Jalapenos, Mountains, and Mice

October 9, 2007

Sometimes, I don’t think things through. Case in point: I’ve been wanting to make jalapeño poppers for the last two weeks or so. I have all the ingredients I need: a hard cheese (the only variety widely available in bigger towns), jalapeño peppers, egg, flour, garlic powder, and even ranch dressing mix to have a dip for them and to cut down on the heat.

I got everything ready, stuffed the peppers, breaded them, fried them, mixed the ranch dressing, and headed into my salon to eat them and read a book.

It was a bit spicier than I anticipated… until the end of the first one. I bit into the thick cluster of jalapeño membrane, seeds, a bit of cheese, but mainly hot pepper guts.

I just about flipped a lid. It was burning hot; two or three times as hot as the other jalapeños I’ve eaten here.

Now, I like hot food, don’t get me wrong. I once ate an entire plate of Indian curry at a restaurant in Washington DC that literally had me crying huge tears, rolling down my face. I remember one of my friends looking at me and saying, "You know, you can stop eating if you need to." But it was good.

This, on the other hand, was HOT. My ears were burning, my nose was running, I was running around the house looking for something to calm my taste buds, my eyes were watering and I was wondering if instead of just being spicy, I was actually having an allergic reaction.

And then I sneezed.

Now, this wasn’t an ordinary sneeze. Oh, no. I still hadn’t entirely swallowed all of this bite of jalapeño popper, so this monster of a sneeze included little bits of burning hot green tiflflt and melted red-ball cheese coming through my sinus passages and getting stuck in my nostrils.
I blew my nose furtively with the white toilet paper I had thankfully splurged on last time I was in my souk town. It’s much nicer on the nose, as well as other parts of the body, than the pink sandpaper stuff I usually get.

After eating a carrot (peeling it through my tears) with ranch dressing, drinking a pomegranate Coke (pomegranate syrup), and eating, what else, a pomegranate, my tastebuds and heartrate have calmed down. My sinus cavities still feel tingly, however, when I breathe deeply.
And I ate the rest of my cheese-stuffed tiflflt, doused in ranch dressing and without the firey tops. I couldn’t let three other perfectly good jalapeños go to waste.

Today was also sort of a dramatic day because the mousetraps I left out did, indeed, catch another mouse. I wasn’t expecting it at all. I came back from the sbitar to see it, sprawled on the sticky trap. It looked dead initially, but after watching it a few seconds, it heaved a few short breaths.

For some reason, maybe because they’re rodents and some people keep them as pets, I hate dealing with dying or dead mice. It’s almost enough to let them just live in my house with me. Almost.

I left it alone a few hours, while I made my poppers and sent a few text messages. Prolonging the inevitable, I suppose.

However, feeling sorry for it, still alive, sitting there, stuck in a pool of clear sticky glue, I swept it into an empty trash can and took it outside. Now what? I tried to free him by poking him in the bottom with a stick, to get him unstuck. I don’t mind mice, just not in my house, scaring me to death in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, he was stuck fast and started protesting when I guess I poked him too hard. Nothing to do but kill him.

I felt really inhumane smashing his head in with a rock. I did it because it was better than letting him starve to death, and there are no cats or dogs around to finish the job. It took three or four times before he stopped moving and when I walked back in the house, I felt really dirty, really brutal, cruel, and, well, inhumane. But what am I supposed to do? I guess I could ignore them and live with them in peace. And who knows, maybe he was a she and I certainly don’t want little mouse babies running around my taddart made of alood.*

We (as in twelve volunteers in my province) went to the provincial capital for the delegue meeting last Friday. It was, all in all, a good time. One of the sectors is having their PST (Pre-service training) there, so not only did I get to say hi to some of my former LCFs, but also got to meet a few new trainees, some of whom might be my neighbor starting in December, depending on where their sites are. It made me miss training, but I can definitely say that I really appreciated it and had as much fun as I could during that time: no regrets there. I still feel that if I could work, say, as a teacher, and then every summer do Peace Corps training for three months in a different country for the rest of my life, I’d be set.

The delegue meeting was fun. I enjoy them; I don’t really know why. It may be the knowing, tolerant look on our SIAAP (Ministry of Public Health, essentially) representative’s face as we talk to him in English, French, Tamazight, and Tashelheit; it may be the lackadaisical way some of us look in jeans and t-shirts at a professional meeting, it may be sitting and waiting around for the meeting to start, or the inevitable experience of just being able to go to a small city for a day or two and this provides the perfect excuse. In any case, I learned one very important piece of information: there is a fantastic organization I can work with, and I’m hoping, really hoping to be able to work with them. I think I blogged about meeting with the treasurer a few weeks ago. If not, I’ll be sure to update when (if!) I meet with them again.

Ramadan has been rough, though, and it’s strange to think I’ve been in site for four months and still have relatively little to show for it. Being alone, mixed with out-of-site weekends or trainings or delegue meetings with the same American PCV friends here is fun but also difficult. It’s like living two totally different lives, and the last two months, I’ve seen more Americans than I ever thought I’d see while being in the PC. It all weighs on you: balancing being in-site and out-of-site, feeling like I might not really be able to get to know people well at my site for language and cultural issues, dealing with drama among Americans, not knowing what work is feasible for site in two years, now only more like one and a half years, feeling like I’ve done nothing, feeling lonely, feeling like I have a lot of people to visit in town and don’t have enough time to be social, wondering if my counterpart understands why I’m here… and the list goes on. Ramadan is especially hard because not only are people fasting, but they’re also sleeping a lot, or working. It’s hard to upkeep any sort of relationship at all.

So, earlier than I had planned, in my provincial capital, outside one of the supermarkets that have more than two types of cheese, I had it. I needed to get out of there, I needed to be home. I grabbed the hotel key, got my stuff, and hopped on a bus. I missed my transit home, so I spent the night eating pomegranates, reading The Handmaid’s Tale, Harpers, and Newsweek, and staying alone in my souk town in the hotel that gives PCVs a discount.

The guys at the hotel invited me to eat lftor with them, which I did, in the lobby, and I went to sleep early, waking up to ensure a seat on my transit and get grocery shopping done.
Sometimes, all it takes is that: acknowledging that things are not always perfect or easy or going smoothly, because yesterday was fantastic.

I made myself get up and go to see my host mother, and it very well might have been the most positive interaction we’ve had. Her 1.5 year old can now actually pronounce my name better than a lot of the adults here, and the five year old still begs me to turn her upside down. She invited me to eat lftor with them that night, and I left, taking a circuitous route to see if one of my friends was home.

She was, and, I had a rather strange experience. Women here do not fast if they are menstruating, but they make it up after l3id sghrer. I don’t think I’m spelling it right: the holiday that is this weekend (the small Eid (3id)) that marks the end of Ramadan. So, in the middle of Ramadan, I sat in a room off to the side and ate lunch with two other women who, well, let’s just say we were all allowed to eat.

I have never felt such separation or so out in the open about menstruation. I didn’t feel like I was seen as unclean or looked down upon, but it was very clear to everyone in the household that the three women eating lunch were obviously currently menstruating. We even sat together in a little room off to the side.

My thoughts wandered to a book I read a few years ago: The Red Tent, and readings in anthropology class about different rituals relating to menstruation. This small experience was neither a ritual, nor, as I said, did it seem like others thought it was wrong or unnatural: it almost seemed advantageous. I don’t feel like I’ve ever worn it so blatantly in front of relative strangers, and men, even; taken action with others that show that we are menstruating.

I don’t know if my words accurately convey what I was feeling or not, but it was interesting, and not altogether uncomfortable. Refreshing, in a way, almost profound to be able to participate in something that only menstruating women can participate in; it is new to me and almost makes me feel more feminine.

Lftor with the host family was fun, comfortable, and warm. I’m hoping that the attitudes and feelings last night will be an indicator of my future relationship with them. Enshallah.
Today, I talked to my nurse about some of the things I’ve been frustrated about: mainly that he didn’t understand what my job function was. I’d tried to talk to him about it several times in the past two or three months, but he never seemed to understand. Instead, I wrote him a letter in French explaining that I think there was a lack of communication on my part as far as what I am here to do.

I was right. He didn’t understand, and I think things are a lot clearer now. He’s willing to help with whatever he can, but he wants me to come up with a plan of action. I don’t even know what’s feasible yet, and he wants me to have a plan of action? I’ll do it, after Ramadan, enshallah: come up with a list of people to talk to in order to see what sort of projects that I’m thinking about may work out. I feel better though: writing the letter was definitely the right thing to do. He didn’t blame me, but he did say that "my organization" should have given him more information. I’m just glad that he understands a little more where I am coming from and why I bring up some of the things that I do in conversation, or, more importantly, why I don’t do some things that I think he expects. Hopefully, this will make work easier here.

October 14, 2007

Sorry; I know I haven’t been as good at updating this blog. I’m still here, alive and doing well, it’s just during Ramadan it was cumbersome to go into my souk town and visit the cyber. Whenever I left my site, I’d end up getting into my souk town at about 7 am and waiting until 9 am for anything to open: cafes, internet, the post office, stores… and would literally have to wander around town for two hours, trying to entertain myself while being tired, usually, from waking up early.

But: now that yesterday was The Small Eid (l’eid imizan is what we call it here) and Ramadan is over, my schedule should be back to normal and I’ll be better about keeping in touch, enshallah.
One of my friends came and spent the weekend with me, which is fantastic. Besides cooking up a storm and actually having good, deep conversation with someone who is easy to speak to, we actually did a lot out and about. In fact, yesterday, we climbed a mountain.

Well, I don’t know if you can really call it a mountain or a foothill. If it is the mountain I think it might be on my map of Morocco, it’s 1500 meters, but I don’t know how high we started above sea level to begin with. In any case, I have friends here in Tamazitinu who climb it a few times a year, or at least a few times in their lives, and I see it every day. It’s only about a 40 minute walk from my house to the base, so it’s been something I think about often: when am I going to climb Taftschfasht (on my map, it’s called something different)?

When I visited my friend’s site about two months ago, we took a nice, long hike, so this weekend, if she was up for it, I decided it’d be a good time to go and that she’d be a good mountain-hiking buddy. The weather is starting to cool down some without being cold, and now that Ramadan is over, it wouldn’t be insensitive to carry bottled water around.

Getting a later start than anticipated, we set out, picnic snacks and water bottles in tow, for the mountain. About five minutes outside my house, my Rais (President of the local Commune; rough equivalent to the mayor; see glossary in previous entry sometime in mid-late August for other confusing terms) saw us and insisted we go to his house for lunch.

I tried to insist we were busy, but he persisted and so we drove in his car to his house and snacked on some nuts and pastries, had tea, agho (fresh buttermilk), a mango-orange juice that was divine, and snacks, and I got a few answers to important questions about Tamazitinu in, as normal, a combination of Tamazight, French, and English. I asked him about Tamazitinu getting internet, and he showed me his phone with a wi-fi USB port, and dug out records of his contract with the internet company. There was one "mushkil technique" (technical problem) that he didn’t explain to me, but for all intents and purposes, he has internet in his house now.

And I could get it too if I wanted, for the "low" price of 300D a month ($35). It’s tempting, but not worth 15% of my monthly mandat. Additionally, I know that if I had internet in my house, it’d be even harder to leave. Eventually, we will get a cybercafe in site as well, and I know that I won’t spend 300D/month there, so I’m thinking that, again, though tempting, it’s not a worthwhile investment (and have I mentioned that I live in a mud house and that we were a good hour off a paved road until about two months ago when they paved a road to my site… and that there are seven stores, three teleboutiques, a mosque, a women’s center, a clinic, and an elementary school at my site… and other than houses and fields, that’s it? My site is so full of contradictions.)

I also learned what I think is the etymology of the name of my town: People/Tribe of the Tree… or forest… or a certain kind of tree that used to exist here but doesn’t anymore… yes, even with our tri-lingual conversations, something often gets lost in translation. I also found out that in the long-range outlook, the Commune is planning to do something with waste disposal, but the biggest priorities are getting electricity and water to the outer douars. I don’t know what to do with this information, but it was good to get it, at least. So, the thirty minutes or so that I spent talking to him was actually quite useful, and with the way we banter, was enjoyable.

After maybe an hour, my friend and I left before eating lunch, which probably wouldn’t have started for another three hours.

Now, one of the important things about this mountain, which is really an enormous plateau, is that there is no path, per se, up to the top. I told my friend this and that we’d have to play it by ear, and we were willing to give it a go.

Getting up was fun: it probably took us an hour and a half. Some of it had a really reasonable incline, but towards the top, we were scrambling over boulders for probably at least fifty feet. We stopped three times for a few minutes to take in the view, and it was amazing seeing my town from that perspective. I was too much of a taghiyult (donkey) to bring my camera, so I’ll have to make another trip to capture the view. From the top, it looks like my town, and three of my outer douars, are literally built in a dry riverbed, and you can see the shape of it and how the water came and cut through years ago. Starting from about halfway up, I could see the site of my nearest volunteer (8-20k away, depending on who you ask), and I could also see a major thoroughfare in my province.

The top was surreal. As I mentioned, Taftschfasht is an enormous plateau. Once we got to the top, it was like nothing I’ve ever seen: a rocky meadow with both tall, yellow, weedy grass littered with black stones. Standing towards the middle, it almost felt like you were on a prairie somewhere, because it’s so large and flat that all you can see is blue, cloudy sky and the strange rocks and weeds that seem to stretch into a false horizon. The silence was deafening, and other than our talking, breathing, and steps, the only audible noise was the jumping of huge locusts that I almost mistook for small frogs.

I think it’s probably at least a kilometer in length because, as I said, once you got towards the middle, it almost felt like an eerie claustrophobic island with a startlingly close horizon on each side. We walked from one side to another, me doing a crazy victory dance in the middle, isolated from the entire world except my friend and the locusts. At the far north side, we tried to see if there was a better route down with less bouldering. We agreed to try the northwest corner and after bread and Laughing Cow cheese and an apple each, we started what we knew would be a difficult descent.

At one point, I thought my retelling might end up being a cautionary tale: do not hike in mountains when you don’t know what you’re doing. I didn’t know if we’d make it down in one piece, because, though the first third of the descent was easy and fast, we ended up at a much steeper, crazier part of the mountain than we thought it would be. Not only did we probably spend a good half an hour sliding on our bottoms or inching down on all fours like a crab walk, but I started to get a little nuts because of the ridiculousness of the situation. There were, on the "inch-on-your-butt-and-try-to-slide-down-without-falling" parts, large white pieces of quartz with tiny perfectly formed crystal obelisks inside.

I’ve never found anything quite that "perfect" before in nature. The first one I found was probably the size of a throw-pillow, so heavy and obviously not something I wanted to lug around after our little adventure. But I could pretend I was going to take it home. So I threw it down the mountain and it would roll ten or twenty feet and stop. I’d shimmy down to it, pick it up, and throw it again. I probably chased this rock for fifteen minutes. The most ridiculous part is that there were actually many rocks like these around, and the reason they were still there was most likely because people know better and safer routes to take and don’t have to crab-walk down. Not only was I throwing and chasing rocks, but I’d use this as a way to pick my route down: follow the rock.

So we were a little crazy… but we made it down in about two hours: longer than it took to get up.

It was a fun day. One of my friends (the one who I went to her wedding and took pictures) came over all dressed up for Eid (the holiday) and I served tea and cookies. My friend and I also ended up meeting a lot of my friends in site, which was exciting. Finally, at least someone can put faces to the names and stories!

I was embarrassed though because the last week, my house has become infested with pinchy-bugs. My friend said they exist in the Seattle area, but I’d never seen these before. They look like big ants with longer body sections, but with two pinchers that are about as long as half their body as a tail. I don’t know if they pinch people (my guess is they do), or if they are poisonous (my prayer is that they are not), but they were terrifying at first. I’m used to them now, but for the last week, I’ve been killing ten or twenty a day in my bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, inside my fridge, on the outside of my mosquito net, and, well, pretty much everywhere. I think my battle with insects and mice and lizards in the house is doomed. I even keep my sugar in my fridge, but it doesn’t seem to prevent the invasion.

***

Wow. It’s later in the day, and I’m working on my Community Diagnosis, a rather lengthy and detailed report about my community. This is my first draft, and I already have a to-do list that involves talking with at least 5 or 6 people (though probably more) and get a lot of questions answered.

Part of the diagnosis that we are supposed to do is discuss information collection techniques, so I’m going through blogs, notes, my notebooks…everything… to figure out who I talked to and when. As far as informal talks, I can count 60 houses that I’ve been to in my douar… 60 out of about 340. I’ve been in-site 144 days (!!!), so that’s, on average, a new house every 2.4 days. I don’t know whether to be proud of that, or feel like a slacker. It’s almost 1 out of 5 houses though. I don’t know if I’ve ever been to 60 peoples’ houses even when I lived somewhere for five years. Strange.

But I’m stressing about this community diagnosis now. It’s going to be long, I can tell you that. My unfinished outline is 10 pages.

October 16, 2007

I cannot believe October is more than halfway over. I cannot believe that soon I will be 24; soon I will really be in my mid-twenties. It’s a scary thought.

I found out today that the Rais is also a teacher. It makes sense, when I think about it, but I had no idea and it bothers me that I didn’t know that.

Today, I went to a new person’s house, which is always exciting. I did yesterday as well.

Yesterday, it was a neighbor’s house. I ate lunch there, talked to her son (who is going to university this year!) and daughter, and had a good time. Unfortunately… hmm. I don’t know how to describe what happened without sounding callous.

Part of the information I try to collect is on population and family size. I ask how many kids people have, in a friendly way, just to make conversation, but it also helps me get a feel for the average family size here. Usually it’s not a big deal, and people will even tell me, usually nonchalantly, "Oh, I have four boys, two girls, and one that’s dead."

This woman said she had seven kids. As always, I say "Wow! That’s a lot! Tbarkallah! (sort of a congratulatory God phrase). I can’t imagine being pregnant seven times!"
Her sister looked at me. "No, she’s been pregnant nine times." Oops. And the woman almost starts crying. She doesn’t, but you can tell she’s upset… and stays upset for awhile, understandably.

It happened again today at a family I know well’s house… I found out one woman was pregnant and asked her if she wanted a boy or a girl (she already has one of each). I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but she told me that she had a daughter already that got sick and died when she was one and a half. She wasn’t upset in an obvious way or anything, but I felt terrible.

But I need to know these things too for statistics. I hate statistics sometimes. How is it that, in a place where miscarriages and child death is more common than at home, I can be expected to ask people if they have any dead children, which is something that is important to know if I need to write grants for post-natal education or some other program? And what do you say, besides,
"Oh, that’s hard…" when you don’t really even speak the language that well?

Sometimes development work is rough.

Where I was going before though, with talking about visiting a new person’s house, was that it was a lot of fun. She’s probably the fifth or sixth woman I’ve met here who can’t have kids for some reason. I don’t understand what causes that either, but it seems to happen more regularly here than at home.

In any case, there was a neighbor kid over. She was pretty cutthroat with trying to convert me, and she was probably about eleven years old. "You should wear a scarf and pray. Do you know our Prophet Mohammed peace be upon him? You should pray. Why don’t you pray?"
I answered the questions the way I usually do, and she kept going. Lots of kids ask me lots of questions, so it doesn’t really bother me, but this took me aback:

"Which is better, Morocco or the US?"

"Sometimes Morocco is better, sometimes the US is. It just depends."

"No. The US is bad. There are Jewish people there."

From the mouths of babes. I have never really seen anti-Semitism here before until today. In fact, I’ve had conversations with hotel owners in my souk town and teachers here with how peaceful this area of the country was with Jewish people in the past, and that the Berbers and Jews got along very well, and consequently, was a lot less anti-Semitic than the rest of Morocco or, in some ways, much of the Arab world.

And, yet, here was a child, regurgitating, doubtless, what she had been told by someone in her family, or from the news.

"No, that doesn’t make the U.S. bad. Jewish people aren’t bad people. In the US, we have Jewish people, Christians, and Muslims and a lot of them are friends with each other. I have Jewish friends and I have Muslim friends at home. It’s not really a problem."

"But Jews kill Muslims."

I didn’t go into the fact that my grandmother was Jewish; I didn’t want to go there with my language ability being as poor as it is, but it was interesting, explaining, again, that I have Jewish and Muslim friends and a lot of them are friends too in the U.S. and not all Jews hate Muslims. I don’t know how much she believed me, though she said she understood.

This is in the same town where, when George Bush appears on television sometimes, older women will look at me and say, "That’s your president, right? He’s a good guy. God loves everyone, and God loves President Bush. Maybe the war is bad, but God loves everyone and God loves President Bush." These are the same women who are illiterate and uneducated, but they still know Bush. And they don’t hate him.

*adobe house

Mid-Ramadan

October 1, 2007

For some reason, I haven’t felt the energy or desire to blog about the last few weeks. I know, it’s a far cry from entries that have been fifteen or twenty pages in Word before I upload them to my blog, but, for some reason, there just hasn’t been much to say.

I finally had a visitor to my site this weekend: my friend who, as the crow flies, only lives about 10 k away: by far, my closest volunteer. We had a good time, though, really we stayed in and chatted most of the time. Good, deep conversations. I think maybe it’s the fact that it’s so difficult to communicate with people in our sites that make it that when we get together, sometimes, us Americans just won’t be quiet around each other. In any case, we took a walk, but I didn’t get to introduce her to as many people as I liked. Oh, well. We cooked up a storm: salad with bacon bits and Ranch dressing, macaroni and cheese, southwest egg scramble with melted cheese, strawberry banana orange peach apple smoothies, cocoa beans, spring rolls with Thai peanut sauce, and homemade frappucinos. Oh, it’s good to splurge on ingredients sometimes and eat food from home.

I fasted last Wednesday with a friend from home. It was really special actually: she emailed me and said she wanted to fast with me on the same day. I made sure not to cheat, and she fasted halfway across the world. If anyone else wants to fast, let me know and we can pick a “lets all fast for Ramadan” day where, again, I’ll be sure not to cheat. The rules, at least from what I’ve heard, are:

From sunrise to sunset, abstain from:
Food
Drink (including water)
Smoking
Sexual activity of all kinds
Swearing

I felt really connected when I fasted with my friend in Georgia. If you do fast, the hardest part is abstaining from water, so drink a lot before sunrise. Fast is broken, traditionally here, at least, with a date, which are just starting to ripen in the fields. Corn is also in season, and when I walk down the street, there are rooms and just stretches outside of corn drying in the sun.

I did break fast with a few new families now. The other day, I went to Ait Bahalu, the “compound” that, at my count, has nine adults living there and all their children. During the summer the number of adults nearly doubles. I ate lftor there, after shucking corn in the afternoon, and they wouldn’t let me go before eating brochettes and couscous later in the night. I actually tasted a tiny bit of goat lung. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, though it still completely creeps me out a bit to see children help with meat preparation and wind small intestines around their hands, then go play without washing them.

Other good news: I haven’t been sick in about two months now, which is amazing. There was a period of time where it felt like if I didn’t have one thing wrong with me, it was something else, but cooking for myself and living in a clean house, bleaching my vegetables, and keeping hydrated have really made my health much, much better.

When I update this, I’ll probably be writing from the provincial capital for our quarterly meeting with the ministry of health delegue for the province. It should be interesting, to say the least.

October 3, 2007

I love getting care packages, but sometimes they’re a curse: I’ve spent the last three days, literally, tearing apart a few books (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows FINALLY came!; the new book by the author of The Kite Runner), literally half a year of Harpers magazines, and Utne. I’m now on a book by an Argentine author that’s interesting.

I love to read, but it keeps me inside. For some reason, I don’t know if it’s just because the reading material is so good, or it’s English, but it’s hard to get out of the house when there’s something in the house I haven’t read yet. Yesterday, I didn’t leave. Once. My stomach was acting up, so in the morning, it wouldn’t have made sense, but even in the afternoon, I stayed in and tore apart reading materials.

Today, I vowed not to let that happen, so I climbed a mountain instead. I shall not tell a lie: it’s more of a foothill. There are a few hills by my town, so I climbed the one nearest to my house and literally stood there, letting the wind whip my dress and headscarf around me (yes, I wore both today), looking at the sprawling ighram (old town) beneath me. I counted houses (in my 450-house neighborhood, around 90-100 are two story and made of cement), and watched people walk up and down the alleyways.

Inspired, though I was wearing Crocs and had no water, I moved to a hill a little farther away. Then the next one. The next one. An hour later, I was at the top of a rather large foothill, staring at my town, and the two outer douars that are nearest. I could see the edge of the town that is on the main road, ten or fifteen kilometers away. It was actually quite amazing, if rather a stupid stunt to pull, though I had my cell phone and made it back safely. Getting down was harder than coming up, but I did show restraint: a really cool looking mini-mountain was rather close and I resisted the temptation to climb it: there were some rather steep drop-offs I’d need to traverse. Not something to do alone, or alone in Crocs.

I got home and the water was back on! Today, I felt like I was in the Peace Corps I originally imagined, because for about 24 hours, we had neither electricity or water. I almost went to get some from the spring and boil it, but it proved unnecessary. After a nice bucket bath (it’s getting too cold for a cold shower!), someone knocked on my door. Or, should I say, rang my doorbell.

Yes, I have a doorbell. It’s a big white button outside that is connected to a plastic birdhouse over the door inside my house. When someone pushes the button, the birdhouse makes a “KUKUKUKUKUKUKUKUKUKUKUKUKUKU!” noise. It’s rather annoying, but it’s nice to have a doorbell. I suppose. Until kids think it’s fun to ring it incessantly while I’m trying to take a nap.

Well, I had magazines all over the floor, cups of tea and water on my table, a half-eaten pomegranate out (I’m eating about three a day now), and had just come out of the shower.

It was a neighbor girl, and I asked her to wait five minutes for me to get dressed and straighten things out. I was excited that she came over: she only stayed for half an hour but seems to be really sweet. She’s 16; the age where she’s really in a lot of ways an adult in this community.

After she left, I took another walk, this time, in town, and came home and made leftover spaghetti sauce into a killer minestrone soup. I stopped going to my next door neighbors for lftor (the meal that breaks the fast) because she kept talking about money. Money, money, money, money, money. It made me uncomfortable. My job is not to give people money here. It broke the straw when she asked me for colored pencils that I brought from the US. Her daughter had seen them, and she flat out asked me for them. That was the last time I ate at her house. I’m not having her bake me bread anymore either.

The upside, however, is that I’m eating lftor occasionally at different people’s house: now I’ve had it with six other families. Each one is different, and I feel really welcomed at everyone’s and so it’s a better experience anyway. Two nights ago, I went to the house of some really nice people over in Ihndar, the same people who had come to my hostfamily’s house a few months ago and literally dragged me to dinner. Not only did they make me stay for lftor and dinner after that, at about ten pm, but in between, there was a lot of television-watching, and, for my benefit, they kept it on English channels about a third of the time. Nobody has ever, EVER done that for me before here. Though the movie “Cadence” left a lot to be desired for as far as watching movies, the snippets of Al Jazeera in English were fascinating.

My favorite person at that house, besides the old father who looks like he’s in his seventies and is just the nicest old man I’ve met, is a young mother. I knew she was young, but I didn’t realize she was 19 with a 2-and a half year old daughter. It’s pretty typical here, but it’s still shocking. Fourteen year old brides… I can’t imagine. Her daughter is a doll. She’s always been afraid of me until that night and she finally warmed up to me. I always mess up her name though, and either call her “water” (aman) or “white” (amlal) instead of “Amal.”

Last night was the first time I was truly afraid being alone in my house. There was a huge storm, the power went out so all was quiet except the creakings of the house, and, I was convinced, absolutely convinced, that there were huge animals in the kitchen. I know it was just nighttime delusions, but first, I thought there were mice in my room, then a cricket that chirped like a bird in my rafters, then something that sounded as big as a cat or possum in my kitchen. When I woke up, nothing looked moved around in the house, except dirt that came in through the crack between the door and the floor, but it was absolutely terrifying. I kept thinking I’d wake up with something in bed next to me. Thank God it was just me psyching myself out… I hope.

I’ve been craving Reeses Peanut Butter cups, and my attempt of something similar to quench this craving didn’t work. I ground peanuts with sugar and hot cocoa mix, added powdered milk and enough water to make a slurry. Nope. Doesn’t cut it. It’s strange the things I crave sometimes here.

Packing tonight. Travel tomorrow, then the delegue meeting on Friday. I hope if they want me to translate from French that I’m able to handle it.

vsn, Ramadan, life...

9.13.07

VSN training was fantastic. I felt that it was a good group of people, and I’m glad to be able to work as a support person for other volunteers. A lot of the training was similar to things I’d done as a resident assistant, or at my previous job, but it was good to get together and sometimes vent about our own struggles in-country. And the food! We had a phenomenal hostess whose house is incredible: it has not only a western toilet and shower but also a bathtub; and her menus for us were close to gourmet: pumpkin cream sauce pastas, chicken Caesar salad, oatmeal raisin cookies, carrot cake, quiche… It really felt like a training workshop at home, even if just for a few days.

The problem with that, and any other time I get together with Americans for any longer than a few hours, is that it’s an adjustment to get back. I stayed at home last night and watched a movie… then part of another movie, and a few episodes of Grey’s Anatomy in French. I had every intention of getting up early and going out to see people today, but most likely, I’ll only go visit one friend at three and spend the morning finishing Grey’s Anatomy and doing laundry and cooking because it’s the last day before Ramadan.

One of the movies I watched partially last night was Babel. Every time a big group of PCVs get together, we bring movies and books to give away and circulate around country. I made out like a bandit this time.

The copy of Babel was pretty terrible; obviously a hand-held camera in a theater. I only watched the Morocco scenes. I remember before coming, watching those scenes were slightly foreboding. It seemed so empty, so lifeless, so quiet, so desolated, so remote, and just very depressing.

Watching a second time, after being here six months in a place that looks a lot like Babel, especially in my outer douars, it had a completely different feel. It felt familiar, warm, inviting, and, in some strange way, like home. The most disappointing part is that everything is actually in Darija (Moroccan Arabic), not Berber, but I was able to understand a few words of it. The other funny thing is that Tazarine, the city that they took Kate Blanchett’s character to in order to wait for transportation to a hospital, actually has a sbitar and a doctor. I haven’t been yet, but I know I will go sometime, because it’s only about 3 hours away from my house. It’s also funny because even though they didn’t mention the dunes Marzouga or M’hmed, that has to be where they were coming from, because there’s no other reason for a tourist to be down that way.

August 16, 2007

I can’t believe that half of August is gone already. It’s insane how fast the weeks go by, but how slowly some of the days creep on.

Ramadan is, well, interesting. Challenging. Today, I haven’t cheated yet and am not planning on it. It was easy today, because a friend came over and spent a lot of time at my house, distracting me. When I’m alone at home, the refrigerator calls me, so I cheated yesterday.

I was a bit afraid to tell people I cheated yesterday, but most people just laughed. They’d ask, “Are you fasting?” and I’d say, “Look… I’m trying to fast. I fasted yesterday. I’m fasting tomorrow. But today… I ate. I feel badly.” Most people laugh and say, “Oh, thanks for fasting…” and usually try to convert me.

Only my next door neighbor seemed a bit disappointed. “What did you eat?” I told her a cucumber. It was true. Of course, I ate a bit more than that, but a cucumber was the first thing I ate…doused in peanut-ginger-garlic dressing. “Katy, it’s good to fast, and it’s good to pray (pray, in this context, means praying their prescribed way, facing Mecca, five times a day). Do you know why? Because if you do that, you’ll go to heaven. And heaven is GOOD. There are lots of flowers there. And cucumber. You can eat as much cucumber as you want in heaven.”

It made me want to cry. I don’t know what particularly made me want to cry; maybe it was the fact that I had cheated and wasn’t doing what I set out to do, maybe it was the good intentions she had in trying to convert me because she wants me to go to heaven, or maybe it was the simplicity of the promise of a place with lots of flowers and as much tempting food as I wanted. I feebly tried to explain that the Qu’ran recognizes Christianity and Judaism as well, but gave up a few words into the sentence.

I am eating lftor at her house most days though, and I am going to try to fast through the month. I like her a lot. It’s just her and her two children, a girl and a boy. Lftor, or the meal to break the fast after sundown, is not really what I expected; everyone had been talking it up for months, but, it was magical, especially the first night.

Traditionally, people break the fast with dates. She can’t afford them though, though I’ll pick some up next time I’m in my souk town. Instead, I broke my first fast with water, then coffee with milk, mskota (a simple cake), misimin (a thin, oily bread), a boiled potato with salt and cumin. The meal was finished with a bowl of thick harira, a soup that my neighbor makes with eggplant, bullion, a type of squash called “slawi,” and chickpeas. Everyone makes harira differently, but I really like hers. Later into Ramadan, I think people start to add beans, azizao (a collard green), and some put pasta, or wheat, or flour, or tomatoes, or I suppose any number of other ingredients. In the Jamaa Alfna, the big square in Marrakesh, the harrira is bright red and thin, whereas hers is a deep brown and thick.

Last night, lftor was a bit different, with eggs replacing the potatoes, and aghrom n taguri (the spicy stuffed fatbread) replacing the misimin.

Waking up at four am and eating, then sleeping in and taking a nap in the afternoon does weird things to my head, and my dreams have been more bizarre than most. I need to start waking up and writing them down, because all that I’m left with right now are strange sensations or feelings, and snapshots of different parts of the dreams: going to my post office box and finding two-10 dirham coins, then two gold coins from Turkey- a hint in some sort of murder mystery; a scrapbook of everything a professor found relevant to history, including a picture of a lot of my “high school teachers” in bathing suits; some sort of a secret underground place with coffee; a Blockbuster video in Morocco that looked more like a SAMs club and with a “rent one movie, get two for free” card (yes, that’s when I knew I was dreaming), and a host of other crazy images.

Okay, I deleted an entire paragraph dedicated to some of the recurrent themes of dreams. Enough on that tangent. Where was I going with this, besides the lack of food and water can cause me to lose focus and commit a “seven-three?”* Well, I’ve been having, or at least remembering, stranger and stranger dreams with the eating lots of food and then sleeping and with afternoon naps. I suppose they’ll just get worse; it should be interesting.

What should be very interesting is how I will manage during Ramadan. Most people stay at home. I’m already dying of boredom. This morning, I woke up with some sort of inspired things I wanted to blog about, but, since I’ve not had anything to eat or drink for 12 hours and it’s probably 90 degrees out, I’ve become slower and less inspired. Lesson learned. Anything I want to do right now, get it done in the mornings. Or night. Maybe after lftor, I’ll be less fuddled.

*To “commit a seven-three” is, according to Tracey Kidder, author of Mountains Beyond Mountains, what Paul Farmer and other members of Partners in Health, call it when “to use seven words where three would do.” I think I am the queen of the “seven-three.” And if you haven’t read Mountains Beyond Mountains, you should.


September 18

Ramadan is difficult. I’ve cheated on fasting more than I’d like to admit, in fact, I don’t know if I should even pretend anymore or try rather than just give it up. I do well when I’m not home alone, but when I am home alone, I give in, first with water, then fruit… and then it cascades into an actual meal.

Yesterday, however, was fantastic. I was home alone, eating, and feeling generally down about not being able to do much work during Ramadan. I know, shwiya b shwiya, but it’s difficult. I still feel like people wonder what I’m doing here, and what my job is. I want to do work… but I want to do it on my terms, not feeling pressured to do something that I find not sustainable by someone else. In any case, since VSN training, I’ve really not left the house much or done any work. I’ll visit people, and my young married friend came and spent all day on Sunday. I taught her some Spanish, so that when she goes to live in Barcelona with her husband, a laborer there, she’ll know a little. Despite this, since a lot of people sleep a lot of the day and are tired and, frankly, grumpy with fasting, I’ve stayed in, and yesterday, it was getting to me. I was wondering why I was even here myself.

I texted my teacher friend in the douar over to see how she was, as I hadn’t seen her for probably two weeks. She, as I halfway hoped, invited me to eat lftor with her. I walked the 45 minutes over to her house and had the most amazing lftor yet, sort of a combination of a city or Arab lftor and a bled Berber meal. We started with dates, and they were soft and sticky and sweet: perfect. Then, there was the aghrom n taguri with different spices than my neighbors, hard-boiled egg with cumin and salt, hot milk with a little coffee (literally), olives, and some new food. My favorite dessert/snack was this delicious powdered sweet rich stuff. It’s difficult to describe, but I think it’s just ground peanuts, almonds, walnuts, sugar, and sesame seeds. No wonder it’s delicious. In addition, there were three types of “cookie” desserts: the traditional shebekya, and two other almond-stuffed honey-soaked bite-sized sweets.

I was shocked that we didn’t have harira, but we did later, as well as the mskota cake but this was covered with real melted chocolate. I have never, ever had real chocolate at a Moroccans’ house before.

Before eating lftor, we had the table set, and the call to prayer had not yet sounded from the nearby mosque, so she sat and read from the Qu’ran out loud. It was beautiful. I’ve heard the Qu’ran on the television, and I’ve heard the call to prayer, but I’ve never actually heard it read out loud, live. It’s really magical; half sung, half spoken. I didn’t understand any of it, obviously, since it’s Fusha, but it was really special, with the table set, knowing that everyone all over the country was about to eat the same thing at the same time, and that this is repeated all over the world at sunset for an entire month. Even though I’m not Muslim, in some ways, I wish that I were a part of a faith that has such a universal experience. My neighbor says that during Ramadan, she goes to the mosque for the prayer after lftor, and that the mosque is just full of thirty or forty women who stay for an hour and pray together. Maybe it’s just that I feel disconnected from my faith and from my life at home, but it made me want to go, just to feel a part of something sacred and beautiful and bigger than myself.

I’m not thinking of converting, if that’s what pops into your mind when you read that last paragraph. Some of the same things that I find so beautiful are also things that make me think I could never become Muslim: the prescribed prayer, the idea that you have to do certain prescribed actions, and the gender separation during prayer. At the same time, I still do feel the beauty of Islam and a sense of brotherhood with this faith that shares the same God.

After lftor, some of her friends came over. I had met them all before and had fun, but last night was amazing. They’re such jokers! Some of the talk turned very, well, hshuma, and hilarious. At one point, I joked about climbing the small mountain that is right behind her house, and found myself running in the darkness with a fifty-year old woman pretending we were going to climb it. My Chacos were so full of thorns I had to sit today and pluck out at least fifty with my multitool. Ha. But we sat, discussing features of various parts of human anatomy, the six of us, in the darkness, laughing, and joking around. As some of them left, we even did something that I won’t write here (not really a big deal in the US) but that really shocked me. I love it when people are laid-back.
I spent the night because, honestly, that’s what we do here, and because nobody wanted me to walk 45 minutes alone at night back to my house. I slept on the floor, though I had the choice of a ponj or a bed. The floor is actually quite a comfortable option once you get used to it. I don’t mind it at all as long as there aren’t bugs and there’s at least a blanket or two that I can sleep on.

We woke up at 4 am to eat before sunrise, and it was the first time I’ve done that at someone elses’ house. There was soda, duaz (tagine) with bread, dates, and milk.

After some crazy dreams, some involving helicopter rides, rubber stamps, the current president of the United States, and pistachio ice cream, I woke up and left around ten. My friend lent me seasons two and three of Grey’s Anatomy, and season three is actually in English! On the list of “things I never thought I’d do,” other than, oh, having more people want me to teach Spanish than English here, or having a sixty-five year old woman trying to convince me to hitchhike, or fall in love with Goya Sazon seasoning packets, I really never pictured sitting in my house in the Peace Corps and watching the entire first two seasons of an American television show all in French. It’s getting better though; I probably understand 70% of it.

When I end up posting this, most likely I’ll be in town, trying to work with two other volunteers on a TBA (traditional birth attendant) survey. Yes! Work! Exciting! I have a huge shopping list though, and I haven’t checked email for awhile. I hope I can get everything done. I’m also coming up with a “Sbitar survey.” I knew that it was a possibility before, but since people accuse me of being a spy, I wanted to at least be here a bit before walking around with a notebook or pen and paper asking questions and writing down answers. I think that, even if there aren’t a lot of people during Ramadan, I’ll start going to the sbitar a lot with the survey for a few weeks.
I think I’ve realized what I can’t really articulate. I’m disappointed in my placement because the people in my site aren’t really poor. One of my friends who isn’t as well off lives off about $4300 a year for her family of four. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s not really that bad. It’s more than I make a year, here. I think my knowledge and skills would be put to better use in a less organized, poorer community. That may be a little sick of me to think that way, but it’s true.

9.4.2007

I am drinking ice water right now, from my refrigerator. I finally got one, and, let me tell you, I’m enamored with it. I go open it every few minutes just to look at it or see how cold things are getting. After living without one for three months, it’s amazing being able to have ice water, keep vegetables good, and have leftovers saved.

As soon as I got it, I realized it wasn’t a true necessity; I could have lived for two years without one, but it’ll make it easier for me to be healthy, and have things like yogurt, cheese, milk, and eggs; all very important for a vegetarian. It also helps keep veggies fresher longer, which is needed when you can only buy them by the kilo or half-kilo and they go bad in a day. Sometimes, I feel badly for getting a “tleja” (fridge), the same way I feel badly for having electricity and running water. It’s a pretty common feeling here, at least with a few of us. Not everyone feels this way, but since I joined the Peace Corps, I wasn’t expecting as many luxuries as I have. Sometimes, I feel not “hard-core” enough, or like I’m in the Posh Corps too much, but what can I say? I’m living at the level of my community. That’s the goal. I still did live for three months without a fridge; I still can sleep outside when I want to. I still have to battle mice and killer scorpions. It’s not the Peace Corps of the 1960s, but I need to keep reminding myself that it’s okay to live the way I’m living.

Yes, I am battling mice right now as well. One brushed against me awhile ago as I emptied out my dirty clothes, but I ignored it and pretended it was just my imagination. However, one night last week, I saw it on my stove. It looked me in the eyes. I couldn’t ignore it, so I put out rat poison. Two mornings later, it was dead. Well, not dead yet. When I walked into the kitchen, it was laying, wheezing on the counter. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I swept it into a trash can and threw it on my burning trash in the fire pit. Just as I felt when I killed the crazy scorpion, I almost felt really sorry for it.

When I got back from my unexpectedly long weekend (more on that later), there was another mouse dead under my sink. I don’t know if it’s better to just let them live in peace in my house with me, or to have to poison and dispose of dead mice all the time. We’ll see. I put away the poison, but if I find another mouse, I guess I’ll get it back out.

My house right now is inhabited by a frog as well as my mice and scorpions and crickets and lizards and flies and ants. I tried to sweep him out the door, but he really wanted to stay, so I’m ignoring him right now. He’s pretty big, but harmless. I know frogs eat flies; maybe they eat crickets and scorpions too? For all intents and purposes, having a frog is really no different than mice, but it seems a lot more benign.

But, enough about critters, though I am really tempted to get a cat to keep the bugs and mice in order. I’ve never had a cat though, and don’t know if they’d just make it harder to keep the house clean. We’ll see.

This weekend was fun, but intense. I went to two gorges in Ouarzazate Province; one near Tinghir, and one near Boulmalne. It was a lot of fun to meet up with friends, cook American food, and see another friends’ site. Her site is perfect; it’s pretty much what I wanted in a site and I think I’d be happier there than I am at my site. Small (1,200 people), built on the side of a mountain, houses are mainly mud and stone, and it’s just peaceful. It’s a lot poorer than my site and they don’t have as many families with people working abroad, but the people are friendlier than the people at my site, if that’s possible.

In any case, the gorges were fun, but not as much as they were built up to be. Everyone at my site seems to be absolutely enamored with them. “Is tkit lgorj? Is tkit lgorj?” and when I told them I’d never been, the answer was unequivocally “Why?!” They are fun and beautiful, but not necessarily as big of a draw as I had expected. In any case, if you come visit me during the summer, we’ll probably go because it’s cool, and I’m glad I went.

My mouth is burning from eating spicy olives. Reason number 231 why having a fridge is worthwhile: olives. Yum.

We went to my friend’s site on Saturday, spent the night there, then headed to the gorge on Sunday afternoon. I had seen my tobis driver in the morning in my souk town, and asked him if he’d save me a seat. “Sure.” However, when I got back from the gorges, it ends up the tobis was full and the driver had not saved me a seat. A friend nearby let me stay at her site for the night, which was fun, but I was really frustrated with the tobis. It’s the only way in and out, and if I can’t get a seat saved, even when I ask in person the same day, it means that no matter when I go to my souk town, I have to sit around and wait 2 or 2 and a half hours before the tobis leaves to get a seat.

I was also quite relieved that Peace Corps was nice about it and the person on duty over the weekend even called my Program Manager to get permission for me to stay with my friend instead of my souk town. I hate having to call in things and bother staff on the weekend, or on holidays, or after hours, but I was relieved and pleasantly surprised that they even interrupted my PM on the weekend to make my life easier or more comfortable. Not to mention the fact that I wasn’t given a hard time when my phone accidentally dialed the same staff member after hours twice in one week. Today, when a friend took my phone and pretended to talk to her niece on it, she hit “call,” and it dialed the last called number. I was so embarrassed; I think I’ll write an apology email.

I could say a lot about this weekend, but I’ll just leave it with there’s something energizing about staying up with the girls until midnight, then hiking for four or five hours along a river in a deep gorge with a picnic lunch, eating fresh figs along the way. Some kids called out to us, “do you want apples?” and even when we said, “no thanks,” they thrust eight of them at us. Twice. I know I always talk about food and fruit, but I’m going to be quite frustrated at home unless I live in a city with a really good farmers’ market, or learn to garden myself.

Apparently, my neighborhood has a name I didn’t know about. It’s something like “Taqantntaqadondt.” I think I’ll stick to the more general “ijgel.” It’s safer. Last time I tried to pronounce a neighborhood in Tamazitinu and messed it up, it was “Ait Koko.” I pronounced it “Ait Qoqo.” Doesn’t seem like it’d be a big deal, but “qo” is a very vulgar term for fornication, so I feel like I have to be exceedingly careful.

For some reason, I’ve been in a really bad mood today. I’m not sure why, but it feels like something physical; exhaustion, maybe. My nurse even noticed and I think it made him unhappy, so I left early because he kept trying to cheer me up in the wrong ways. “You aren’t happy today or excited to be here. I can tell, because when you’re happy, you bring your notebook and pen, or a lesson. When you’re not, you just sit there and think.”

It’s true. I think one of my issues is going to the sbitar, and the expectations there. It’s not that I don’t think it’s important to go, but the idea that I’d have a lesson every day I go, even if it’s once a week, seems a bit, well, not really effective right now. My Tam is stick sketchy, and I don’t feel like it’s quality to sit there with a pre-scripted short “lesson” and lecture the women, even if it’s informal and one-on-one. The fact that they don’t know me and it’s just feeding information means it probably won’t stick, and it seems rather condescending. I much prefer being able to do classes and ask questions, do demonstrations or activities and engage people so they understand and don’t just sit there while I lecture them.

However, that kind of lesson takes a lot more prep work and a lot more Tam than I have right now. I have two lessons like that prepared; maybe I can do them if I get the materials together. But it feels a lot more productive to do it differently.

I set up a “meeting” with him tomorrow so hopefully we can discuss some project ideas I have. I’m serious about doing the girls’ group. I think we’ll do it, though it may have to wait to be “official” and going until after Ramadan. They are coming over tomorrow night; I’ll have to buy some stuff for juice and come up with a little lesson so I feel like I can have a “lesson plan:” maybe melon/yogurt shake, grapes and if there are good vegetables, some sort of veggies and dip to eat, and then a basic nutrition lesson and have the girls draw themselves with their favorite healthy foods. I’ve already talked to two parents, who seem perplexed but okay with the idea. Other than that, hopefully I can work with the women’s association in my souk town to work on the pre-natal classes.

Last week, I saw some girls (some of “my” girls, actually) with pompas (syringes) from the sbitar in their hands. I was livid. I really would like to do some sort of medical waste disposal project, because, really, it’s sad. Tonight, at dinner, I brought it up with a very bright 11-year old who acts like she’s 17, and she said, “Oh, no, it’s okay to use the syringes from the sbitar for henna if you boil them and bleach them first.” Where in the world are they getting this idea? It seems like it comes from a somewhat “legitimate” source if even an 11-year old knows they are involved in disease transmission but thinks that you can sterilize them and use them. But nobody seems interested in an incinerator, and the little research I’ve been able to procure doesn’t really seem like there is a better alternative that would work in rural Morocco.

I met some of my neighbors today: it ends up it’s the family of the teachers’ wife who I liked so much my first few weeks in site. Good people; no shock there. Delicious lunch, and it still is strange but fascinating and comforting to me when people ask if you want to take a nap or rest at their house. I’ve never fallen asleep, but I was close today, between couscous at noon, and lunch at 1:45, actually laying down on the ground with a pillow in the tea room. Most of the women were, but it’s strange and really nice that even if you just met them an hour earlier, they still don’t mind you sleeping on their floor in the afternoon.

I met a man named Zakareya today… the Moroccan (Arabic?) version of Zachariah. Love the name.
9.6.2007

Today is sort of a “get things in order” day because I’m going to a 5-day VSN (Volunteer Support Network) member training. It’s a peer-counseling group for current PCVs here, so after the training, my name will be on a list for people to call if they need support. I’m excited about the training a lot, but I’m also feeling like I’ve left my site a lot the last few weeks. I need to stay in more; but at the same time, I’m really excited about tentative plans in a few weeks for a weekend with a gorge hike where you need to swim across the river a couple times. If I wait too much longer, it’ll be too cold and I’ll have to wait until next summer. I never thought I’d have the dilemma of feeling like work-related leave (VSN training) and out-of-site weekends feel like too much time away from site. I also have to go to the provincial capital for a Delegue meeting in the beginning of October, and then there is a holiday weekend in the middle of the month.

Well, in any case, VSN should be good. I washed clothes this morning, and am going to go in the afternoon to take pictures of my neighbors’ family in the fields. The corn is growing high, and the fields are really just amazing right now; green, lush, and peaceful. My next-door-neighbor asked if I had a camera, and then asked if I’d mind taking pictures. The truth is, I don’t. She gives me two ears of corn a day that aren’t ready to boil yet, but are delicious when charred in the open flame of a butagas stove. She’s also had me over for dinner two or three times. I give her a bottle of ice water whenever she needs it now and have given her half of a melon a few times, but I like the idea of another way to give back to her. In fact, I don’t care if half the families in town want me to take their pictures in the field. If it makes them happy, it’ll make me feel like I can do something for people.

I made a frappicino today. It’s nothing too special: leftover coffee from yesterday that I froze, then defrosted in the fridge today so it was really cold, ice, a lot of milk powder, sugar, and spices: ginger, cardamom, and cinnamon. If I close my eyes, it could almost be from a coffee shop. I’ve also realized why I blog so much about food: I usually blog at home when I’m eating, or while my food is cooking. Right now, I have beans with peppers and potatoes on the stove. I think I’ll eat it for lunch wrapped in cabbage leaves.

Yesterday, I had my first successful “Girl’s Group” meeting. There were only six of them, which is a good number, but they came over earlier than I thought, so I hadn’t come up with a real lesson plan. Instead, I fell back on one of the easiest and most effective hand-washing lessons that we did during training.

First, we all just chatted and I gave them juice (melon and strawberry yogurt smoothie), grapes, and bread with olive oil. Then, we talked about when you wash your hands and why. The point was illustrated with a small demonstration.

I sprinkled a bit of pepper on the girls’ hands and had them rub them together. Then, we washed with just water. Even though they couldn’t see the pepper, they could still smell it. Germs (microbat) are the same way; even if you wash with water, they are still there even though you can’t see them. We then all washed with soap, and, voila. No pepper smell, because soap gets rid of it the same way soap gets rid of germs when just water won’t do it.

We all sat around and drew afterwards; I hadn’t come up with a related art project yet. Speaking of which, I want to get the girls to make soap dishes and decorate them someday. If anyone has any ideas of how to make them with cheap materials, let me know. I don’t think we have clay that would work: just dirt, which would get really gross when it got wet (like my house walls).

They stayed about two hours, and then I sent them outside to play when they started getting a little restless and rowdy. All in all, it was a lot of fun, and I think I can do it every week, enshallah.

It’s good to feel like I’ve started to do something, even if it’s just with six little girls. The hardest thing for me right now is feeling like I can’t give back yet, or no matter what I do, it won’t be enough or repay this incredible gift of an experience that I have been given.

The more I talk to some people here, the more naïve I feel. I really, truly thought that by coming, we could work together to make a difference or an impact on the health of my community. To be honest, I don’t know if I can. This might sound really negative, but it’s true. I can try to do my best, but I don’t know what kind of a long-term impact I can have. I had a really long and good conversation about this and what brings people to Peace Corps the other night. There are a lot of people who are here either for adventure, or to add something to their resume. When I came, it wasn’t really for either reason, though I knew both were good side benefits. I wanted to work in development, and do something that was bigger than just staying at home and working in an office somewhere. I wanted to experience a different life, live it, and hopefully learn from it and help people empower themselves. The Peace Corps seemed like a good entry-level, hands-on development organization.

But how much development work do we really do? It almost feels like 80% of what I’m doing here is having the best vacation of my life and living the easy life among this community of hard workers. It’s adventure, it’s cross-cultural, and it’s fun. I don’t think I’m exceptionally lazy here. I’m trying to find projects and do them. It’s just a lot harder than I thought, what, with limited resources and funding and limited language skills. I don’t know what needs of the community I can meet, let alone if they can be sustainable.

Shwiya b shwiya. Imiq s imiq. Patience is something a lot of people here have in droves, but I still have a lot to learn about relaxing and waiting. Shwiya b shwiya: I knew this had to be my motto even before I came. I had no idea how difficult or how relevant this motto would become. I just don’t know if I’ll ever be able to repay the kindness and generosity.

I’m constantly stunned at how much I have been given since coming to Morocco, both from people back home as well as my neighbors here. When I was in town last week, I got a letter from a friend that was 24 pages handwritten. She had worked at a summer camp, and worked on the letter throughout the summer, sending it to me a week ago. What a gift! My parents constantly send me care packages and letters that are almost as detailed about their lives as my blog is (with newspaper clippings!). Both of my parents are going through big changes with jobs and I’m really proud of them. One friend sent me a care package with a great book and recent issues of The Economist, Harpers, and The New Yorker. I have another long handwritten letter from a friend I’ve known less than a year. People are very helpful with long gossipy emails and useful resources, and even just the little comments on my blog from people are very uplifting. I feel much more connected to your world than I ever expected. Thank you, thank you, thank you. La irham lwelidin (God bless your parents).


PS- I let the frog go last night. I kind of liked him a lot, but I could tell he wasn’t happy. He just kept cowering in the corner of my bathroom, so I caught him in the bucket I use to flush my Turkish toilet and threw him outside. Bslama, kind frog.

Link to glossary, in case I use confusing terms, as I am apt to do:

http://shwiyabshwiya.blogspot.com/2007/08/glossary.html

 

August 24, 2007

 

Another fantastic day.

 

I woke up this morning, and after a sort of slow and lazy morning, went to the sbitar. I always feel productive when I go, even when I do essentially nothing, like today. I sit and watch and make casual conversation with the women. My nurse, I think, is disappointed that I don't prepare more lessons, but the truth is, after my tooth-brushing lesson sort-of fiasco, I don't want to rush into bad health lessons. I'd rather go slowly and make sure I do quality, understandable lessons.

 

For the second time this week, I walked out of the sbitar with a gift. The first was a package of coffee from France. One woman, actually, the woman with a house that has a real stone countertop, ceiling fans, elaborately carved ceilings, a bidet, and, well, you get the picture, did what a lot of people with family abroad do: bring medicine from France to the sbitar. In the bag, she had another few goodies for my nurse. As he doesn't drink coffee, and he knows I do, he gave me the coffee grounds. Today, a woman came with a bag full of raw, in-the-shell almonds, and my nurse gave them to me too.

 

Now, when I first saw people bring things, I was worried. Is it corruption? Is it bribery? But, the more I get to know people here, I see it's the same thing as when people give away outfits families bring from abroad, or bring me grapes or eggplants or figs from their gardens. It's just sharing what people have. My nurse is adored by the community, so much that in February, people in my "neighborhood" wrote letters to the provincial health delegation saying, "Never take him away!" Gifts are really just their way of showing that they care. So, I felt completely comfortable taking the coffee and almonds, but, again, it makes me wonder what else I can do to give back to the community, besides work really hard to do my job.

 

As a result, I stopped by my hostfamily's house for tea (and fried eggplant! Yum!) and gave her the entire bag of almonds. She seemed really excited, and it made me feel good to do it. I've also given my next-door neighbor half of a sweet, green melon (called lemnun) a few times when I've bought them because they don't keep without a fridge and the most I can eat in a day is half.

 

On the way to the sbitar this morning, I got another invite for lunch, and, as always unless I have other plans, I accepted. It was fantastic: another family I don't know very well but absolutely love now. Once more, we danced to Berber music, and I just felt welcomed and accepted. Beautiful. The woman, who is the sister of the old woman I said I considered to be like my hostmother who lived next door to my hostfamily, if that makes sense, had another sister visiting from Rabat, and they said I was welcome anytime. It's absolutely amazing the networks of people I have here. I could probably travel to any big city in Morocco, as well as Barcelona, Montpellier, Lille, and Paris without having to eat out or stay in a hotel. I wouldn't be surprised if, ten years down the line, someone's family member or friend spends the night in my house in the US. That's just how it goes.  

 

Once at home, I was visited by a group of four girls. Then another two came. Then another. Soon, there were seven girls and myself, sitting around, listening to my eclectic music collection, dancing, laughing, and having lots of awkward silence as well, where they were whispering to themselves.

 

I had a stroke of genius. Well, not genius. Part of what I'm supposed to do for my community analysis is to make a community map. I'm nervous about walking around drawing as I go or taking notes, because, well, some people already think I'm a spy. Making a map won't really do anything to assuage people's fears. I asked them if they'd make me a map and broke out colored pencils and blank paper.

 

Well, I told them they could draw or make a map, and, of course, they drew, and the map idea was out the door. There's always next time. They gave the pictures to me, and I   realized they really help my "office" look brighter. I love how hectic it looks now and how crazy it is: I have a local map, six or eight health posters, my felt human body and human body parts, six or eight papers to remind me of what my project goals are, a to-do list, and now, a dozen kid's drawings all nailed into the adobe. I also have two makeshift shelves, my bike, all my empty suitcases, a brand-new captain's chair from Marjane (the best buy ever!), and a messy desk. It's, well, comfortable.

 

While I was entertaining and holding art class (it's funny how girls all over the world resort to drawing either a house, or a girl with flowers and trees, though I have pictures of some of the most creative flowers on my wall now, as well as a delightful picture of a mosque with "<<<<" coming out of the tower: the call to prayer), my next door neighbor came to feed her sheep in our shared courtyard, and she invited me to dinner. Wow. I didn't have to cook at all today.

 

After a short respite where I started about a million small projects: rearranging things in my salon, organizing my desk, switching out tables in two rooms, creating a new system for keeping water cool, cleaning, building a second temporary "shelf" in my office, trying to make pickled garlic and onions, trying to make another container of pickled ginger… you get the point….   I finally went to dinner and had a lovely time.

 

Now, I know I've mentioned brochettes, but I don't think I've ever talked about how revolting I found the process the first few times I've seen it. Essentially, on a table, one that is usually eaten off of at meals, a few people sit around and cut up an animal, normally a sheep. They start with what would be normally be eaten in the US: steak-like bits. Then, it goes to someone who sits there and winds and cuts and separates intestines. The stomach, I think, is stuffed with something, the other organs are laid over the charcoal fire and wrapped in fat, and the large intestine is wrapped tightly with the small intestine and then skewered. Some of the same people handling the meat, which at times squirts blood and other fluids, are eating off the common platters without washing their hands, or eating cookies and drinking tea while dissecting said organs. The smell is, well, overwhelming at first, and watching it come around and being urged to eat intestines wrapped in intestines, or liver wrapped in fat was, well, difficult with my pseudo-vegetarian self for the first few times, especially after watching people up to their elbows in meat juice and dangling organs and fat.

 

But watching about a month ago, it hit me. It's not strange, disgusting, or gross that people are eating these parts of the animal. It's good. It's not wasteful, things like liver are rich in nutrients and iron, and this is how people have eaten meat for a long time. Most cultures eat meat if the people can afford it, and they eat organs, fat, bone marrow, and skin. It's really only in a few cultures, like mainstream American culture, that these things are strange to some people. It's not a strange ritual… it's beautiful. Of course, safe handling of meat and cross-contamination is an issue I can and will address, but that I was actually disgusted the first time I saw it disgusts me now.

 

I was staring at them preparing the brochettes tonight, trying to figure out what organ was what and what they do to everything. I explained that I was staring because I've never seen people make brochettes up close. "Join us and help then, you can learn."

 

Once more, at first I was disgusted. "No, thanks…." But then I realized I was doing it again. I have a problem, and it's that I have a meat complex. Meat, especially raw meat, or gristle, or fat, or tendons, or bones… it just creeps me out. Grosses me out. I don't even like touching dirty dishes that have had meat, and when I have my own cutting board when living with roommates, it was a non-meat cutting board.

 

I'm not ready to eat intestine-wrapped intestines, or fat-wrapped liver, or stuffed stomach lining. But I guess I could touch it. So, towards the end, I started picking up chunks of raw liver and wrapping them in fat, then skewering them with my bare hands, getting up to my elbows in raw meat juice, and smelling like raw meat no matter how furiously I washed my hands.  

 

It's strange, even the little things that change. Two months ago, I hated Hawai soda (just one "i"). It's this sickeningly sweet pineapple, coconut, and orange flavored soda that reminded me of a carbonated Kool-Aid. I much preferred Coke, and every time there was a big dinner and there was Coke and Hawai and I got Hawai and other people got Coke, it made me slightly annoyed.

 

Now, there's no question: I much prefer Hawai. It's still sickeningly sweet, but most women in my town prefer it and a lot won't even drink any "black soda," and somehow, it just seems to quench my thirst more.

 

I also initially refused to drink out of the communal cup. It's against my better judgment still, but I do it. I don't even think about the fact that I constantly eat from a communal plate. Grand taxis that are meant to hold five people at the most, but don't leave until there are seven people (including the driver) don't feel that crowded anymore. Cramming 30 people in a 15-passenger van, or sharing one seat with three girls under ten, or being squished between two strangers so much that you can't even sit back in the seat feels normal. I don't mind sprinkling baby powder all over my floors to keep out bugs, or keeping OMO soap sprinkled on my kitchen countertop at all times because it's the only thing that prevents ants. The best thing to do with vegetables that have gone bad is to cut off the bad part. Yogurt stays good three or four days without being refrigerated. Powdered milk is delightful, especially when mixed with a little sugar water. I can bring my Newsweek into the bathroom with my Turkish toilet just the way I can at home with a Western toilet. I taught a Moroccan who only speaks Arabic how to count to three in Berber, and told another man from Rabat who was on my bus from Meknes what cities we were going to go through before we got to his destination because I knew and he didn't… but I still don't feel like a Morocco expert, or a hard-core PCV.

 

On a lighter note, I love that the way you say "fruit" in my area is "dessert." It's eaten after the meal, as the only dessert, besides some people who use soda as dessert instead. I look forward to it every time I eat a big meal out. There's nothing like fresh grapes (adil) or watermelon (dleH) or green melon (lemnun) after a plate of couscous or tagine. I enjoy it as much, if not more, than an American dessert after a meal.

 

I also learned a new phrase today that I love: "Adigs iga bislamt." I believe it means something to the extent of "Inside me has peace," or "I contain peace." The best part though is that…well… it's hard to explain. When you say "dig" like "digi" or "digs," it means to physically contain, like a river contains water, or a bowl contains fruit. You can also use it for a fever or diarrhea, but really it has the connotation of a physical state, as if peace is a tangible object that can physically rest in your body. I also love that it sounds a bit like "adig rbbi str," a way to say goodbye that means "God help you keep yourself protected."

 

The God phrases make me happy. It makes me smile every time someone says, "Allahu akbar!" (God is great) in surprise, or that people, myself included, essentially say "hallelujah" several times an hour (lhamdullah).  

 

Speaking of God, Ramadan is coming up (9/15- mid-October). I'm going to try to fast during Ramadan. For those of you who don't know, Ramadan is a Muslim holiday and a month in the Islamic calendar where adults fast from sun-up to sun-down. Fasting means nothing passes through the mouth: food, drink, water, medicine, even cigarettes. It also means no swearing or sexual activity while the sun is shining. I'm neither Muslim, nor an expert on the religion, so I'm not describing it in a way that is worthy of the holiday; if you're curious, look it up.

 

 I've never really fasted before, so I know it'll be a challenge, but I'm a bit excited about it. People ask, "Do you fast?" and my answer is, "Though I'm not a Muslim, I will try to fast because we believe in the same God and people fast in my religion sometimes too." I don't have the language skills to talk about Lent, and don't want people to think I'm proselytizing either, so I just say some people with my religion fast occasionally, but not for Ramadan.

 

I've gotten in interesting conversations about religion here—but only when other people bring it up. The way people ask if you're Muslim is by asking, "Do you pray?" My response is always, "Yes, but not the way you do."   Usually people are confused, and if they ask, I tell them, "You pray the same prayer five times a day, always? I pray sometimes. Some days I may pray five or ten times, some days maybe once or not at all. I don't say the same thing every time, I just talk to God."

 

"What do you say?"

 

So I make up a simple prayer I can say in Tam. "God, thank You for the food I eat. Help me do what You want me to do. Thank You for letting me come to Tamazitinu where the people are friendly and nice. Please protect my friends and family and their health. God is great. Amen."

 

People generally kind of give a "hmmm," and the conversation changes. Well, half the time, they try to convert me, but I just say I like my religion and I find Islam beautiful, like a brother religion but I won't change religions. Occasionally I'll get a "oh, poor thing," but usually it's been fairly respectful.

 

August 26, 2007

 

It's been another, well, intense but good day. I was invited to a wedding on Friday in the nearest "outer" douar. It's not far from town; the only separation is the newly paved road, but it does take about 45 minutes or an hour to walk from my house to the end of it, so I've not ventured over that way often.

 

After watching half of Brokeback Mountain (I'm desperate for DVDs and books!), and finishing a novel, I headed over to meet up with a teacher in that douar that speaks decent English.

 

I don't think I've talked about her before. I met her on the bus from my souk town last week. I love this woman. I feel like she's the easiest possible good friend in Tamazitinu: she's from Rabat, she speaks English, when I saw her, she was wearing jeans and no headscarf, and she's funny and lively and has a DVD collection she doesn't mind sharing.

 

In the bus, last Tuesday, she started talking about the road. "It's great that the road is paved, but it's a little sad too. It was romantic, living off of a dirt road." Yes, she and I do have a bit in common.  

 

I texted her because the wedding I was invited to while at the sbitar was in her douar and she mentioned so I could go with her. I met her at twelve at another women's house and we sat around chatting for a few hours. Good people. I don't know if I'll ever, even after two years, get over how friendly and welcoming and kind people are here. Not only was I offered the normal fruit and bread and tea and peanuts, but they also told me I could use their shower whenever I wanted: a hot, beautiful, clean shower. I could have showered there today, but I had a 45-minute walk ahead of me anyway, so it's not that practical. But fun people, really laid back and joking around.

 

The wedding was fun but my legs fell asleep the way they always do. People were nice and friendly, but I was glad for it to be over. "Come back to dinner!" I'd love to, but was definitely too exhausted.

But rather than go home, my teacher friend invited me to her house: one of the government provided teacher homes. I had brought her two DVDs, chosen carefully for their non-hshuma qualities, and two English books just in case she wanted to read them. She lent me a season of Grey's Anatomy, and Night at the Museum (which are only French, unfortunately), and Marie Antoinette, which I just finished.

 

To my utter surprise, she had a lot of movies that, well, shocked me. The most shocking was "Secretary." If you don't know about the movie, look it up. It's, well, not exactly what I thought I would find in a woman's house in rural Morocco. When she saw how surprised I was, she showed me "The Girl Next Door," which I haven't seen but she said was much more hshuma than "Secretary." Interesting, especially considering the two of us and another friend of hers sat outside: she wore shorts and a tank-top. Granted, there was no way people could see her without us having advanced warning, but I'm constantly shocked and then surprised at my shock at the things that I find occasionally in an Arab country.

 

To make the day even better, if that was possible, I asked her if the principal had ever mentioned me to her or other teachers that she knew of. I explained the picture situation (see "Site Visit" from May for more information) and she said she's sure it wasn't a problem and that he's a nice guy and when he comes back, I should just talk to him. She also said she'd put in a good word for me and tell him as well. Good, good stuff. I still hate that a stupid mistake three months ago that was a complete accident and done in good faith could have burned professional bridges before I was even sworn in as a Volunteer. Hopefully, with her help if needed, I'll be able to patch things up.

 

On the way home, I was offered corn roasting on palm (date trees are like palm trees) fronds, and was offered tea at another family's house in that douar. I like the people there a lot. On the way there, I was invited for lunch, and when I explained about the wedding, they said, "Okay, see you at one o'clock tomorrow then for lunch." Have I mentioned how easy it can be to feel accepted into a community when you eat at different people's houses, let's see… five or six times in the last five days, and already an invite for next? Of course, it comes crashing down when people say the word "espionage" or question my motives, but, really, I love the people here, and it's nice to be able to giggle in English with someone unmarried and older than I am, who tells me not to be pressured to wear a headscarf and wears jeans herself, who knows more about American movie stars than I do, and who seems to be in love with life in general, but really enjoys life in the bled. I'm glad she's far enough away that I won't use her as a crutch.

 

August 27, 2007

 

Cooking here is a lot harder than I thought it would be. It's especially hard to be creative with one time a week in town for special ingredients, no fridge, and a meager amount of food available at site a few days a week.

 

Yesterday was a "Fresh Veggies In Town" day, so I got a kilo of grapes, four cucumbers, half a kilo of carrots, and a kilo of tomatoes, passing over the shriveled potatoes and peppers, figuring it'd keep me until Thursday. I was wrong. I polished off the grapes last night (yes, 2.2 pounds of them), and used half of the carrots and a cucumber in my attempt of the type of food I'd eat at home: a cold Asian vermicelli salad. It was palatable, good, even, but not great.

 

I went to a taHanut today after lunch out. They weren't supposed to be open, but the wife of the owner was walking down the alleyway and I asked when it would be open, so she let me pop in and get a few things: eggs, soda, and a Monaish. I made deviled eggs tonight with mustard from Marjane and they were, also, okay. I don't see myself settling down and cooking Moroccan food all the time, mainly because the flavor wouldn't be right without meat juices and I don't eat the meat itself, but with the availability of things, I'm starting to understand the lack of variety. And, again, compared to, say sub-Saharan Africa, there is a lot more variety than I give credit for. Once again, lesson learned. Of course, that's not to say that I'm not going to fight for the next two years to have creative, interesting, and different foods.   I'm sad my fig tree is now empty, or else I'd try a fig salsa.

 

I did find out what the other tree in my shared garden is: quince. They're small but ripe, but a lot of work: scraping the hair off the outside, then washing or peeling, coring, and boiling in water. If they were large it wouldn't be bad, but they're rather the size of crabapples instead of apples, so it's a pain for food that's not that great. We'll see if I figure anything out with them.

 

I'm going to need to put a limit on how many girls come over to my house. Today, there were twelve. This is getting a bit hard to control and out of hand (and my colored pencils and paper supply is dwindling!), but I'd love to do something more formal with it: have them all come over once a week for healthy snacks (and be prepared for it!), art projects, and a health lesson. They LOVE to draw. I don't know if most kids here just don't have art supplies at home, but for some reason, even the 14-year olds settle down and take it seriously.

 

In an attempt at learning more about the girls, I asked them to draw self-portraits, and they happily obliged. It'll be fun to do art and health together. I'm going to need to find out who everyone's parents are and talk to them about it so that they know what's going on though. I think it's something I could start within the next few weeks… it just started happening and I rather enjoy them coming over too… and it's not just because they like to clean my house! If I did it on Fridays, I could get ingredients for fun and healthy snacks in my souk town on Thursdays, as well as any special supplies I need.   I may also split it into two groups: a younger group and an older group, because, really, I don't want more than six or eight girls in my house at a time. Smaller groups are easier to control, and also make it easier to get to know them.

 

To think; two weeks ago, I was worried about whether girls would be even interested to come to a "girls health group." Though I haven't called it that, I don't think it'll be a problem getting it started, and I can't wait to have a tangible project started, even one as simple as a girl's health group.

 

I've been in-country 174 days. Insane. Almost half a year. It feels in so many ways like I just got here. I'm amazed at how I still feel like I know nothing about Morocco. I've barely scratched the surface, but I'm also starting to accept things I never thought I'd accept. At lunch today, despite the fact that I literally had to sit in the room and watch the men eat first, stomach growling, it was more of an annoyance than a personal affront. It's the first time I've been present for it, really watching people eat right in front of me before me, just because of my gender… and had it not hit me in the chest, in my stomach, in my heart. Do I want to become comfortable with it? I don't know. I don't know what to think about it still. I would never come close to accepting that at home, but I also wouldn't accept people trying to convert me to another religion at home on a regular basis, or women saying, "Wear lipstick, so you can find a husband," or "You need to learn to bake bread so you can find a husband."

 

I'm going to visit a friend at her site this weekend. It should be fun… it's up a gorge that I've heard is absolutely stunning. Then, the next weekend, I'm back to a random part of the country that I've been to three times now, for VSN (Volunteer Support Network) training. It's a five-day workshop to train us on how to be good peer counselors and listeners for Volunteers in-country. It should be a good time, but it means the next two weeks I'll be out of my site a lot.   I used to count down the days until I was able to go out-of-site, but I dislike it now. As much as it's great to see other volunteers, I actually enjoy being at my site as well.

 

Oh, and, obviously going to do health lessons in the outer douars didn't happen: we couldn't get the use of a car for the weekend. Oh, well. There'll be other opportunities, I'm sure.

 

 

August 29, 2007

 

I don't usually remember my dreams. Sometimes, I'll go through periods of time where I'll remember several dreams a night for a few weeks or months, but usually, they're elusive, or I'll have an inkling of the tone or emotions of a dream without remembering images or plot.

 

Last night, I had a dream about going home for a visit. It was, as most dreams are, not very coherent or fluid, but I remember going to PC Headquarters in Washington for some sort of a "readjustment to the US" workshop. I also remember going to my old job (and being miserable there, in my dream), and seeing random people, like a friend from high school I've only seen once in the last four or five years. I remember I had a reason to go home, besides just the visit, but I don't remember what the reason was. I was afraid since I didn't tell PC that I was leaving Morocco that I'd get kicked out, and it made me sad to think I might not be able to go back. The most important feeling I had the entire time, though, was, "I shouldn't be here. I should have stayed in Morocco. There was no reason to come home. Home feels wrong right now. I should have stayed."

 

It was, in some sort of way, telling. Though I plunged into the Peace Corps afraid only of rejection, and not really too afraid of what would happen once I got in-country, I did have some fears, buried deep down. How would I be emotionally? What will it be like being isolated? Will I be able to make friends, real friends here? I don't have the answer. I don't feel like I can communicate enough to have true Moroccan friends yet, besides some LCFs from training. But, what I've come to realize is that I'm happy here. I'm really… happy. Not necessarily joyful or bursting with energy or upbeat or optimistic, but content. I feel like this is exactly what I'm supposed to be doing right now, like this is what my life is supposed to be like now.

 

I don't know if I can explain it any better, or if I make any sense, but I'm thriving in the discomfort, in the challenges, in the fact that there is no question that I am both the same and drastically different than everyone else here. Life, in lots of ways, is easier now than it has ever been for me, because things just feel real. And despite the fact I don't really feel like I have true friends yet, there are about… oh… 11 or 12 households that I feel perfectly comfortable walking up to and knocking on their door, essentially inviting myself over for tea.

 

The last few days have been somewhat interesting in a work-related way as well. I was stopped yesterday on my way home from the sbitar by a woman who I think of as the "rich woman." I know it's not necessarily true, but she lives in the house that has to be the nicest I've seen so far in Tamazitinu. She's friendly, but for some reason, I don't understand her Tam at all.

 

In any case, she stopped me and asked me a question. All I got from it were, "…expensive to give birth in hospital… 20,000 ryals (~$120 US)… poor woman… no money… organization… American association… money…"

 

Right. Well. I know, if push came to shove, I could raise $120 for a woman to give birth in the hospital. I could probably do it from this blog, if push came to shove.   But, that's not my job here. I'm not here for money for direct services, though doing it once or twice would be acceptable. I'm here to help create infrastructure to help the people empower themselves. However, I didn't want to turn anyone down, so I acted like I didn't understand.

 

I'm glad I did, because it turns out, I really didn't understand. They weren't looking for a one-time donation of $120 for a woman to give birth. They're forming an association with other nearby towns and wanted to know if I wanted to be involved. The association is supposed to help build a womens' center in my souk town that does free childbirth for poor women. There are two representatives from my town, both qablas (TBAs)  as well as 5 or 6 other surrounding towns.

 

Most likely, by the time I post this blog, I will have met with the president of the association in my souk town to see exactly what is going on, and see where I can fit in. I'm really excited about the possibilities, though I have lots of questions. What I think excites me the most though is that it gives a real forum and resources for my idea of doing prenatal classes, and, if, and of course, I can't depend on it, it works out, there's also the possibility of implementing them in nearby towns, and have an association that will sustain them, if it is something that the women believe in. Awesome. I'm totally, completely pumped. Of course, I'm not sure how feasible the whole thing is, but the fact that people are organizing makes me think that there are definitely possibilities.

 

On a less upbeat note, I went to part of a funeral today. I don't really understand who died and how, but I know that the wailing of some of the female family members will stay with me for a long time. Especially the mother of the deceased, who, tears streaming down her face, kept repeating "Fadma Brahiminu! Fadma Brahiminu! Fada Brahiminu!" "My Fadma Brahim! My Fadma Brahim!" or her daughter, who wailed, softer, "Manu, Manu, Manu, Manu…" "My mother, my mother, my mother, my mother…" I felt like an intruder, but my friend took me with her.

 

It's rough, seeing how some people struggle. I have a friend who has been very, well, friendly and welcoming since the first time I met her. I haven't seen her in awhile, and when I saw her at the sbitar a few days ago, she seemed almost hurt. "Why haven't you come to see me?"   She invited me to come over today, after the late-afternoon call to prayer. At five o'clock, I knocked on her door and didn't get back home until 11pm.

 

She has a small beautiful son, but her husband treats her badly and drinks, her mother and father-in-law don't let her see her mother often, she hates her father who divorced her mother, and her mother lives a good two hours away. Not only that, but she's in her late 20s, uneducated, and really has nowhere to go but her husbands' family's house. On the outside, she looks happy; she has a beautiful son, she lives in a huge house with two tvs and I just found out today, a room with an air conditioning unit (I don't know how often they turn it on; it wasn't tonight). Her husband has a good job in Marrakech and is very physically attractive, if I do say so myself. But she's really downtrodden on the inside, despite her sort of bubbly and cheerful appearance. I can't rescue her, but I can do everything I can when I'm here to give her joy. Maybe I'll see if she can take me to see her mother for a weekend. I know she'd be much more likely to be able to go if I said I wanted to see that town.

 

And, unless I hitchhike (which I can't), I can't go to my souk town tomorrow because the tobis, I hear, isn't running. I feel like I'm letting down a friend because I can't visit her, but what's a girl to do?