Thanksgiving, Goat legs, and toothbrushes

NOTE: This entry starts before the previous entry, and ends afterwards. Last time I was at the internet, I forgot my USB drive that had the blog to upload. Sorry for the confusion!

November 25, 2007

Happy Thanksgiving!

I just walked into my house from a weekend at a friend’s house to find half a goat leg outside my door. Now, this doesn’t look like a malicious affront (except maybe to the goat), but it is a strange thing to come home to, in all honesty.

What a fantastic weekend! A group of us got together and made a Thanksgiving dinner to be remembered. Who would have known that freeze-dried cranberries would make such a delicious cranberry sauce, or that it is possible to, with the help of a few ingredients shipped from another continent, have slow-roasted chicken, veggies with ranch dressing and hummus, apple-fennel salad, mashed potatoes and gravy, French peas, green been casserole, artichoke-sunflower seed rice, pumpkin pie, apple bake, and even a chocolate devil’s cake? Added to the fun we always have when we get together and are able to let down our hair, so to speak, it was an extraordinary weekend.

On the way home today, we passed by a “stubby car*” that was from the electric company, that had flipped over and was upside-down about 100 or 200 feet off the paved road. The men from my transit went and flipped the car back over, and one was parading around a beer bottle. I heard “shrb” “shrb:” the Darija word for “to drink” that’s used in Tamazight to mean “to drink alcohol.” It ends up that whoever was driving was drinking as well.

I don’t know what happened to the men in the car. I was going to go out and see, but I didn’t understand whether or not they had gone to the sbitar, and just as we were pulling away, someone said “there were three men; they are still out there, but they are fine and walking around.” Maybe I should have gone and seen, but I’m neither a doctor or a nurse, and, other than encouraging people to go to a clinic, there’s not much I could have done. Had I spoken better Tamazight, maybe I’d have understood the conversation more, but it looked as if everyone was all right or had already left: nobody was on the ground.

One of the most shocking things was what a woman said to me on the transit. “He was drinking. He’s going straight to the fire. Direct. Directly to the fire (hell).” I think the fact that “direkt" is the way you say “directly,” and the usage of “afa” (fire) made it all the more shocking of a thing to hear from this dear, sweet lady. “Directly to the fire.” Wow. Hamdullah nobody seemed to be hurt badly.

I was only in my souk town a few hours today, but it made me happy to go to my vegetable man. Not only did we talk about the volunteer posted at my souk town who is leaving the country after her two years of service tomorrow, but he also, as he does occasionally, throws in some fruit or vegetables for me for free. It makes me happy because he knows I’m not poor by any standard, he knows I’ll go to him regardless, and he knows that it’s not necessary, but it doesn’t cost him anything to throw in the three mandarin oranges and two bananas and so he does it. And I smile and feel like even in a town as big as my souk town, I’m beginning to know people and feel comfortable.

I went to the hammam (Turkish baths) at my friend’s site yesterday. I hadn’t been since training, and let me tell you, it’s still warming down to the soul. This was a “bled” or “countryside” hammam: only two rooms, no shop that sells the hammam soap or scrubby mitts, and rather than a separate male/female hammam, there is one with different hours. For the first time, I could actually talk to the women in there, and really forgot how uncomfortable it was the first few times to be in a room in nothing but underwear with absolute strangers. I want a hammam in my site. My community wants a hammam. A hammam would promote better hygiene, especially in the winter. I wonder how feasible of a project it is.

It got cold this weekend. When I say cold, I mean COLD. It’s probably dropping down to the 40s or high 30s at night, and is barely breaking 50 during the day, which, really, wouldn’t be bad at home, but there is no indoor heating anywhere I spend time. I’m still sleeping with just one heavy blanket (quite possibly the warmest I’ve ever owned), and have two others and a sleeping bag just in case, but I’m wearing gloves and a hat and a scarf and several pair of long underwear and other layers at night now. When I was walking to my house from the transit, one of my neighbors started talking to me, and she said something about snow.

“Snow? Here?”

“No, silly. Look at the mountains. It’s snowing now in the mountains.”

And lo and behold, it was. If I had my camera on me at the time, I’d have taken a picture of the striking streaky grey-white clouds over the distant mountains. Beautiful.

Sometimes, I wish I was living somewhere that didn’t go from 115+ in the summers to freezing cold in the winters with maybe a month in between, but it’s interesting. It keeps me on my toes.

*stubby car:

November 27, 2007

I need to start walking around with a camera. The view of snowstorms and thunderstorms around my site is just incredible. The other night, as I was walking home at sunset, there were grey clouds peeking over the mountains in the same, odd geometric shapes, outlined with a fine line of bright orange and pink. It almost looked like some sort of fantasy mountains behind the real ones. Stunning.

I’m cold. I’m wearing three pair of socks, three shirts and a fleece, a hat, a scarf, three pair of pants, and sitting under a blanket. I’m wearing a headscarf about 90% of the time now, mainly because it’s warm and everyone tells me to. “It’s cold, why don’t you wear a headscarf?” I do, and sometimes even wrap it around my mouth and nose so only my eyes show. If anyone had told me a year or two ago that I would voluntarily walk around in a headscarf where only my eyes are showing and almost always wearing skirts, I’d have thought they were crazy.

I’m still struggling with what to do here. I’m going to a friend’s site this weekend to do a big SIDA (AIDS) activity with some high school students with her, and then have something planned for 10 or more little girls at my site when I get back. Mine is a lot less ambitious, but the most appropriate HIV/AIDS activity I could come up with that reflects the reality of my site: we’re going to do henna and I’m going to talk about not picking up needles from around the sbitar for the henna but to get them from the store. I’ll explain why, and maybe play a game or two with them without getting into HIV as an STD. I’m also making sure the girl I saw with the used syringes in her hand a few months ago is coming. If it goes well, I’ll try to do it again with girls in other neighborhoods.

I would really like to go up to some of the men in town and tell them that if they are indeed sleeping with prostitutes, their risk goes up, but as a single woman, especially an extremely liberal one by my community standards, I can’t do it. I also can’t talk to the women and say that if their husbands are sleeping with prostitutes, they’re at risk, because, really, they don’t have control in the relationship to ask for condoms. It’s a sad situation, and whenever a married woman comes to the sbitar with an STD, I want to go give her husband a talking-to. Maybe I can do a training for the association men with my nurse co-leading it, and then they can go out and talk to men about it in everyday conversation.

I went to the Neddi (women’s center) today. I’ve avoided it in the past because I’ve felt uncomfortable: everyone sits and works. It’s not a social atmosphere, it’s a “let’s sew or make pants or crochet” environment. Now that my language has gotten better, though, I might try to start going once or twice a week. There was some socializing going on, more than I had remembered, and it’ll help me get to know another group of women. If I get comfortable, and they get comfortable with me, maybe I could do specific health lessons there: it’s all women, and I think they’re all unmarried, so it’s a more liberal group in some ways.

One woman walked in and sort of sighed in pain, clutching her back. “Inrrakm tadawt?” I asked (literally: is your back killing you?).

“Yes. I have my period and my back is killing me!”

This is a perfect stranger. Yes, there might be something I can do in the Neddi with these women, and if not, well, maybe I’ll come back home knowing how to make Berber carpets. Seriously: we got some new huge carpet looms from the provincial capital and the director of the Neddi knows how to make them. I might be able to learn, which would be amazing.

That being said, I’m constantly surprised at the things people do when there are no men around. Yesterday, I was sitting with some neighbors as they were cracking open luz… what are luz? A nut… oh yes! Almonds (I’m losing my English, little by little). In any case, I offered to help but was turned down, but I kept talking for a few minutes. Out of nowhere, two hands came over my eyes. I suppose I should have tried to guess who it was, but I had no idea. After a second, she reached down, grabbed my breasts over my three or four layers of shirts, then laughed and sat down next to me.

It was a neighbor, but I don’t think I’ve ever been to her house, and I certainly don’t know her name. In other words, a perfect stranger.

Shocking.

My host mother’s sister-in-law had her baby while I was at IST. She’s beautiful and about two weeks old. Her sister-in-law had a baby maybe two or three months ago. Both women had it at home, with no trained help, just each other. I’m still amazed at how few problems people encounter with that here.


November 29, 2007

This will be a sporadic entry, I think.

In a nutshell, I felt productive today. I love those days. I went for a walk, talked to the preschool teacher and set up a time on Monday morning to do a tooth-brushing activity and give out toothbrushes. It was a lot easier than I had anticipated.

The second thing I did was not easy.

I’m ashamed to say that I’ve avoided the madrasa like the plague since Site Visit. Yes, I’m aware that site visit was in early May. But after hearing my host-mother say I should stay away from the madrasa and that the mudir (principal) didn’t want me in the school walls, I have to say, I was intimidated.

This was all because of the pictures. If you’ve kept up with this blog from the beginning, you might remember the story, but in a nutshell, a woman my third day in site during site visit (I was still in training: blog entry would be from mid-May) encouraged me to take pictures of the school from her house, which is directly across the street. I did. Some kids saw the pictures (I didn’t know it was “wrong,” so I showed the kids unabashedly) and told their teachers who told the mudir who yelled at my host-mother who, in turn, yelled at me. I immediately deleted the pictures, and felt terribly, though I was doing what I’ve learned to do in cross-cultural settings: follow the lead of the locals. I asked the woman if it was okay or hshuma, and she egged me on to take the pictures.

For the next few months, I kept getting mixed messages: was it a big MUSHKIL (problem) or just a small mushkil that would go away since I deleted the pictures? I wanted to talk to the mudir, but I never saw him on the streets, and my host mother warned me against going to the school.

I got official permission from the Ministry of Education to work in the schools a few weeks ago. I kept meaning to go talk to the mudir for my Community Diagnosis, but convinced myself it was better to wait until I got the official letter of permission, so I had a tangible, physical reason to set foot in the school walls.

This past weekend, I met with the principal of the high school and middle school at my friend’s site. It was ridiculous to me that I’d had a meeting with the mudir of a school outside my site and still hadn’t met the mudir of the school I lived across the street from during homestay. I also got my letter of permission about a week ago.

Two days ago, I set out with the letter of permission, but didn’t go to the madrasa. I didn’t even know where the headmaster’s office was. Is there a place to knock?

Today, bolstered by the ease of the conversation with the preschool teacher, I asked the Association President if I could give the mudir the letter. Ironically, the woman who took me to the gate and pointed out where the office was is in fact, the same woman who encouraged me to take the same pictures in the first place.

I walked to the office and knocked on the door. I was nervous. Really nervous.

I introduced myself, but it was pretty much unnecessary. Obviously he knew who I was. I handed him the letter and pretty much told him that I was willing to do anything he or the teachers were interested in as far as health education in the school. We briefly discussed murals and lessons. I was probably in there 7 or 8 minutes. He was neither nice nor hostile, and said he’d meet with the teachers and let me know if there was anything that they wanted from me. I apologized for the pictures, and I didn’t really understand his answer… something about the teachers being upset, and either that I wasn’t allowed in the school walls (!) or that pictures weren’t allowed in the school walls (hopefully…). In any case, I know two of the teachers rather well, and have met and socialized a little bit with another two or three, so hopefully that will serve me.

After a stop at my hostmother’s house, I wandered home and finally, for the first time in my life, beat Minesweeper- intermediate level. Three little girls (9-10 yrs old) came over and I practiced my toothbrushing lesson with them and we drew pictures together. They also had a lot of fun drawing on the paint program on my computer.


(This is where the entry from December 2 should fit in the progression.)

December 3, 2007

Happy December!

I’m nervous. I don’t know if it was a good or bad idea to a solo project with pre-schoolers. I don’t know how helpful the teacher will be. I don’t know if I will even begin to go through what I have planned, but at least I have several activities. If I only get through one of them, so be it. J I am excited though. Two education initiatives in three days isn’t bad, especially if I get to do the SIDA/Henna project with some girls this week.

Here goes nothing…

***

And it was fantastic! Really, given the perpetual “development work/what is my role crisis,” that I am still struggling through, I really needed this pick-me-up, even if it is as simple as teaching a bunch of pre-schoolers how to brush their teeth.

I walked in, and everyone just stared at me. “I need five minutes to get set up,” I told the teacher, but he didn’t teach or anything, he just stared too. Great.

I taped up the two posters on dental hygiene one of my stage-mates made during training that are fantastic, as well as my two huge mouths: one with pearly white teeth; one with only four yellowed or brown teeth and cracked lips.

Then, I turned to the class.

“Hi!”

“Hello!” they chimed back, shyly. They were so cute: 14 little girls and 7 little boys, staring at me, not knowing what to expect.

“Does anyone know my name?”

“Katy!” a few of them chimed out, and when I asked, a few of them knew I was from the US as well.

I started off asking them which mouth was better, and they told me the happy mouth was because it was full of teeth and not empty. For the rest of the day, there was a “full” mouth and an “empty” mouth.

I held up my pictures of food and got them all shouting out what they were. “Apple!” “Yogurt!” “Milk!” “Candy” “Sugar!” “Eggplant!” “Squash!” “Cheese!” Not only did they recognize what I had painted last night, but they had fun and some even got up and ran and pointed as they shouted. I was immediately relaxed. At this point, some of the women from the Neddi walked in, wondering, I’m sure, what exactly was going on.

We identified which mouths they went in by going through, and then I called them up one by one and handed them a food to see if they could point to the “full” or “empty” mouth. When they identified it correctly (and all but 3 kids got them right on the first try!), we went through them again. Repetition, repetition, repetition!

Then, I demonstrated how to brush your teeth, and called them up in groups of 5. The teacher and I individually helped all of them, and then they did it (surprisingly well) on their own. The others were quiet and patient and watched their classmates eagerly.

The last part of the “workshop” was a coloring activity. I passed out all my coloring supplies and a piece of paper, and asked them to color food that’s good for their teeth. A few of the older kids settled right in, but some of the younger kids said, “I don’t know how.” The neddi women agreed. “They’re too young!”

I disagreed, and after talking to them individually and giving them a little bit of guidance (“What food is good for your teeth? Is an apple good for your teeth? Okay, then draw an apple!”), they all eagerly started drawing. A few of them kept running over to me, “Look, look!” It was fun, and I had a great time. It makes me want to go back and do another lesson with them.

One thing that made me really happy: there was a little girl who was walking home later that day for lunch. After I asked her a few questions related to healthy food, completely unprompted, she said, “I’m going home and eating lunch. And then after I eat lunch, I’m going to brush my teeth!” At least one little girl got something from it, even if it only lasts a week or two. Hopefully with some follow-up it’ll be more permanent.

Afterwards, I went to a friend’s house and did the lesson for them (which they enjoyed, or at least seemed interested in and then studied the posters intently). They served me the most incredible bread: aghrom n taguri but with cornbread. I need to learn to make it and make it at home. It’s the stuffed fatbread, but with warm, moist homemade cornbread from the corn in the field.


December 4, 2007

Wow! Another great day.

I went to the sbitar at 9:30 this morning because my nurse was supposed to be back from Agadir. He wasn’t yet, “not until noon.” On the way I had a lunch invite at noon, but since I answered with “enshallah,” it wasn’t set in stone.

Since I had a few hours to kill, I walked to my neighboring douar to one of my friends’ house. Her sisters were home but she was in the fields, so I sat a bit awkwardly for a few minutes until she came in. From that point on, it was fun, relaxing, and I was really glad I had come. She invited me sometime soon to a picnic spot “an hour’s walk away with lots of water, like a river!” and told me that if I didn’t go to their house during l’Eid (the big holiday coming up) then either I was going straight to hell, or our friendship was going to hell. One or the other.

I mentioned that I had done the lesson at the preschool, as we were picking hot peppers off the vine, and she stared at me. “Why don’t you tell US these things?”

“What things?” I asked.

“We need to know what foods are good to eat for your teeth too.”

My heart started racing. They were curious. They wanted to know.

“Okay. I can tell you now, but what about other people. Would they want to know?”

“Yes, you should come to our literacy class in the Mosque and teach the women there. We meet at 3:00 a few days a week.”

I’m not allowed in a Mosque, being a non-Muslim, but she said her uncle was the president of an association and we might be able to use that building.

Perfect. I’ll do anything I can that people ask me to, so the fact that this was initiated from a woman in the community means it’s something I believe in, wholeheartedly. I might go to her house again tomorrow or sometime next week and see if she can introduce me to her uncle.

It reminded me of something that happened last time I went to my souk town.

Saturday, on my way to the SIDA workshop at my friend’s site, I did what I usually do when I need to leave Tamazitinu: I walked about 3k to the main road to wait for my transit.

I wasn’t sure if I was really early, or really late, but another transit was driving by. I thought I recognized it as one I took early one morning from a town about 40k away. I wasn’t going to flag it down, but it slowed and honked, so I stood by the side of the road and asked where it was going. Yes, my souk town.

I hopped in, responding to the “Ca va?” from the man next to me with a, “oh, labas, lHamdullah.” I hate it when people speak French to me here. I know it’s done out of politeness, but I’m not French, and French is a second language to me in the same way that Tashelheit is! If I speak to you in Tashelheit and it’s your first language, please speak it back to me!

We turned off a random dirt road and stopped somewhere for about ten minutes. Okay. No problem. Transits do things like this all the time.

Then we got back on the main road. Instead of heading for my souk town, we drove through my friend’s site. I could have just gotten out there, but I had my heart set on a hot shower from the public showers in my souk town, so I rode it out. Then, we stopped in a neighboring douars of hers for, literally, 45 minutes. It drove me crazy. I think we were stopping to the transit driver could get some of the olives made into olive oil at a press. Seriously. But that’s how things go here.

I still hadn’t really talked to anyone until we got back on the road, when I started up a basic conversation with the women in front.

It ends up I was wrong. The transit wasn’t from the place 60 k away, it was from one of my outer douars that I had been to on Equippe-Mobile. And, not only did they know my nurse and go to Equippe-Mobile, but when I told them why I was living in Tamazitinu, they complained about the health situation in their town. “We have no clinic, no medicine, just the doctor that comes maybe twice a year.”

“Maybe some day I’ll come to your douar and talk to women about health.” I just threw it out there, not really being able to say anything else comforting or encouraging.

“Oh, would you really do that? That’d be great! God bless your parents. God bless your parents.” It was sincere. They wanted me to come… so now, I’m going to do everything in my power to make it out there, including, during the Equippe-Mobile run next week (enshallah), trying to find someone who will host me for a night or two so I can spend a full day or so out there, really talking to people.

Okay, enough of that tangent. Back to today.

When I got back to the sbitar, my nurse was there and it was busy so I left early, but not before he went to his house, brought his laptop, and showed me a PowerPoint presentation on STDs he was in the middle of making, including graphic pictures on various anatomical parts. It was, well, not what I was expecting, but if he takes on STDs, it’ll make me happy. It’s an issue here, despite what feels to be very stringent cultural norms rooted in Islam.

He also mentioned an Equippe-Mobile run next week (which I absolutely LOVE!), so I just got done making a giant model of a fly using nothing more than cardboard, black “mica” (plastic) bags, duct tape, and extra screening from my windows. There are a few posters I want to make this week (if not more), and a few topics I would like to design lessons around. I also want to photocopy my moquaddam survey and get contact numbers and information for people out there so I can actually go and spend a few nights in some of these places. It’s a lot more what I pictured doing with Peace Corps (some douars have no running water or electricity), and there are more health needs out there than in Tamazitinu center. I can’t wait to go out there, I really can’t. I may even pack an overnight bag and see if someone will let me stay with them on our last Equippe-Mobile day.


***

I want to talk about God. Not in a spiritual or abstract way, but about the word “rbi.”

Some women in my town call God “Sidi Rbi.” Now, the word Sidi (sometimes shortened to Si) is sort of like “Mister,” though my understanding is that it also means saint. So when someone is talking about “Sidi Rbi,” they’re either saying “Saint God,” or “Mister God.” Either way, sometimes it strikes me as funny when I translate it, “Mister God is good.” Now, please don’t take my finding it funny in a wrong way. It sounds right and normal in Tashelheit; I’ve even been known to use it. It’s just one day I translated it in my head and I kind of like it. “Mister God.”

Another strange but nice use of “Rbi” is when people knock on doors. Whenever someone knocks on a door or rings the doorbell, it’s normal to hear a voice from inside ask “Who is it!”

There seem to be three acceptable responses, and none of them include actually identifying the person who is at the door.

The first is “Nkkin!” (“I!”)

I won’t lie: this one is rather annoying. I often say “Shkun nkkin?” which probably makes no sense grammatically, but in my head means “who is ‘nkkin’?” I still haven’t gotten up the guts to say this when I knock at someone elses’ door.

The second: “Eh ohhhhhhh!”

No explanation needed.

The third (usually in response to “Mayd illan” or “who is there?”): “Illa Rbi!”

“There is God.”

I think it’s the simplicity, the half-joking, half earnest and faithful response that really just sort of warms my heart.

***

I want to talk a bit about tea in Tamazitinu.

From what I’ve gathered, the word “tea” (“atay”) only refers to green Chinese gunpowder tea (usually Sultan brand), boiled beyond recognition, and served with the equivalent of a hunk of sugar that is baseball sized for maybe 4-8 small cups of tea. If I’m lucky, they’ll also add fresh mint leaves. There are also tisanes, or herbal infusions; the three I’m familiar with are sheeba, flio, and louiza (I’m not sure which is which, but they include lemon vervein, a plant in the mint family, and absinthe), but I’ve only had those two or three times outside my own house.

However, at home in the States, I am a tea fanatic. I crave good oolongs, and can be a bit sheeky (snobby) about tea, truth be told. Therefore, I’ve had a variety of delicious and different teas and tisanes sent to me by people who love me.

I’ve resolved not to ever buy Sultan tea and make it that way. Everyone else does, so why not be different? However, so far, I have had very little success at sharing my teas with Moroccans in Tamazitinu.

My first attempt was while I was still in homestay. I received my first care package, and in it, among other goodies, was a package of Trader Joe’s Orange Rooibos. Perfect. Citrus rooibos aren’t as smooth as lavender, chai, ginger, or vanilla rooibos, but it really suited the hot summer months.

“I’m going to make American tea.” I told my host mother. “I would like to make some for you.”

I lit up the butagaz tank, brought the water to almost boiling, and let the tea seep. When it was strong enough for my liking, I poured myself two cups of the tea, black, and then added a bunch of sugar to it. I’d never put sugar in myself, but I’d been warned by other volunteers that people will almost always flat-out refuse to drink any tea that’s not sugared.

I poured the tea with the sugar into another cup, then poured that tea back in the pot, the way people do here to help the sugar dissolve. Then, I poured a cup of tea for my host mother.

“Here. If you want, try my American tea. We don’t usually put sugar in it, but I did and it’s good with the sugar too. It’s not a problem if you don’t like it.” (Of course, since I had barely been in site a month, it probably came out something like: Try. Good. Tea from America. Tea from America contains no sugar but this has sugar. Good. If bad, no problem.”)

She looked at it and then looked at me and put it down. She refused to even taste it.

“No really! It’s good. Just taste a sip.”

Giving me a rueful look, she touched her lips to the rim, tilted the glass up, made a face, and gave the rest to her one-year-old daughter. (I’ve seen infants spoon-fed sugary tea, coffee… you name it).

A few days later, my fantastic homestay next-door-neighbor asked for some American tea. I busted out good ol’ Trader Joe’s again and brewed it. She was kind enough to finish her one glass before saying “No thanks,” to a second glass. Her daughters couldn’t even do that much, and four cups of virtually untouched tea sat on the tea-serving dish.

Okay. Maybe the problem was not that it’s a different type of tea, maybe it’s that Rooibos is very distinctive.
Fast-forward about a month to a time when I had just moved in. Three girls came over, drew pictures, helped me clean my house, and ate my spring rolls. Even though the dipping sauce was definitely new to their palates, they loved them. “Good!” I thought. “A new test group for ‘American tea!’”

I brewed up something I had gotten from the supermarket in my provincial capital: Vanilla Madagascar Tea. It was simple: just a black tea with a hint of vanilla, and I thought it’d take sugar well.

So went the drill; again, me keeping some black for myself and sugaring up the pot.

… and there were three NO’s! One girl even spit hers out on my freshly swept agrtil.

Lesson learned. My latest care package, however, I got a delicious powdered Coconut Chai. When one of my friends woke me from a curious nightmare where I was getting kicked out for being out-of-site without permission, (on the up-side, I was about to drink a Dr. Pepper!), and came to my house, I fixed us breakfast and made some of the Chai tea.

I kept in mind a lesson from an experience a friend of mine had. She had made a particularly fruity tea for her host family and given it to them. Her hostmother liked it, but turned to her and said, condescendingly, “This is good, but it’s not tea. Next time you make it for people, call it juice, okay?”

Maybe if I didn’t call the Chai tea actual tea, she’d like it. I sat her down with the pot and a cup of tea.

“Okay. This is like tea, but it’s not really tea. It’s more like coffee, because it has milk and spices.”

She seemed to get it. Still… nope! Nothing!

Well, at least this time I was prepared. I had a large cup of sheeba (one of the Moroccan infusions) brewing and brought it out to her.

It ends up she doesn’t like sheeba either.

Maybe it’s time to bite the bullet and get some Sultan and fresh mint.