so I could go try to save the life of Trouble. I went to my host family’s house in Outat, and my Aunt of some sort agreed to go with me to the vets so as to translate for me from Tashelheit to Moroccan Arabic. The vet had to be called in, and when he came he seemed unconcerned. He gave Trouble 5 mL of some drug and told me to feed him up. We dropped Trouble off at my family’s house, and I, slightly hopeful, went to the cyber to look up the name of the drug. It turned out to be sorbitol, a sugar-alcohol that is often used in make-up. And therefore of little use to him… So I put Google to work for me, and looked up cat diseases. Before long I had made an educated guess based upon my observations and the list of symptoms and the high mortality rate. (Note: two other kittens had recently died of similar symptoms next door). Decision: Feline Distemper, or Feline Leukopenia (CHECK THIS SPELLING). Mortality rate over 60%. I went and purchased some meds and learned how to give a cat a shot (the skin is a whole lot thinner than a cows… obviously…). I proceeded to try to nurse him back to health. With the help of my host sister, my host aunt, and later Adrienne, we have gotten him past the 5 day mark of probable survival, but he still refuses to eat. I am so so so so thankful to everyone who helped, consoled, and encouraged me… Adrienne, Anthony, Natalie, Erin, my parents, Johnny, Liz, Nate, and Sarah.
It’s interesting: animals become so important to us as companions. I am grateful that he has survived this far… I am now certain that living alone is less than ideal, though perfectly workable, for me. I hope and pray my little buddy will pull through and beat the stats.
Note: I am happy to report that Trouble has made it to day 7 and has begun eating and drinking small amounts on his own!!! Just getting him this far is a fantastic thing, I only hope he continues to improve. :)
I have lost one of my kittens. I will post a picture of both of them here. The tabby one’s name was Sean or Knuzzle, and the other’s name is Travis or Trouble.
About a week ago, I and my friend Adrienne (who was visiting) woke up and began making breakfast when we heard a strange sound. I turned to watch the younger of my two kittens, Knuzzle, vomit a strange yellow liquid. I cleaned it up and remarked that I hope he wasn’t sick, or that he hadn’t eaten something rotten. You see, he had been perfectly rambunctiously normal the night before. I thought he would rid himself of whatever it was and be fine. But as the day progressed he continued to vomit every few hours, and refused to eat or drink. I began to worry that perhaps he was getting dangerously dehydrated. But I didn’t know what it was, still hoping that it would pass in good time. All through the night he continued to vomit at intervals, looking more and more depressed and tired. The following morning I contemplated going to Outat L-Haj for to see the veterinarian there, but instead opted to call the Canadian vet in Fez. Who was spectacularly unhelpful. Increasingly worried, I watched my little Knuzzle deteriorate. He lost weight, he hid from us. I went out and got the number of another veterinarian, and tried to call him. No answer. I had to go to a meeting with my ladies, and because of this I did not take the last transit into town… later that evening, Adrienne and I watched my little kitten struggle into death. I wrapped him in a cloth with teddy bears on it. I cried. I cuddled my remaining kitten.
The next morning Adrienne and I awoke to a most unwelcome noise: my second kitten had contracted whatever it was. I made my decision without deliberating, put my cat into a box with a soft cloth, packed a backpack and caught the first transit to Outat. Adrienne graciously agreed to teach English to 30 plus kids-without knowing more than 5 words of the local language-so I could go try to save the life of Trouble. I went to my host family’s house in Outat, and my Aunt of some sort agreed to go with me to the vets so as to translate for me from Tashelheit to Moroccan Arabic. The vet had to be called in, and when he came he seemed unconcerned. He gave Trouble 5 mL of some drug and told me to feed him up. We dropped Trouble off at my family’s house, and I, slightly hopeful, went to the cyber to look up the name of the drug. It turned out to be sorbitol, a sugar-alcohol that is often used in make-up. And therefore of little use to him… So I put Google to work for me, and looked up cat diseases. Before long I had made an educated guess based upon my observations and the list of symptoms and the high mortality rate. (Note: two other kittens had recently died of similar symptoms next door). Decision: Feline Distemper, or Feline Leukopenia (CHECK THIS SPELLING). Mortality rate over 60%. I went and purchased some meds and learned how to give a cat a shot (the skin is a whole lot thinner than a cows… obviously…). I proceeded to try to nurse him back to health. With the help of my host sister, my host aunt, and later Adrienne, we have gotten him past the 5 day mark of probable survival, but he still refuses to eat. I am so so so so thankful to everyone who helped, consoled, and encouraged me… Adrienne, Anthony, Natalie, Erin, my parents, Johnny, Liz, Nate, and Sarah.
It’s interesting: animals become so important to us as companions. I am grateful that he has survived this far… I am now certain that living alone is less than ideal, though perfectly workable, for me. I hope and pray my little buddy will pull through and beat the stats.
Note: I am happy to report that Trouble has made it to day 7 and has begun eating and drinking small amounts on his own!!! Just getting him this far is a fantastic thing, I only hope he continues to improve. :)
Christmas, post from dec # 3
Christmas was fun. It was also an adventure to figure out how I was going to celebrate this holiday with others who also celebrate it. So, I and several friends planned to meet in Midelt, at the (I believe Franciscan) monastary there. We gathered on Christmas Eve, and headed right out to the monastary. What an amazing place! These monks 5 of them, live and work there with the people in Midelt and the surrounding area. They mostly seem to work with artisns to help them promote their products for sale. Tey also provide a wonderfully welcoming place for pilgrims and Christians to celebrate holidays, go on pilgrimages and generally practice that religion in a community, as it is meant to be practiced.
Thus, they asked no payment for the rooms, beds, bathrooms, food and drinks that they provided for us and several other visitors over Christmas. Donations were made but not because they were requested, but because they were so deserved! We all went to Christmas Eve mass, all 2 plus hours of it in French. Some of the songs were familiar, some not. Much of the ceremony was unfamiliar to me, but the two catholics in our number did their best to explain how things worked to us of Protestant background. I particularly appreciated the fact that I was welcomed for communion. It made me feel welcomed and at home and right. Thank you!!
After the service we gathered for cookies and hot chocolate, delicious! The following day we rose just in time for breakfast, went to another service and then had a delicious lunch complete with salads and... wine? It was so strange to be presented with this evidence that the Christian religion doesn not view alcoholic beverages in the same way the Muslim religion does... :)
After saying a sad goodbye and a heartfelt thanks to the monks we continued to the home of another Peace Corps volunteer to make a delicious dinner of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, stuffing, apple pie, pumpkin bread and corn bread. Mmmm... happy tummy memories!
The following morning some of us headed back to our respective homes, while others stayed a while longer. I was lucky enough to host one of my friends at my house on his way back from Christmas, extending the holiday spirit another day!!
In general, it was great!! So wonderful to be a part of that tradition even in a culture centered around different traditions. A little like going home! Next year perhaps I will try to hold a pre-Christmas celebration for a little cross-cultural exchange in my village, we will see! Some people requested to be a part of that next year.
So, yeah, hooray for a Merry Christmas!
Thus, they asked no payment for the rooms, beds, bathrooms, food and drinks that they provided for us and several other visitors over Christmas. Donations were made but not because they were requested, but because they were so deserved! We all went to Christmas Eve mass, all 2 plus hours of it in French. Some of the songs were familiar, some not. Much of the ceremony was unfamiliar to me, but the two catholics in our number did their best to explain how things worked to us of Protestant background. I particularly appreciated the fact that I was welcomed for communion. It made me feel welcomed and at home and right. Thank you!!
After the service we gathered for cookies and hot chocolate, delicious! The following day we rose just in time for breakfast, went to another service and then had a delicious lunch complete with salads and... wine? It was so strange to be presented with this evidence that the Christian religion doesn not view alcoholic beverages in the same way the Muslim religion does... :)
After saying a sad goodbye and a heartfelt thanks to the monks we continued to the home of another Peace Corps volunteer to make a delicious dinner of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, stuffing, apple pie, pumpkin bread and corn bread. Mmmm... happy tummy memories!
The following morning some of us headed back to our respective homes, while others stayed a while longer. I was lucky enough to host one of my friends at my house on his way back from Christmas, extending the holiday spirit another day!!
In general, it was great!! So wonderful to be a part of that tradition even in a culture centered around different traditions. A little like going home! Next year perhaps I will try to hold a pre-Christmas celebration for a little cross-cultural exchange in my village, we will see! Some people requested to be a part of that next year.
So, yeah, hooray for a Merry Christmas!
post from dec #2
Of Loneliness --early December
1) I’m usually not the one who is homesick. I have traveled much in my life, and I love it. I am used to being away from home, and loved ones. Distance does change things. I remember being in Tanzania, and realizing there (just about literally half the world away from home) that distance does make a difference. Somehow, though it seems like it shouldn’t, you miss folks more. Well, time makes a difference too. Yes, I saw this coming. But its still somewhat unexpected… or rather, what I miss is unexpected. My family of course, but also places. Seeing the sunset from my parents’ house, the Havens’ Homestead (sorry guys, but you do have that sign! And you know I love it), Madeline Island, Hope Community Church and my alma mater, Macalester. And then other places even less expected: Dar es Salaam, my research campsite by the Serengeti, the Boundary Waters, the flippin’ highway between certain places… I think I miss green. And sunsets. Though I have really come to appreciate the beauty of the clouds reflecting the suns light as it finally sinks behind the horizon hidden by the huge mountains surrounding the village. Sometimes the light somehow comes around the backside of the mountain and turns the snow up there the same color as the clouds. It’s so beautiful!! I love these mountains, denuded and forbidding though they are. You could also say bold and majestic in their simplicity and starkness.
2) Intellectual isolation caught me off guard. A lifetime of listening to my father talk about physics, politics and whatever else catches his eye, of reading good books and talking them over with family and friends, the blessing of smart and creative people as my friends, 4 rich years surrounded by intelligent and caring people at Macalester, and then finally a similar situation during training here… how little I realized how much value that had in my life! Not to say that people here are not intelligent, not at all!! There are some super sharp cookies here! But relatively few have ventured into high school, and far fewer into higher education, fewer still have seen other cultures and places. Especially women, those who I spend most of my time with. Conversation is gossip, clothes, the cost of food, the weather, and family. All worthy topics to be sure, but sometimes I just wish for more! Yes, I know, that’s what cell phones and other PCVs are for. And truly, I do call and talk to them every now and then. Every now and then.
3) "Lonely for a doe." Watership Down, anyone? Maybe it’s the constant (and I mean CONSTANT) questions about whether I’m married, when I will be married, and to whom, or maybe it’s just the lack of males I am close to physically around me. I have lived almost my entire life in a co-ed situation. I grew up with my brother. I always lived on mixed gender floors or in a mixed gender house during college. I have had pretty close male friends almost constantly since high school. Thus, to have no men to hang with, talk with, mix with is… strange and not exactly to my liking. I can’t help thinking we were made male and female to complement each other. Nope, I don’t need a man, as people here sometimes put it, but gee, it sure would be nice!
4) The act of being alone. Strange to say, at the same time I feel lonely here, I often feel the need to be alone here. Go for a walk with the trees for company. Or rocks and aromatic bushes as the case may be… hole myself up in my house and work on my mending, or my shelves, or read books. Tolstoy right now, and lots of him. People here don’t do alone. They don’t sleep alone, don’t walk alone, don’t work alone if they can help it. It’s great, because if I want to I can just drop in and hang out (provided there is the proper ratio of male to female adults around). But that means I am constantly on alert, working hard to understand what is said around me, to respond in the context of their culture and language, to represent my culture, religion, country and organization (well) and to be alert to opportunities for educational/work-related conversations. It’s a bit tiring. So I retreat to my (cold) house with my (warm and mischievous) kittens to let myself just be myself. Or I pick a direction and start walking.
1) I’m usually not the one who is homesick. I have traveled much in my life, and I love it. I am used to being away from home, and loved ones. Distance does change things. I remember being in Tanzania, and realizing there (just about literally half the world away from home) that distance does make a difference. Somehow, though it seems like it shouldn’t, you miss folks more. Well, time makes a difference too. Yes, I saw this coming. But its still somewhat unexpected… or rather, what I miss is unexpected. My family of course, but also places. Seeing the sunset from my parents’ house, the Havens’ Homestead (sorry guys, but you do have that sign! And you know I love it), Madeline Island, Hope Community Church and my alma mater, Macalester. And then other places even less expected: Dar es Salaam, my research campsite by the Serengeti, the Boundary Waters, the flippin’ highway between certain places… I think I miss green. And sunsets. Though I have really come to appreciate the beauty of the clouds reflecting the suns light as it finally sinks behind the horizon hidden by the huge mountains surrounding the village. Sometimes the light somehow comes around the backside of the mountain and turns the snow up there the same color as the clouds. It’s so beautiful!! I love these mountains, denuded and forbidding though they are. You could also say bold and majestic in their simplicity and starkness.
2) Intellectual isolation caught me off guard. A lifetime of listening to my father talk about physics, politics and whatever else catches his eye, of reading good books and talking them over with family and friends, the blessing of smart and creative people as my friends, 4 rich years surrounded by intelligent and caring people at Macalester, and then finally a similar situation during training here… how little I realized how much value that had in my life! Not to say that people here are not intelligent, not at all!! There are some super sharp cookies here! But relatively few have ventured into high school, and far fewer into higher education, fewer still have seen other cultures and places. Especially women, those who I spend most of my time with. Conversation is gossip, clothes, the cost of food, the weather, and family. All worthy topics to be sure, but sometimes I just wish for more! Yes, I know, that’s what cell phones and other PCVs are for. And truly, I do call and talk to them every now and then. Every now and then.
3) "Lonely for a doe." Watership Down, anyone? Maybe it’s the constant (and I mean CONSTANT) questions about whether I’m married, when I will be married, and to whom, or maybe it’s just the lack of males I am close to physically around me. I have lived almost my entire life in a co-ed situation. I grew up with my brother. I always lived on mixed gender floors or in a mixed gender house during college. I have had pretty close male friends almost constantly since high school. Thus, to have no men to hang with, talk with, mix with is… strange and not exactly to my liking. I can’t help thinking we were made male and female to complement each other. Nope, I don’t need a man, as people here sometimes put it, but gee, it sure would be nice!
4) The act of being alone. Strange to say, at the same time I feel lonely here, I often feel the need to be alone here. Go for a walk with the trees for company. Or rocks and aromatic bushes as the case may be… hole myself up in my house and work on my mending, or my shelves, or read books. Tolstoy right now, and lots of him. People here don’t do alone. They don’t sleep alone, don’t walk alone, don’t work alone if they can help it. It’s great, because if I want to I can just drop in and hang out (provided there is the proper ratio of male to female adults around). But that means I am constantly on alert, working hard to understand what is said around me, to respond in the context of their culture and language, to represent my culture, religion, country and organization (well) and to be alert to opportunities for educational/work-related conversations. It’s a bit tiring. So I retreat to my (cold) house with my (warm and mischievous) kittens to let myself just be myself. Or I pick a direction and start walking.
post # 1 from december
December 11, 2008
The past few days I have been going from house to house to house all day long, greeting people with the special greeting reserved for the big holidays here: "Mbruk L3id!" It is the largest festival of the year, L3id Amqrant. It lasts 3 days, or 5 days, or 10 days depending on who you ask. Formally three days I think, judging from the number of people who have told me that. This is important information for me, because I need to know just how much time I have to try to go to the house of everyone I know and greet them and be persuaded to sit down and have tea and a kabab or two and maybe some bread and olive oil… in other words there is a whole lot of eating going on here! And I have learned (once again) that there is a definite limit to how much protein + oil + fat that I can eat and digest happily. Unfortunately I do not know exactly where that limit falls… and marinated kebabs made of just-slaughtered-this-morning-lamb happen to be delicious! So I just try to pace myself…
Interestingly, yesterday and today I kept getting asked about how things work in the US. Ie. are your children yuar (troublesome) too? Do wives fight with their husbands in the US? Yes, and yes. Or, perhaps more accurately, there are difficult children and easy children everywhere, and I imagine most wives and husbands run up against each other at least once and a while. Being two separate people and all… Not having the time, I didn’t go into detail. That is to say, yes we have difficult children, but there is a slightly different ethic of discipline. I’ll describe the way it is here since that is easier for me to put into words. When a child is young here, they are more or less (depending on the family) the center of the planet. Even moreso if they are male. And the favorite method for making a child to stop crying is to give them what they want. The predictable result is that they become quite spoiled. At least for a while… in most families, this is balanced by the fact that they child slowly learns that everyone else is equally (or slightly less equally if they are female) entitled to what they want as well. The importance of family and community is slowly taught to the child. I wonder if a lack of contentment is also taught, but I’m not so sure about that. It seems to work alright for the most part.
Of course, there are children who are just spoiled too. The children that prompted the question are two of the most spoiled little one I have ever seen. A little boy and his older sister girl, who are constantly vying for the attention of everyone around, and are especially concerned with getting as much or more as their sibling… for example, we sat down for the evening snack (kaskarot) and the hostess put down a plate of cookies. The little boy had been sitting there sipping his tea with a taunting eye on his sister (who had none… remember tea here is so sweet it might as well be soda) when he spotted the cookies. It was classic! His face lit up and he said "Gateau!" or "Cookies!" And proceeded to grab handfuls. His sister was right behind them, and soon they had half the plate in their collective possession… leaving the rest of us (four or five people) to the rest. Fortunately, the hostess (not their mother) is a no-nonsense kind of women. "Ee-HEE!" she said (that means no). "You get only one at a time!" And she grabbed the whole lot of them out of both of their hands and then handed each back one. No tears, they know not to mess with this woman. Contrast the screams and tears when their mother mediated a fight over actual soda the day before. In a word, piercing. It reminded me so of Captains Courageous, when the little boy is so spoiled in the beginning!! Its interesting, because their mother gets mad at them for behaving poorly, but doesn’t get after them until they cross a certain line, nor does she respond when other people point out her children’s misbehavior. She only disciplines what she sees. I am certain that there are mothers like this in the US, even though I haven’t had the opportunity to observe them so closely. As I still do not (to my frustration) understand the whole of what is said the whole of the time, I have plenty of opportunity for careful observation!
The past few days I have been going from house to house to house all day long, greeting people with the special greeting reserved for the big holidays here: "Mbruk L3id!" It is the largest festival of the year, L3id Amqrant. It lasts 3 days, or 5 days, or 10 days depending on who you ask. Formally three days I think, judging from the number of people who have told me that. This is important information for me, because I need to know just how much time I have to try to go to the house of everyone I know and greet them and be persuaded to sit down and have tea and a kabab or two and maybe some bread and olive oil… in other words there is a whole lot of eating going on here! And I have learned (once again) that there is a definite limit to how much protein + oil + fat that I can eat and digest happily. Unfortunately I do not know exactly where that limit falls… and marinated kebabs made of just-slaughtered-this-morning-lamb happen to be delicious! So I just try to pace myself…
Interestingly, yesterday and today I kept getting asked about how things work in the US. Ie. are your children yuar (troublesome) too? Do wives fight with their husbands in the US? Yes, and yes. Or, perhaps more accurately, there are difficult children and easy children everywhere, and I imagine most wives and husbands run up against each other at least once and a while. Being two separate people and all… Not having the time, I didn’t go into detail. That is to say, yes we have difficult children, but there is a slightly different ethic of discipline. I’ll describe the way it is here since that is easier for me to put into words. When a child is young here, they are more or less (depending on the family) the center of the planet. Even moreso if they are male. And the favorite method for making a child to stop crying is to give them what they want. The predictable result is that they become quite spoiled. At least for a while… in most families, this is balanced by the fact that they child slowly learns that everyone else is equally (or slightly less equally if they are female) entitled to what they want as well. The importance of family and community is slowly taught to the child. I wonder if a lack of contentment is also taught, but I’m not so sure about that. It seems to work alright for the most part.
Of course, there are children who are just spoiled too. The children that prompted the question are two of the most spoiled little one I have ever seen. A little boy and his older sister girl, who are constantly vying for the attention of everyone around, and are especially concerned with getting as much or more as their sibling… for example, we sat down for the evening snack (kaskarot) and the hostess put down a plate of cookies. The little boy had been sitting there sipping his tea with a taunting eye on his sister (who had none… remember tea here is so sweet it might as well be soda) when he spotted the cookies. It was classic! His face lit up and he said "Gateau!" or "Cookies!" And proceeded to grab handfuls. His sister was right behind them, and soon they had half the plate in their collective possession… leaving the rest of us (four or five people) to the rest. Fortunately, the hostess (not their mother) is a no-nonsense kind of women. "Ee-HEE!" she said (that means no). "You get only one at a time!" And she grabbed the whole lot of them out of both of their hands and then handed each back one. No tears, they know not to mess with this woman. Contrast the screams and tears when their mother mediated a fight over actual soda the day before. In a word, piercing. It reminded me so of Captains Courageous, when the little boy is so spoiled in the beginning!! Its interesting, because their mother gets mad at them for behaving poorly, but doesn’t get after them until they cross a certain line, nor does she respond when other people point out her children’s misbehavior. She only disciplines what she sees. I am certain that there are mothers like this in the US, even though I haven’t had the opportunity to observe them so closely. As I still do not (to my frustration) understand the whole of what is said the whole of the time, I have plenty of opportunity for careful observation!
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