a long few weeks

6.13.07

I just watched the video that a friend of mine somehow was able to film of our program assistant singing Old McDonald in Arabic. Funny stuff. I told him in training that whenever I was sad or stressed out during the first few months in site, I’d watch it because it’d make me laugh, and it has.

I didn’t watch it because I’m sad today. I watched it because I told people about it this evening and it made me want to see it again. The next-door neighbor women (there are five of them from the age of 23 to, oh, probably fiftyish, with two kids) were joking that one of them was marrying a man named Si Mohammed, which is the name that’s used in Old McDonald in Arabic. I started singing and cracked myself up. I think they thought I was nuts, but it was the beauty of the situation. There I was, sitting in a green jabador with bleach spots and tea stains in the alleyway on a rock under about a million stars with saffron painted on my face and a bright blue clashing necklace around my neck singing Old McDonald with a bunch of Berber women.

It’s been a good day, which is a relief, because yesterday got a little rough. I wouldn’t call it a bad day, but yesterday was definitely trying at points.

I woke up yesterday and went to the sbitar, something I’ll do every Tuesday for awhile. My nurse was glad to have me and was about to do a lesson on water treatment and how it’s bad to drink from the taragua (I don’t know the direct translation but that’s what they call the spring and the irrigation ditches it feeds) but to boil or bleach the water. He also introduced me.

Great! Exciting! It was wonderful that he had a lesson for the probably fifteen or twenty women that were waiting, but it made me feel somewhat useless. I’m delighted that they are focusing on education, but what does that mean my role is? Am I really needed?

I soon found out what he thought I could do. “Katy, did you prepare a lesson for today?” What?! I didn’t know I was supposed to prepare a lesson. I thought I’d just go observe like I did last week. We didn’t talk about any lessons, at least that I know of. Then again, our conversations are mainly in French with some Tamazight and English thrown in occasionally. Maybe he did bring it up and I didn’t understand. It’s a real possibility.

“Um…no… I will for next time?”

“No, you can just do the one I did and talk to the women about that. Did you understand it? Here are some quick vocabulary words. Now go.”

There’s nothing like being thrown into things. I’m big on preparation before I just jump in. I read blogs and met with a RPCV from Morocco before coming. I prepare a lot for things. My first lesson, I thought I’d spend hours making a poster, coming up with a script, having everything written out, and practicing with my host family or friends or the nurse. Apparently not.

So, armed with an orange scrap of paper with a few vocabulary words, I headed for the waiting room and took a deep breath, and sat with the people who looked the nicest and had seemed the most engaged when my nurse was talking.

“Salaamu aleikum.”

“Wa aleikum assalaam.”

“So… did you understand what the nurse was saying about water?”

And I started. I talked to the women about it, reiterated some points about water, explained why water from the irrigation ditches will make you sick, and then had a nice conversation about the douar they were from. They wanted me to visit them and stay and were really nice and held my hand and it was encouraging. In fact, after I made my rounds and talked to all the women, I came back and sat with them and chatted some.

Hamdullah, it only got easier. I was able to come at it from a less preachy method: “Where are you from? Do you go to the fields a lot? It’s so hot that I know every time I go to the fields just to walk around, not even to work, I get really thirsty…”

Of course, this is really sort of what I think I’m saying. I’m probably sounding more like this, “Water irrigation ditches bad. Has germs. You understand germs? If germs, get sick. Stomach problem. You understand? Water irrigation ditch germs inside. You know this?...”

That was the morning. Despite feeling rather lazy for having not prepared a lesson (even though I didn’t know I was supposed to), I felt rather empowered for just doing it, and talking one-on-one or in a small group to 24 women. I’m grateful that I was forced into it as well, because I feel that even with my limited language skills, I can come up with a new lesson/demonstration each week and use it Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday with the women in the waiting room. Maybe family planning is too complicated, but I may be able to scratch the surface on some of the issues that are driving me crazy as a health volunteer. Is it sustainable? Probably not, but it gives me something to do as I get to know the community and it doesn’t hurt.

The afternoon got worse. I spilled bleach on my brand new jabador, one I had bought on Monday and was really excited about. Everyone kept commenting on it. “Did you know you have bleach on your pants?” Yes! But I can’t afford a lot of clothes, let alone clothes that are appropriate here. I have to wear them! I was so sick of people pointing it out. They’d say “Wow! You have Moroccan clothes! BssaHa (to your health)! But there’s bleach…”

Then, as I was taking a bucket bath, I heard a man at the door but didn’t think much of it. I later was told something about the Khalifa by my host mom, but I didn’t understand, so she got the TaHanut owner who is also the water association president and speaks a bit of English to come translate.

“It’s not a problem, so don’t worry, it’s no problem, but the Khalifa wants you to tell him whenever you leave site, even if you just go to another douar.”

Apparently, word had gotten out that I had gone on the equippe-mobile and hadn’t told the Khalifa, because he never told me to tell him. The gendarmes want to know when I leave the province, and Peace Corps essentially has to know where I am at all times, but I hadn’t heard anything of the sort from the Khalifa. I stewed as to what to do about it for about an hour, then called him at home. He said he just wanted to check in on me since he hadn’t seen me for awhile, then said the same thing about letting him know when I was leaving, even just to the douar that is 5k away.

Now, I’m much better about this. I’ve come to terms with Peace Corps policy and am more than okay with the gendarmes policy, but at the time, the Khalifa just seemed to be a bit excessive. Really, if I go three miles down the road, I have to let him know? Three miles?! This is still considered my “site.” I could walk there pretty easily. It took some getting used to the fact that by joining the Peace Corps, especially Peace Corps Morocco, some of my freedoms would be taken away, such as the freedom to go wherever I want when I want. I feel like I’ve finally come to terms with accepting PC Morocco policy and vowing to follow the policy, despite pressure to do the contrary and the fact that I know I’ll miss out on some great get-togethers. It’s just not worth getting sent home for and letting down many people, including myself. I know that.

But to think that each time I leave, I need to let someone else know, even if it’s in a place considered part of my site? As I said, today, I’m calmer and more rational, but yesterday, I was pretty outraged.

The straw finally broke the camel’s back yesterday when the man who wants me to rent his house came by as my hostmom and I were sitting outside next door at night chatting with the neighbors, and I asked him about the house. “Why do you want to know now? You have almost two months before you would move in. Don’t worry about it yet.”

Telling me not to worry is like asking someone here not to drink sugar in their tea: it’s not going to happen. In any case, everyone in town, even the officials, are talking like I’m going to live there and whenever I ask about places in town to rent, they say “What’s wrong with the place behind your house?” as if it’s a done deal. However, there are people living in it right now who are working on the road that I’m sure will not be done on schedule. I need to make sure when August 1st rolls around, I have somewhere to live. As much as I get along all right with my host family, every day I dream about what I will do when I have my own place and can cook for myself and choose what I do each day and not have any crying kids around or have to worry about coming back to a locked house. The thing is, as much as I’d love that house, I don’t know how realistic it is, and if I can’t figure that out soon, I’m not going to have a place to live come August and I will be in my host family’s house for much longer.

For my own sanity, I need to NOT do that. It has nothing to do with my family: they’re lovely people. It has to do with this strong desire for me to have my own place, a bit of privacy, and a little more control in my life. As you can probably tell by the conversation with the Khalifa, having control is a bit of a sore spot right now.

So, I excused myself and cried a little in my room and went to bed under the stars for the second night in a row, which is absolutely delightful.

Summer nights, it’s much cooler outside than it is inside; I’d say at least a good 10-20 degrees (F) cooler. Most families in my region pull out an agotil (plastic “carpeting” that’s really useful), pile blankets on like mattresses, and sleep on the roof or in the courtyard.

I didn’t know if I’d be able to do it, but the last two nights, I’ve slept with my family out on the agotil, under the millions of stars, and with a deliciously cool breeze. It’s not comfortable at all, but it’s better than being hot and dousing myself with water every few hours, which is what I’ve been doing inside. Tonight, I think I’ll try to sleep inside, just because my back hurts a bit from the hard stones in the courtyard, but in general, outside is phenomenally peaceful and cool.

Now, today was a much better day than yesterday. Before leaving the sbitar, my nurse had talked to me about maybe going today to the town that is 5 k away: we’ll call it Mashi Kif-Kif for now. I’ll explain that later. It’s not quite like the equippe-mobile, but similar: he goes on his motorcycle alone with a box of medical supplies and sets up shop in a room near the primary school and stays there all day. However, there’s not enough room on the motorcycle, and if I got caught, I’d get sent home for riding a motorcycle anyway, so the question was whether or not we could find me a ride. I didn’t want to be a hassle, but he said we could probably find me a ride, no problem and that he’d text me when he found out. I asked what time we’d leave and he said around eight.

I got up at seven (well, woke up with the sunrise and crawled inside; then slept until seven), got ready, and waited to hear. Eight rolled around and nothing. I watched the women make bread. I’m really slow myself and the oven is sweltering hot, so I don’t mind just watching. I’ve never really talked about the process though, and now’s as good a time as any.

Most women in rural areas in Morocco seem to make bread on a daily basis: at least in the areas I’ve been in and some of my friends here in PC. In Tamazitinu, there are a few varieties. The most common I just call aghrom (bread), though it might have another name. The dough doesn’t have eggs: just flour, water, salt, yeast, oil, and maybe a little sugar. After it’s kneaded and given time to rise, it’s beaten into large round flat sort of pancakes and let rise again.

Then, the women take it to the outdoor wood-burning oven. The oven is made out of clay and looks sort of like ¾ of an igloo: round, dome-shaped. The bread is placed on a metal tray that has probably a hundred pebbles on it and then cooked on the rocks for 5-10 minutes. Two metal sticks are used to turn it and to manipulate the kindling and brush used for firewood. At one point, the bread swells like a balloon, but it’s eventually punctured. The final result: a large round flat-ish piece of bread a few inches thick with a bumpy bottom from the rocks and a top with a few bubbles that detaches easily from the bottom.

In any case, nine rolls around. I guess I’m not going to Mashi Kif-Kif. Oh well. Yesterday was a productive enough day for me to be satisfied with a day off. Maybe something else fun will roll around… or I can go for a walk in the fields… or someone will invite me for tea… or maybe I’ll be stuck at home watching Star Academy because I’m too lazy to get out of the house. Sad, but honest.

I head to my room and talk on the phone to my friend here who has a phone plan and therefore, has unlimited talk time to any two numbers: mine and another guy from my stage. It’s been a lifesaver being able to beep her and have her call and talk without worrying about eating up minutes.

As soon as I get off, around ten, someone’s calling me. It ends up there’s a car waiting to take me to Mashi Kif-Kif. Great! Two hours later than expected, but at least I got to go. My nurse was waiting nearby on his motorcycle and we headed off.

Since it’s so close, I was struck most with how similar it was in some ways to Tamazitinu. It’s a bigger douar; I think around 1800 people live there, and there’s a primary school on the same side of the main road that made me feel like it was a dream version of my town: same terrain, same atmosphere, but slightly different. It’s certainly not as well-off as Tamazitinu.

We got there, waited for the key to the room, and I talked to some friendly women until others came with their babies to be vaccinated. Today was mainly observation, but I’m beginning to feel familiar with the process, as well as see some recurring themes among patients.

Around lunchtime, my nurse sent me with a random man to go to a house to “rest and get to know the women and talk to them some.” At this point, I usually just go with the flow for these things. I think his plan was to go hang out at another family’s house with the men. Whatever.

It was amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever talked about the cultural pattern of Moroccan hospitality, but today was a prime example. People are so loving and giving and welcoming here, it’s absolutely mindboggling. I went to a house, and made conversation with three women for an hour or so, then ate lunch there, drank tea, drank coffee, they gave me a pillow and told me if I was tired I could take a nap, when they saw I was restless on the floor, they gave me a chair from the other room, they took me to the bathroom, they brought out bread and honey and homemade butter, they showed me their animals, they welcomed me back any time I want, they offered for me to stay the night. I met 5 or 6 women in the family who would come in and stay for an hour or so, then leave, and they were all kind and gracious and curious and welcoming.

It felt comfortable. These women owed me nothing. There was no logical reason for me to be there. I don’t know I was there, they probably don’t know why I was there either, but they complimented my language, told me to say hi to my family at home (and asked all their names and tried to pronounce them properly), and were patient when I didn’t understand. Nobody paid them and I don’t know if they’ll ever come to my town at a time when I can have them over for tea, but it just is something I’ve experienced over and over and over again here.

I felt good about language today as well. I was probably at the womens’ house for three or four hours and had conversation most of that time. I didn’t know I knew a few hours worth of Tamazight. Most of it is things I recycle pretty much every time I get to know new people: talk about marriage, how old I am, why I’m here, my family, where I’m from, where I learned Tamazight, where I’m living and who my host family is, why I like Morocco, what’s grown in the local fields, what foods we have at home versus Morocco, how expensive things are in America, if I believe in God/am Muslim, why I don’t wear a scarf, and asking about their family and kids. I also find myself teaching a few words in English often when people ask. I start with the easy words:

Tbla= table
Qahwa= coffee (but they know Nescafe = café= coffee)
Atay= tea
Computer = computer
Telefon= telephone
Kas = glass
Aghrom = bread (“bred” is a word for teapot)

Then go for a few harder words:

Afoos= hand AND arm (in Tam, afoos refers to both)
Toughmas= tooth/teeth
Rman = pomegranate
Tafunast = cow
…

and so it goes.

But eventually, just as I was starting to run out of words and conversation-worthy communication, a man came to say the nurse wanted to see me and I went through the winding alleyways to find a man with a van ready to take me home and my nurse on his way.

We passed by some sheep and goat nomads in between Mashi Kif-Kif and Tamazitinu: let me tell you how much I love their tents. They seem to be made of any sort of cloth attainable: the ones we saw today had purple scarves, black traditional wraps common in my area (taharuyt), grain bags, and other colored fabrics. I really hope I can do some sort of outreach to that community.

And the rest of the night was fairly benign and nice. I had a great conversation with my next door neighbors while my host-mom went somewhere that has to do with wheat. I talked to them and some of their extended family members and my host mom about brushing your teeth while sorting rocks and twigs from a large sack of wheat. I stayed most of the time in the alleyway as the women were talking, and I even let my next-door neighbor adorn my face with a mixture of saffron, sugar, and water.

I think this is just a beauty mixture, and I know it’s used sometimes in weddings, but the last few days I’ve seen more and more people with saffron on their faces. I think it’s a sunscreen, but my hostmom only wears it at night. It’s bright yellow-orange, and I currently just have dabs of it on the corner of my eyes, right below my widow’s peak, star-like shapes by my ears, and a line in the middle of my nose, but some put it all over, and some women next door put it on in big circles around their eyes. I wanted to take a picture, but haven’t pulled out my camera since I’ve been at site. Nobody wanted me to take their picture, and I tried to get my hostmom to take one of me but she couldn’t figure out my camera, so I took one of me holding out my camera myself. Ha. Not the best picture in the world, but if I’m able to upload it, you’ll get the idea.

So there you have the last few days. It’ll be interesting to see where the next few take me, and where I’ll go and what’ll happen in the next two years.

Oh, and why call the neighboring douar Mashi Kif-Kif? Well, as you know if you’ve been following my blog, I don’t write about place names here for security reasons. I was talking about my trip to my hostmom today and she asked if I liked that douar. I said I liked it and that it was a lot like Tamazitinu, thinking about the terrain and the houses and the eeriness of driving through and seeing the madrasa in the same part of town and just the sort of strange symmetry.

My hostmom stiffened. “It is NOT like Tamazitinu. We have lots of taHanuts, and three teleboutiques and a public oven! They don’t have that. It’s NOT the same. Mashi kif-kif.” Well! I was told. Mashi kif-kif simply means “not the same.” Yep. All right. From now until the end of this blog, it will be known that the neighboring douar is mashi kif-kif.

6.15.07

I’m exhausted. I slept outside last night and kept waking up thinking there were bugs crawling all over me. Honestly, I think there probably were. Ah, the joys of being without air conditioning. I have the choice of where to sleep: in my room, which is probably a sweltering 90 or 100 degrees F with no fan, no real cross-breeze, and only my water bottle. Sleeping inside usually entails waking up every two hours or so and dousing myself with lukewarm water to stay cool.

Outside is probably a nice 70 degrees or cooler. I sometimes use a heavy blanket outside… but it’s sleeping next to a one-year old who wakes up to breastfeed, and literally being eaten alive by bugs. Now I still get bug bites inside, but outside is much worse, and it’s sleeping on cobblestones in the courtyard. Even with a few layers of blankets, it’s still hard on my back. We’ll see what I work out. I definitely know as soon as I get my own place, I’ll wrap a ponj in plastic wrap, and put that outside with a mosquito net. I can’t wait to get out of homestay. Every day I keep telling myself it’s only a month and a half until freedom.

Yesterday was an interesting day. Back to the sbitar, and after watching a few vaccinations, I talked to another 18 women in the waiting room about water and not drinking from the tarugua. This time, they argued with me, which was good. It meant they were thinking and listening. I couldn’t respond to everything because, well, it’s hard to explain things in Tamazight still, but I think people understood. Shwiya b shwiya. Going equipe-mobiling again next week, enshallah.

I’m tired also because I was up late at an aheyduss. For the last two weeks, I thought an aheyduss was a drum, because people would look at me and say “aheyduss” and pantomime beating on a drum, making “gzz dee qa, gzz dee qa, gzz dee qa” noises in time. I’d repeat the action back and say “aheyduss,” thinking “drum.” I found out that I have no idea what an aheyduss really is. It might be a kind of dance, a kind of music, a kind of pre-wedding party, or just a dance in general. I don’t know. It’s kind of like the word “taragua:” I know what the taragua looks like, I just don’t know if it’s a stream, a river, a irrigation ditch, a series of irrigation channels, if it refers to a place where women wash their clothes, if it’s a spring, or what makes a taragua a taragua. Never mind. I know what people mean when they say it, and I know what an aheyduss is now since I’ve been to one.

I got a taharuyt last night: one of the black embroidered wraps a lot of women here wear often, and wore it to the aheyduss. It took place near my neighborhood in a sort of clearing. A bunch of people gathered at night and sat in little clusters. Some young men were playing drums. Eventually, a series of cars (a taxi, which I’ve never seen here, a transit bus, and a car or two, one decorated with flowers and a shaving-cream like white substance) came and everyone surrounded them. Two lines, one of men, one of women, danced, and you could hear what I call the Berber yodel from all over. Eventually, the bride came out of the car. All I could see above the sea of people was a bright multicolored tinsel garland on her head, and a veil of some sort. She was walked to a house and I didn’t see her for the rest of the night.

The groom came out and sat on a pillow on a rug in the middle of the ground. Somehow I got a really good view of the back. He sat, some men washed his hands and feet, bathed them in oil, wrapped him in a few white clothing items, then wrapped his head with a red wool scarf, and eventually walked him somewhere too. The entire time, there was singing and drums.

Thank God for a neighbor girl who stayed close to me and leaned on me the whole night. I felt sort of protected and like I was taken care of and knew where to go with her hand constantly on my shoulder. People came and talked to me, people I’ve met but have no idea who they are. A lot of the older women I’m friends with smiled at me over the crowd, and one, the next door neighbor mother, tried to ask me things from 50 feet away and I have no idea what she was saying. Her oldest daughter (30 years old) came up and asked, “So, do you like the aheyduss?” When I said yes, she slapped me across the face. It wasn’t hard, but it was shocking. I don’t quite know why, she did it, but it cracked me up.

Tonight is apparently the wedding. We’ll see if I get to go or not, and we’ll see what happens. I’m excited to see my first Moroccan wedding. Shr tminya (August) is the wedding month so if I don’t go tonight, it’s not as if I won’t have any other chances.

But last night, I had a sort of epiphany. It was before the wedding, before going to a neighbor’s house and watching her milk a cow, right after I got my tahuruyt. We were sitting at the 17-year old I talked about last week’s house, me in my tahuruyt, pretty quiet because there was a big group of people. I don’t know why it hit me at that moment: maybe it’s because I had fun sitting with my family and my neighbor’s family listening to pop music on the radio, singing along earlier that day. Maybe it was because I felt like I’m making a friend with the 17-year old, even though she’s young. Maybe it was the luxury of my host mom’s husband sending us a bottle of delicious argan oil. Maybe it was because I had given a health lesson and felt that people had listened that morning, or that one of my next door neighbors who is my age said she likes me. I don’t know what it was, but all of a sudden it hit me.

I can do this. This isn’t an impossible task or situation. I am cut out to be here.

It sounds rather trivial, but this is the first time I’ve ever really thought that with any conviction. Two weeks ago, I thought of going home several times a day. I wouldn’t have done it: I’ve committed to being here, but the thought kept crossing my mind.

Things aren’t perfect: I’m often sick, I still don’t know how to navigate gender roles or what my role is, when to be quiet, when to speak up. I make mistakes daily. I’m not trying to paint it as everything being perfect and easy because that’s not the case.

But two years doesn’t seem suffocating anymore. Two years sounds just about right.

6.20.2007

It’s been awhile. I’ll see if I can catch up to now. I just hate dragging out my laptop in this heat, and wondering if someone’s going to bust in my room and I’ll have to explain what it is and show them. I’m not purposefully being deceitful; I just don’t want people wanting to play with my laptop, so nobody in my house knows I have it.

For those of you keeping track, yes, I did not go into town on Monday the way I usually do. I had a cold, had been up early on Sunday and had to get up early again on Tuesday and thought it’d be better to rest than to get up at 4:30 am or earlier three days in a row with a cold. It’s annoying, because I’m running low on things like toilet paper, and I really need to get some things (like a fan! A hat! Hair ties!) in town, but I suppose waiting until this weekend isn’t a big deal.

Last week, the aheyduss ended up lasting three nights. The second day, I dressed up in a neighbor’s clothes. I felt really Berber. I didn’t feel like I was playing dress-up, I felt like a member of the community. It’s strange that clothes can do that to you sometimes.

Anyway, I borrowed a dark blue silk kaftan, a long shirt that goes to the ankles. Over that, I wore a gaudy silver belt, then two necklaces: one was big with chunky yellow beads, one was smaller with silver jangly things hanging off. I wore a beaded scarf over my hair, and put on traditional makeup: tarzoulte on the inner eyelid, saffron mixed with water painted near the corner of my eyes, on my forehead, by my ears, and on my nose, and then some of my lipstick from home. Looking in the mirror, the effect was stunning: I didn’t really recognize myself at all.

That night, after taking a few pictures with the girl whose clothes I borrowed, we went to the aheyduss and they forced me to dance. Luckily, it was an easy dance: just walking in time in a big line of women, but I felt like I was maybe detracting attention from the bride and it made me feel uncomfortable. It was also a shock to walk up to the clearing outside where the aheyduss took place and see only 20-30% of the people dressed like me. I felt very conspicuous, but it was fun.

The next night, I went for a third time to the aheyduss but wasn’t dressed up. On the way, one of the next door neighbor women took me to a relative’s house: another really nice, zween villa. I saw a newborn baby: she was 4 days old. I had actually seen her on her second day at the sbitar but didn’t realize it was the same baby. She’s adorable. No name yet; they have a naming ceremony on the 7th day and choose from a list of possibilities.

They, of course, gave me tea and cookies and peanuts, and then offered me things from what I call their “tray of beauty.” I’d seen most of the things on it before, but not all at once. There was rosewater for the hands and face, there was henna, both crushed and not yet crushed, there were bottles of perfume, tarzoulte, saffron, hand lotion, a twig you chew on to stain your tongue brown, and a type of spice used to make your hair look and smell good. They offered everything, but I let them spray me with perfume, I chewed on the bitter twig, and they mixed the spice with water and poured it in my hair. I didn’t get to take a bucket bath for two or three days after, so it stayed on awhile. When it’s on, it makes a sort of hard crust but really does smell good. In any case, I had fun with that.

Back outside to the aheyduss. They made me dance again, but we didn’t stay late and went home to eat outside. For dinner, my hostmom had made one of my favorite meals: salad and French fries. Now, I know, this doesn’t sound particularly healthy, but the times that I get raw vegetables these days are few and far between, so this is more of a balanced meal than I usually get, especially for dinner. For example, last night, and at least a few times a week, we eat rice. There might be a quarter of a tomato in for color, but for all intents and purposes, it’s a big shared plate of white rice. Couscous isn’t too much better as far as nutrition goes: it’s usually mostly couscous with the occasional bite of azigzao (like a collard green) or carrot or turnip, that’s usually cooked long enough to lose most of the vitamins. Another nighttime favorite is sharia: short pasta with a bit of oil and salt. Given the norm, salad and fries made me excited.

Someone came to the door, which was strange since it was late. Two girls walked in and talked to my hostmom a bit. She asked me “You don’t have to say yes, but can they eat with us?” At least, that’s what I thought she asked. No problem… so I went to change out of my pajamas. When I came back out side, the two girls took my hand and started walking away. What?! Ends up they actually invited me to the bride and groom’s house for dinner. Oh. I had already said yes, but I was tired and looking forward to the salad. Oh well.

So, to their house. I expected a huge festivity, but the room they took me in only had eight or nine people including the bride and groom. We danced a little bit, drank some tea, and then went to their roof for dinner.

I sat with the bride, her mother, the groom’s mother, and their sisters, a grandmother: all the women in their families. It felt awkward, but it was fun too, I suppose. I just hated the attention on me rather than the bride, but they invited me, so I guess it was okay. We had couscous, which was good, but not the salad and fries I could have had at home, but all the fruit for dessert made up for it, and, miraculously, they asked if I wanted to go home right afterwards or sleep there. Hallelujah. I can get some sleep. Very nice, gracious people, but a little unexpected adventure.

Now, my least favorite days of the week are the weekends and Friday. I know: this is counterintuitive to life in the US, but hear me out. Right now, I go to the sbitar Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Monday is souk day. This means I feel productive and like I have something to do each of those days. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, I feel lazy and bored all the time. I’ve read every book I can find, I’ve read our training manuals cover to cover several times, I tore apart the Readers Digest that was sent to me for free (which I’d not even glance at in the US), and can’t wait to get my next Newsweek. I sleep a lot. I drag out washing clothes, trying to make it last all morning. I look forward to bucket baths because I know that I can kill half an hour or so. I’ll take walks sometimes, but, really, it’s exhausting and boring those days.

6.21.07

Where am I? I keep having to put my computer away fast and losing my train of thought. Friday. Right. I don’t know if I remember what I did on Friday. I probably slept a lot and watched some TV and read something and sent some text messages and talked on the phone to my friend with a phone plan for an hour. Have I told you about that? It’s a lifesaver. Really expensive, but I spend more money on cell phone stuff than I do just about anything else right now. For 240 Dh a month, you get 45 anytime Dirhams (think one text message = 1 Dh… talking on the phone even just in Morocco is over 1 Dh/minute, I just don’t know how much), 45 night Dirhams (that are never really able to be used.. this is sneaky and they’re pretty much worthless), and 2 numbers you can call unlimited. I’m on one of my friend, Cowtar’s plan (her Moroccan name), and we talk on the phone probably 45 minutes a day. It’s really amazing and a lifesaver.

In any case, I guess nothing important happened on Friday or Saturday because I just don’t remember. All the days tend to blur together, especially considering this is the next Thursday by now.

Sunday, we took a 4:30 am transit to a neighboring douar to visit my hostmom’s extended family. I was really excited to go, but it turned out to be a really long day, even though we were back by three. I did get to watch (and help) churn milk into buttermilk and butter, help feed some cows, and go for a walk in yet some more fields. Good people. I think one of the girls is mentally challenged, but they really include her and build her up, which is really good to see, and, I must say, there’s nothing better than fresh butter just churned on freshly baked bread.

In any case, this week has been slightly less than notable. Monday, I would have gone to souk in town, but I had a really bad cold. Rather than force myself to get up at 4:30 am, and stay with no home base or place to rest until 7 at night, just to get up even earlier the next day, making three days in a row I’d get up before 5 am, I slept in and skipped it. Annoying, because I have a list of things to get in town (such as a fan, toilet paper, a hat, and a pumice stone for my feet: bare necessities), but it was worth resting a bit.

Tuesday was an equippe-mobile day! We only went 30 k away this time, but we visited six douars of varying sizes. They are beautiful: in a valley, with palmeries and fields and beautiful stone houses. Medical waste disposal was improved, thanks to my nurse, though still not ideal, but I at least feel a bit better about things. The people are so incredible here. At every single stop, I was invited to come stay for an extended period of time with someone, or “at least come drink tea. When will you come back?”

At my nurse’s request, I brought my camera and he made some interesting videos. One was of all of us, but it was in Darija so I don’t understand it. The other was with me talking to the waterman and my nurse about the problems with people not treating the water, and when I watch it, it makes me giggle at my French-Tamazight interactions with medical staff here.

Now, I call this man the water-man because I don’t know his official title, but he came with just to test to see if the tap water is really treated, as well as what the Ph was. It was good to talk to him (French) because he is just as passionate about mobilizing people to think about health and water and hygiene as I am. Two of the four douars we went to that had running water weren’t treated. They had the infrastructure, they had tap water all over, or at least in public fountains, they have the chlorine tablets provided, just the person whose job it is to physically place them in the water chateau did not follow through. Consequently, people in these two douars who thought they were drinking safe tap water really were drinking untreated groundwater.

It’s so disheartening. Associations take the time and money and initiative to get running water, but as simple of an act as someone dropping tablets in the chateau makes it all worthless, for at least some period of time. Health and hygiene and health practices just don’t seem to be cultural priorities here. It’s like the baby I saw today: her mom took her to the sbitar last week the day after she was born to get her injections. I watched. I saw my nurse examine the umbilical cord and say “Oh, you put henna on the cord. That can cause an infection or tetanus. Don’t do that.” He gave her medicine to put on the cord.

I went to see her today because the man who is hopefully my future landlord is also the baby’s grandfather, and he mentioned, casually, that the baby’s eyes are yellow. I told him she should go to the sbitar immediately. “Come look.”

“But I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I can’t do anything. Please, take her to the sbitar and let the doctor see.” (French).

“But you have experience. Come see. Come look at her.”

I told him I didn’t have much experience with babies, but that they are vulnerable and that if there is any sign of a problem, since the baby is only ten days old, to go to the sbitar.

I saw the baby. Her eyes didn’t look very yellow to me, but I said the mother should take her anyway. If the mom thinks her eyes are yellow, then there’s probably something going on.

Out of curiosity, I asked if she had been using the medicine the nurse had given her. She said no. I looked at her cord, which hadn’t fallen off yet, and there was fresh henna all over the stomach and cord. I almost cried. I wanted to yell, I wanted to scream, but obviously, I can’t. I told her that it could make the baby sick, and left for a few minutes to look up whether yellow eyes are indicative of tetanus. When I came back, she had wiped it off and put a fresh diaper on. The cord left some sort of residue on the diaper: it was brownish and mucky and might have had blood mixed in. I don’t know much about babies, but I know that’s probably not good, so I told her to show the doctor that as well. At this point, the sbitar was closed, but I said if she had anything else that was strange going on, to go to the doctor’s house even in the middle of the night. Maybe that’s not okay, but she’s so small and so young and vulnerable that I’m terrified. I’m terrified that she’ll die throughout the night, but I’m also terrified she’ll go to the doctor and the doctor will say there’s nothing wrong and I’ll lose credibility or make people distrust my “advice.” Which is why I shouldn’t be put in the position to give real medical advice on something like this in the first place, but I couldn’t ignore the situation.

I have no idea how I’m going to be received here as far as a health educator. I see entire villages with unsafe water that is supposed to be safe and that people believe is safe. I see people doing traditional practices despite medical advice and putting their children at risk. I see medical staff not washing hands with soap before meals, or throwing used syringes on the ground, or saying that putting tarzoulte in the inner eye of babies with the shared applicator stick is not really a problem.

So I address things, when I can. It’s been at least three times now that someone that I’ve talked to about flies or drinking from the taragua (irrigation ditch) has repeated the information (that it’s bad because there are germs) back to me a few days or even weeks later. Does that mean that they change their habits? I don’t know. I don’t watch them every second of every day. I know my little 5-year old sister washes her hands with soap before eating meals when I do now, which is particularly important here since we eat with our hands.

But while I was talking to the water-guy on the equippe-mobile, I brought up something that everyone does here, even medical staff: the shared cup. It’s a sort of rural Morocco cultural pattern that water is a shared commodity. Most people have a “bled fridge” cooler system in their courtyard or right inside their door: a big container of water, kept cold by wrapping the container in cloth and keeping the cloth wet and in the shade. It actually keeps water pretty cool. There is usually one plastic cup everyone uses for the water, whether they’re sick or well, family, or guests. At mealtimes, there’s usually the same cup for everyone at the table.

This is one reason I keep my Nalgene bottle with me at all times: I don’t have to use the shared cup, though I do when I forget my Nalgene. However, I brought this up to the man whose primary job responsibility focuses on water safety and hygiene, thinking he’d share my views, and he sort of asked if I thought I was better than people by not using the cup.

Again: this highlights one of the biggest fears I have, even in joining Peace Corps in general. Of course I don’t think I’m better or superior, though I may think that because my practice in this case is based on science, that it is a better choice in terms of health. But if that’s what he thinks, with his emphasis and passion on clean water and good health, then I can’t imagine what others in town must think about it. How do I balance my role as health educator while respecting traditions and culture? At what point am I being insensitive and at what point do I need to keep health a priority no matter the cost?

In this case, I haven’t brought up the communal cup to anyone else, so at least I don’t think that too many people think I feel “superior” because of that. The only time I brought it up was with him, then again outside the sbitar today waiting for it to open. One of the women had a sick kid and she wanted me to share my Nalgene bottle. At first, because I can be cowardly, I pretended not to understand. I quickly realized this was rude and a cop-out, so I told her that if he was sick, it’d get everyone else sick that used the bottle. She said, “Just pour it into my hand.” Oh. Problem solved. Easy enough. But still, things like this can be stressful.

In my free time, I’ve made friends with a few 17-year old girls here. They’re great. One of them is getting married, and her fiancé finally came into town the other day: he works in Spain 11 months out of the year. I’ve seen him three times since, and let me tell you, it’s strange but wonderful to be able to practice my Spanish. He wants me to teach his fiancée Spanish; there’s another girl who wants to learn as well. Who knows. I may end up doing it, but there are also a few officials and my nurse who want me to teach an advanced English class. We’ll see. But it’d be fun to teach Spanish, especially to some of my young friends.

Why some of my favorite people happen to be 17-year olds, I have no idea, but that’s just how it’s worked out. I think it’s honestly because they’re not all married with kids and because a lot of them have at least gone through middle school and some to high school, so they’re literate, know a few words of French, and have a broader view of the world than some of my hostmother’s peers. It’s hardest for me to connect with people my age who have multiple children and are illiterate and haven’t traveled more than 30 or 40 k from Tamazitinu. I feel more comfortable with men, with children, with officials, with sbitar staff, and with teenagers because there’s so much more in common. Sad, but true. Their world is the fields, cooking, cleaning, and childrearing.

I’m completely incompetent in those areas, at least by my village’s standards. When I was washing clothes, the woman next door (with two teeth; she’s one of my favorite old ladies in town) came over and informed me I wasn’t washing clothes, just rubbing them together. Two hours later, my clothes were threadbare and probably cleaner than they’d ever been before. I have to come up with a compromise system though; if not, I won’t have any clothes left!

It’s another struggle: everyone wants me to wash my clothes in the tarugua, but that’s not an environmentally friendly thing to do. I have no illusions: unless I do something like build a laundry-washing facility, nothing I will do will keep people from washing and throwing Tide in the tarugua, but by no stretch of the imagination do I feel comfortable participating in that and polluting the water. Sometimes, it’s tempting. It’s a great place to socialize, to meet new people, and it’s a lot easier to rinse out clothes there. But I feel like I have to model that behavior, if nobody does it at all besides me for the next two years.

A quick note before I sign off regarding housing: I don’t think I understood. The nice big house with the shower, western toilet, bidet, and all that is not going to be mine. I think they want me to rent a smaller, more modest place next door. This is fine, if it works out. However, it means I share that fantastic courtyard with one or two other houses, which I’m not sure how happy I am about. I don’t mean to sound selfish, but it’d be really nice to have my own outdoor space to work in, wash clothes, and sleep in. I’ll share because right now it’s my only option, but I’d rather somewhere smaller with a private courtyard, mainly because I want to be alone when I sleep outside. We’ll see what happens, or if there are any other options.

So, in any case, I’m taking my first out-of-site weekend this Saturday and Sunday, and going to see a good friend from my training stage. Most likely that’s when I’ll be updating the blog online. This is a long and rambling one. Hopefully once life settles down and things become less new, I’ll be shorter and more concise, but for now, I think I have to be long-winded to really get into what’s been going on.

6.23.07

I'm in another town, with four other fabulous PCVs. I never thought I'd travel 5 hours one day just to turn around the next day and go back, but at 50 dh each way and 30 dh for the hotel, it's a bargain and well worth it.

A few quick notes: there were CAMELS at my site yesterday! I've seen them around, but yesterday, they were 300 feet from my house. Insane. I really felt like I was in Morocco, silly as that sounds. They were with some nomads, who I wanted to go talk to but was warned against. "No. They have dogs."

So no talking to the nomads, yet.

But camels! :) All right, if you've made it this far, you deserve some sort of prize. Much love.