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!
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