Tuesday, May 1, 2012
The Last Post in Morocco
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Appendix
I forgot my my most exciting bit of news. At least I think it's thrilling. My sight mate Yusuf and I have been playing Cribbage for the last couple of months (because we are that old) and I have gotten a hold of a genuine Cribbage board. Here to fore we've been making tick marks on paper. About a week ago I pulled out the board while we were at the youth center and suddenly the game became interesting to all the students around us. So I began to teach the rules of the game to my favorite wee people and it quickly came to my attention that they have absolutely no mental math skills.
I am nothing if not a teacher, so at the first sign of math struggles out comes my pen and paper. I am thrilled to inform one and all that Cribbage has become a perfect intro to math tutoring. As yet it's too soon to see if it's working, but it's a start and that is all I need, I must admit, my kingdom for an abicus.
I am nothing if not a teacher, so at the first sign of math struggles out comes my pen and paper. I am thrilled to inform one and all that Cribbage has become a perfect intro to math tutoring. As yet it's too soon to see if it's working, but it's a start and that is all I need, I must admit, my kingdom for an abicus.
Shall we call this the "Sahara Home Companion?"
Good heavens, I’ve blinked and yet another month has zoomed past me! Oh but what adventures I had during that blink. When last we left off it was the beginning of a new month and a new year, I signed off a tired but hopeful Erika looking at the last leg of my Peace Corps journey. Now I return to you a joyful volunteer having just received my second wind as I come into the home stretch. I am now updating you from a hotel in Rabat, the capital, preparing for a week of conferences; but these are not just any conferences, these are my COS (Close of Service) conferences! This week we’re going to go over what I need to do to prepare for my impending return home. At the end of this week I will have my exact date of COS, I’m still in a bit of shock.
At this point I would like to make a disclaimer; I normally run a spelling and grammar check over my updates before I post them. However, in celebration of two years in Morocco- exact date of anniversary is March 3rd- my computer has begun to run through a gradual systems failure: first the mouse, then the left shift button, most recently the up arrow, also my auto-correct is irrevocably set to British English and every time I correct it to our style it reverts to British... stubborn old cuss, anyway. I can’t help but feel that my computer represents a tangible model of my own psyche as we both limp our way to the goal; slowly shedding superfluous accessories. My pride was the first to go, the first time I peed on my own foot trying to figure out the squatty potty, then self-respect was dropped in favour of not catching hypothermia maintain personal hygiene the first winter, my most recent abandonment has been tolerance of lies, especially cheating me of a fair price. I have taken to giving grown men lectures on right and wrong in the middle of the street when they try to charge me double the right price.
I should amend the last statement, because it is not as true in actuality as it is in my own head. My moral of the last six month or so have ended with the statement of, “You, sir, are a bad Muslim!” Were this sentence being given from a fellow Muslim it would have very little effect on the recipient, but I was warned that for a non-Muslim to call out a Muslim on bad behaviour is a very brazen thing to do; so much so that the speaker should be prepared for a tirade in response. After a year of being taken advantage of I had decided I was prepared for a tirade because a) no matter how loudly they yell, I know that the next time they try to cheat someone they will remember my assertion, and b) I wouldn’t understand half of it anyway. Imagine my confusion and, yes I must admit, disappointment when my bold assault was accepted with grace but an offer of a better price. I guess the warnings were overstated, so I continue to use this phrase for the better part of a year now to a fairly banal response throughout the country. One day I was sitting with a friend and we were talking about foods we like to eat when he says, “I really like to eat fish.” I say,”...what do you like to eat?”
The Tamazight word for Muslim is Musliman, the word for fish is isliman... guess which word I’ve been using. For the better part of a year rather than leaving people in a moral quandary my wake has been filled with existential dilemna, “Am I bad fish? Does a fish still have to pray five times a day? Do all fish go to heaven?”
Fortunately for my dignity, learning new vocab has not been my only achievement. The middle of January marked my fourth Operation Smile mission in Azemmour, on the coast near El Jadida. That whole week was mostly just a blur of work; we worked Monday through Friday 7am to 11 pm. I would be so exhausted by the time I got home every night that I would lay down and lose all consciousness until my alarm went off at 6 the next morning. I am not complaining, this is the most rewarding job I have ever had. It was not all rough though, I had a roommate who was an Italian anaesthesiologist named Liza. She had been so worried that Morocco might not drink coffee that she had brought her own beans and espresso percolator. This she kept in the room so as soon as she got up all she had to do was hit the on switch. This was especially heart warming because she was faster to jump out of bed then I was, so every morning she would hand me a fresh cup of espresso in bed. 6 am isn’t so ugly when there’s coffee.
Operation Smile Morocco has been organizing missions for almost 30 years now and from time to time the local TV stations like to acknowledge the hard work. At this mission it was 2M, the most popular station in the country; they followed a few kids around throughout the screening and operation processes, then on the last day they gave short interviews to all of the admin people to celebrate those of us behind the scenes. Since this was the last day I was running around trying to do all of the last minute files and pictures before we had to pack everything up and head back to Casablanca. All the same, since I was the token American they felt that it was mandatory I be interviewed. OK, I gave an overview of my role in the mission and told them how much I love working with the Morocco team- not an over statement, they are awesome people. Then I was back to work and thought no more of it.
About a week and a half later my dear friend Zoe Falls made a weekend trip down from England where she’s working on a Masters up at Lancaster. That was lovely; I was able to show her Marrakesh and Fes and still had her on her flight back to school before her Monday class. I have to admit, I am going to miss the ease of travel that comes from living so close to Europe. Though I will NOT miss the complications of living here and having a bank in the US that arbitrarily blocks my card and leaves me stranded in a city not my home without a dirham to my name. Thank you mom and dad for saving my AGAIN; once more I see that no matter how old we grow parents are still vital to a functional life.
It was interesting comparing my own observations of Zoe’s visit when I’ve been here for two years to that of my parents’ visit last spring when I was only at one year. Seeing mom’s reactions was fun because it reminded me of what I had thought when I first came into Morocco. Now seeing Zoe’s reactions I couldn’t remember what was weird. From time to time I would point out things that I vaguely remember as being odd, but I can’t remember what’s odd about it because I can’t remember what we do in the US. I pointed out the spice stalls because they’re pretty... I had to think about it, but we sell spices in tin boxes, yeah? I have to be honest with you guys, Zoe’s visit was a little jarring to me; I think I might start to cry the first time I try to go shopping when I get home.
Once my bank card dilemna was settled and I was again in my safe and comfortable village I was given two shocks. First, we had a huge snow storm! Yes, I live two hours north of the Sahara desert and we got a foot of snow! The day was spent making snow men. The second shock was my friend coming up to me and saying, “Turia, I saw you on 2M!” I was baffled, then, “Oh yeah! That was with the other organization I work with Operation Smile.” “May I have a picture with you?”
For the last two weeks people have been coming up to me asking if that was me on TV and either commending my hard work, or else wanting to take a picture with me. I’m a celebrity...again, lol. Yusuf laughed at me because I tend to be pretty nonchalant about it when people ask me about it. I pointed out that as the villages token white person being a celebrity is not really that new anymore. It is amusing though, that my fifteen minutes of fame come at an hour that is so thrilling that it fame seems trivial by comparison.
Well, dear readers, the time has come again when I run out of tales with which to regale you, so I shall say ado and part on the inspirational note that my next update will include the exact date of my return to your caring embrace.
* I would like to add the footnote that I have accepted the spell-checks spelling if dilemna as "dilemma." I know I've always been taught dilemna, any thoughts?
At this point I would like to make a disclaimer; I normally run a spelling and grammar check over my updates before I post them. However, in celebration of two years in Morocco- exact date of anniversary is March 3rd- my computer has begun to run through a gradual systems failure: first the mouse, then the left shift button, most recently the up arrow, also my auto-correct is irrevocably set to British English and every time I correct it to our style it reverts to British... stubborn old cuss, anyway. I can’t help but feel that my computer represents a tangible model of my own psyche as we both limp our way to the goal; slowly shedding superfluous accessories. My pride was the first to go, the first time I peed on my own foot trying to figure out the squatty potty, then self-respect was dropped in favour of not catching hypothermia maintain personal hygiene the first winter, my most recent abandonment has been tolerance of lies, especially cheating me of a fair price. I have taken to giving grown men lectures on right and wrong in the middle of the street when they try to charge me double the right price.
I should amend the last statement, because it is not as true in actuality as it is in my own head. My moral of the last six month or so have ended with the statement of, “You, sir, are a bad Muslim!” Were this sentence being given from a fellow Muslim it would have very little effect on the recipient, but I was warned that for a non-Muslim to call out a Muslim on bad behaviour is a very brazen thing to do; so much so that the speaker should be prepared for a tirade in response. After a year of being taken advantage of I had decided I was prepared for a tirade because a) no matter how loudly they yell, I know that the next time they try to cheat someone they will remember my assertion, and b) I wouldn’t understand half of it anyway. Imagine my confusion and, yes I must admit, disappointment when my bold assault was accepted with grace but an offer of a better price. I guess the warnings were overstated, so I continue to use this phrase for the better part of a year now to a fairly banal response throughout the country. One day I was sitting with a friend and we were talking about foods we like to eat when he says, “I really like to eat fish.” I say,”...what do you like to eat?”
The Tamazight word for Muslim is Musliman, the word for fish is isliman... guess which word I’ve been using. For the better part of a year rather than leaving people in a moral quandary my wake has been filled with existential dilemna, “Am I bad fish? Does a fish still have to pray five times a day? Do all fish go to heaven?”
Fortunately for my dignity, learning new vocab has not been my only achievement. The middle of January marked my fourth Operation Smile mission in Azemmour, on the coast near El Jadida. That whole week was mostly just a blur of work; we worked Monday through Friday 7am to 11 pm. I would be so exhausted by the time I got home every night that I would lay down and lose all consciousness until my alarm went off at 6 the next morning. I am not complaining, this is the most rewarding job I have ever had. It was not all rough though, I had a roommate who was an Italian anaesthesiologist named Liza. She had been so worried that Morocco might not drink coffee that she had brought her own beans and espresso percolator. This she kept in the room so as soon as she got up all she had to do was hit the on switch. This was especially heart warming because she was faster to jump out of bed then I was, so every morning she would hand me a fresh cup of espresso in bed. 6 am isn’t so ugly when there’s coffee.
Operation Smile Morocco has been organizing missions for almost 30 years now and from time to time the local TV stations like to acknowledge the hard work. At this mission it was 2M, the most popular station in the country; they followed a few kids around throughout the screening and operation processes, then on the last day they gave short interviews to all of the admin people to celebrate those of us behind the scenes. Since this was the last day I was running around trying to do all of the last minute files and pictures before we had to pack everything up and head back to Casablanca. All the same, since I was the token American they felt that it was mandatory I be interviewed. OK, I gave an overview of my role in the mission and told them how much I love working with the Morocco team- not an over statement, they are awesome people. Then I was back to work and thought no more of it.
About a week and a half later my dear friend Zoe Falls made a weekend trip down from England where she’s working on a Masters up at Lancaster. That was lovely; I was able to show her Marrakesh and Fes and still had her on her flight back to school before her Monday class. I have to admit, I am going to miss the ease of travel that comes from living so close to Europe. Though I will NOT miss the complications of living here and having a bank in the US that arbitrarily blocks my card and leaves me stranded in a city not my home without a dirham to my name. Thank you mom and dad for saving my AGAIN; once more I see that no matter how old we grow parents are still vital to a functional life.
It was interesting comparing my own observations of Zoe’s visit when I’ve been here for two years to that of my parents’ visit last spring when I was only at one year. Seeing mom’s reactions was fun because it reminded me of what I had thought when I first came into Morocco. Now seeing Zoe’s reactions I couldn’t remember what was weird. From time to time I would point out things that I vaguely remember as being odd, but I can’t remember what’s odd about it because I can’t remember what we do in the US. I pointed out the spice stalls because they’re pretty... I had to think about it, but we sell spices in tin boxes, yeah? I have to be honest with you guys, Zoe’s visit was a little jarring to me; I think I might start to cry the first time I try to go shopping when I get home.
Once my bank card dilemna was settled and I was again in my safe and comfortable village I was given two shocks. First, we had a huge snow storm! Yes, I live two hours north of the Sahara desert and we got a foot of snow! The day was spent making snow men. The second shock was my friend coming up to me and saying, “Turia, I saw you on 2M!” I was baffled, then, “Oh yeah! That was with the other organization I work with Operation Smile.” “May I have a picture with you?”
For the last two weeks people have been coming up to me asking if that was me on TV and either commending my hard work, or else wanting to take a picture with me. I’m a celebrity...again, lol. Yusuf laughed at me because I tend to be pretty nonchalant about it when people ask me about it. I pointed out that as the villages token white person being a celebrity is not really that new anymore. It is amusing though, that my fifteen minutes of fame come at an hour that is so thrilling that it fame seems trivial by comparison.
Well, dear readers, the time has come again when I run out of tales with which to regale you, so I shall say ado and part on the inspirational note that my next update will include the exact date of my return to your caring embrace.
* I would like to add the footnote that I have accepted the spell-checks spelling if dilemna as "dilemma." I know I've always been taught dilemna, any thoughts?
Monday, January 2, 2012
Finally 2012, this year I come home!
Another holiday season has come and gone, le sigh. They just aren’t the same here as they are back home. I can still remember how nasty holiday shoppers are to barristas... but now that I’ve missed out on two such seasons I miss even the cranky quips and crazy drivers. I was online just before Christmas doing research and I thought it would be nice to stream Christmas music from KBCO- I may not like technology but I’ll never speak ill of it again. Before the music started to play they ran an ad for the skating rink that’s at the mall I worked in, I admit, that I got a little choked up. Yes, it snowed here last month... but there’s no way we could sustain an outdoor skating rink. Ah, but this year it’s not so hard because I know that home is just around the bend, even if I can’t really remember what home looks like.
We had quite the epic adventure in disease scares this last month. My site mate, Yusuf, had his middle of service medical exam at the end of Nov and came back with the news that he had schistosomiasis... and if he has it then I probably have it, too. This was good news for me because it meant that as the Health education volunteer I would finally have some health based work to do. So we went into a flurry of activity raising awareness about the parasite to all of the people in our community. And we came up with a plan to treat the water for the parasite and the snails that are the vector for the schisto. We began getting in contact with anyone we could think of who might be able to help us come up with designs to treat the water and figure out how much of what we would need. Honestly, I think my enthusiasm for the potential project kind of hurt Yusuf’s feelings.
Yusuf: “I have schisto and I think it’s from Aghbelu.”
Me: “Really! Yes, I get to have a health project after all!”
Yusuf: “Don’t sound so broken up about it, I’m sure I’ll live.”
Me: “It’s only damages the liver after several decades... wait, no, I’m sorry, honey, that sucks. Do you feel OK?”
Yusuf: “Best sitey ever.”*
*I have taken great artistic license with this dialogue, Yusuf is actually incredibly supportive of me as a site mate and I count myself very blessed to have someone who thinks so highly of me. Especially because in reality he’s the rock star and I just follow along in his trail pretending to do stuff.
I was just beginning to feel very overwhelmed by how much work this project would require when Yusuf received a call from our doctor in Rabat to clarify the situation. Apparently when he said, “We have the results of your test back, you have schisto.” He meant, “We have the result of your test back and you are parasite free; but don’t swim in stagnant water because the area you live in might have schisto.” Ugh! He’s a good doctor, but the language barrier can be very confusing. Alas, so ended my fabulous health project. But I can still work on finding a way to treat the grey water (water with soap and other non-human-waste-waste water) that comes from the daily uses of the spring.
In other news, I’ve made two great additions to my job description. Resume reads: arts and crafts lady, day care teacher, English tutor, and yoga instructor.
Every Friday I now teach yoga lessons to any girl who shows up (it has to be gender segregated or the girls won’t come) and then I offer English tutoring to any of the students who have the time from class.
I’ve started the exercise classes with yoga, but the girls have expressed a strong interest in Karate (I know Tai Kwan Do, but they don’t even distinguish between limes and lemons- hey, if they don’t split hairs neither will I) All the same, I’m reticent of teaching these girls to beat up other kids without fist explaining the difference between starting a fight and getting yourself out of a pickle...maybe I’ll teach them Tai Chi instead. Very useful when defending yourself from roving gangs of sloths.
I have a brief and random aside that I could not think of a way to slip in smoothly. Our dar shebab (youth center) has a blog! www.blogspot.kerrandou.com check it out!
One health project I have been able to do this month is AIDS Awareness related. December is international AIDS/ HIV (SIDA/VIH- for those who are curious about what we call it here) Awareness month, so Yusuf and I dedicated the entire week before Christmas to SIDA/VIH oriented events. I was really pushing activities instead of lessons because these kiddos start hearing about SIDA/VIH really early in their educations; the topic is pretty dead by the time their 12. This is only concerning to me because it leads to people not taking it seriously by the time they reach high school. So I’ve been thinking back to my childhood to remember how teachers and parents made learning fun for us. I’m sure you’re sniggering because most teachers don’t even try anymore, but that makes those that do stand out that much more. Here I would like to thank educators (and, of course, mom and dad) who made learning fun. And, as someone who has racked her brain trying to make AIDS entertaining, I want to say I take my hat off to you all. You amaze me!
I’ve been racking my brain for months about what we could do- Yusuf has a whole bunch of other projects going on right now, so I was trying not to lean on him for ideas. Suddenly, during the first week of Dec, the ideas all hit me at once. And I do mean “hit”, they quite literally smote me upon the mind, had I not been sitting when it happened I would have fallen flat on my tuckus.
First, getting the chil’ens involved. Kids love to get mementos, and- even better- they’ll take anything. Background: I have been given, over the last year and a half, seven or eight yards of red ribbon meant to make AIDS Awareness ribbons (you know the shape, like breast cancer ribbons, only they’re red). Those ribbons mean nothing over here, and when I see them floating around, more often than not they’re upside down. Instead, I have been encouraging participation by using the ribbons to make bracelets! This is also great because it means I’m not giving little kids pins; fun those the mental image may be. And I make the kids participate if they want a bracelet. One kid showed up just as everything was cleaned up demanding a bracelet; I told him that he hadn’t learned anything so he couldn’t have a ribbon until the next day’s project. He was the first kid at the youth center the next day. Yes I feel smug.
Really I only had two projects but since they were new ideas they were interesting enough to keep everyone’s attention for a week.
First were origami boxes with SIDA Awareness collages. Origami has become an old topic to the kid, and we’ve been making the same four things for about two months now. So the prospect of a new thing- and one so practical as a box with a lid- was a huge hit. The collage worked out well because I have a ton of SIDA/VIH oriented handouts from every health organization in Morocco. And I have those given to me by three previous volunteers: I could paper a small bedroom with all my flyers.
Second was a book... you think it lame, but wait. I wrote a very simple story with just one sentence per page about a boy who was HIV positive but gets the medicine he needs and leads a productive and normal life; then I had one of my friends translate the story into Arabic so the kids could all read it. I pulled out my art supplies and had the kids illustrate the pages; they had to draw a picture about what they read. At first it was a difficult concept: the kids would assume the boy was dying because he had SIDA so they would draw a grave and crying people. Then I would make the kids read the book to me aloud and ask if their pictures made sense. The idea of being HIV positive and still having a life with hopes and dreams was really shocking to them. This was also a great opportunity for me to clarify for them that HIV and AIDS are not the same thing.
After a choppy start the books were popular too, but the boxes remain the biggest hit.
I especially liked these two projects because they are complicated enough for all of the students to enjoy, but simple enough that my mentally handicapped students can join in too. The box folding requires me to give a lot more help to my handicapped kids, but they can manage the collage and drawing, so we all win.
The down side to working so closely with one of my favourite kids was that he had a nasty cough, and he has a very severe learning disability; so the idea of covering his mouth when he coughed just didn’t stick. I spent the entire week being coughed on by this sweet heart of a Petri dish and ended up coming down with a plague that verged on death two days before Christmas. Alas, I spent my Christmas all alone and sick. But a bunch of people at the Christmas party I had planned on going to texted and called me to send well wishes and let me know I was missed, and my parents called me to wish me merry Christmas and then made pitying noises at my plight. So I was alone, but by no means lonely. Actually, it was a great opportunity for me to look at my life and realize that with the love and support of friends and family like mine nobody could be lonely.
I don’t care if it’s a mushy thing to do, it’s the holidays and that’s the time to be mushy. I want to thank you all for making my life so very, very rich. I’d be lost without you guys.
We had quite the epic adventure in disease scares this last month. My site mate, Yusuf, had his middle of service medical exam at the end of Nov and came back with the news that he had schistosomiasis... and if he has it then I probably have it, too. This was good news for me because it meant that as the Health education volunteer I would finally have some health based work to do. So we went into a flurry of activity raising awareness about the parasite to all of the people in our community. And we came up with a plan to treat the water for the parasite and the snails that are the vector for the schisto. We began getting in contact with anyone we could think of who might be able to help us come up with designs to treat the water and figure out how much of what we would need. Honestly, I think my enthusiasm for the potential project kind of hurt Yusuf’s feelings.
Yusuf: “I have schisto and I think it’s from Aghbelu.”
Me: “Really! Yes, I get to have a health project after all!”
Yusuf: “Don’t sound so broken up about it, I’m sure I’ll live.”
Me: “It’s only damages the liver after several decades... wait, no, I’m sorry, honey, that sucks. Do you feel OK?”
Yusuf: “Best sitey ever.”*
*I have taken great artistic license with this dialogue, Yusuf is actually incredibly supportive of me as a site mate and I count myself very blessed to have someone who thinks so highly of me. Especially because in reality he’s the rock star and I just follow along in his trail pretending to do stuff.
I was just beginning to feel very overwhelmed by how much work this project would require when Yusuf received a call from our doctor in Rabat to clarify the situation. Apparently when he said, “We have the results of your test back, you have schisto.” He meant, “We have the result of your test back and you are parasite free; but don’t swim in stagnant water because the area you live in might have schisto.” Ugh! He’s a good doctor, but the language barrier can be very confusing. Alas, so ended my fabulous health project. But I can still work on finding a way to treat the grey water (water with soap and other non-human-waste-waste water) that comes from the daily uses of the spring.
In other news, I’ve made two great additions to my job description. Resume reads: arts and crafts lady, day care teacher, English tutor, and yoga instructor.
Every Friday I now teach yoga lessons to any girl who shows up (it has to be gender segregated or the girls won’t come) and then I offer English tutoring to any of the students who have the time from class.
I’ve started the exercise classes with yoga, but the girls have expressed a strong interest in Karate (I know Tai Kwan Do, but they don’t even distinguish between limes and lemons- hey, if they don’t split hairs neither will I) All the same, I’m reticent of teaching these girls to beat up other kids without fist explaining the difference between starting a fight and getting yourself out of a pickle...maybe I’ll teach them Tai Chi instead. Very useful when defending yourself from roving gangs of sloths.
I have a brief and random aside that I could not think of a way to slip in smoothly. Our dar shebab (youth center) has a blog! www.blogspot.kerrandou.com check it out!
One health project I have been able to do this month is AIDS Awareness related. December is international AIDS/ HIV (SIDA/VIH- for those who are curious about what we call it here) Awareness month, so Yusuf and I dedicated the entire week before Christmas to SIDA/VIH oriented events. I was really pushing activities instead of lessons because these kiddos start hearing about SIDA/VIH really early in their educations; the topic is pretty dead by the time their 12. This is only concerning to me because it leads to people not taking it seriously by the time they reach high school. So I’ve been thinking back to my childhood to remember how teachers and parents made learning fun for us. I’m sure you’re sniggering because most teachers don’t even try anymore, but that makes those that do stand out that much more. Here I would like to thank educators (and, of course, mom and dad) who made learning fun. And, as someone who has racked her brain trying to make AIDS entertaining, I want to say I take my hat off to you all. You amaze me!
I’ve been racking my brain for months about what we could do- Yusuf has a whole bunch of other projects going on right now, so I was trying not to lean on him for ideas. Suddenly, during the first week of Dec, the ideas all hit me at once. And I do mean “hit”, they quite literally smote me upon the mind, had I not been sitting when it happened I would have fallen flat on my tuckus.
First, getting the chil’ens involved. Kids love to get mementos, and- even better- they’ll take anything. Background: I have been given, over the last year and a half, seven or eight yards of red ribbon meant to make AIDS Awareness ribbons (you know the shape, like breast cancer ribbons, only they’re red). Those ribbons mean nothing over here, and when I see them floating around, more often than not they’re upside down. Instead, I have been encouraging participation by using the ribbons to make bracelets! This is also great because it means I’m not giving little kids pins; fun those the mental image may be. And I make the kids participate if they want a bracelet. One kid showed up just as everything was cleaned up demanding a bracelet; I told him that he hadn’t learned anything so he couldn’t have a ribbon until the next day’s project. He was the first kid at the youth center the next day. Yes I feel smug.
Really I only had two projects but since they were new ideas they were interesting enough to keep everyone’s attention for a week.
First were origami boxes with SIDA Awareness collages. Origami has become an old topic to the kid, and we’ve been making the same four things for about two months now. So the prospect of a new thing- and one so practical as a box with a lid- was a huge hit. The collage worked out well because I have a ton of SIDA/VIH oriented handouts from every health organization in Morocco. And I have those given to me by three previous volunteers: I could paper a small bedroom with all my flyers.
Second was a book... you think it lame, but wait. I wrote a very simple story with just one sentence per page about a boy who was HIV positive but gets the medicine he needs and leads a productive and normal life; then I had one of my friends translate the story into Arabic so the kids could all read it. I pulled out my art supplies and had the kids illustrate the pages; they had to draw a picture about what they read. At first it was a difficult concept: the kids would assume the boy was dying because he had SIDA so they would draw a grave and crying people. Then I would make the kids read the book to me aloud and ask if their pictures made sense. The idea of being HIV positive and still having a life with hopes and dreams was really shocking to them. This was also a great opportunity for me to clarify for them that HIV and AIDS are not the same thing.
After a choppy start the books were popular too, but the boxes remain the biggest hit.
I especially liked these two projects because they are complicated enough for all of the students to enjoy, but simple enough that my mentally handicapped students can join in too. The box folding requires me to give a lot more help to my handicapped kids, but they can manage the collage and drawing, so we all win.
The down side to working so closely with one of my favourite kids was that he had a nasty cough, and he has a very severe learning disability; so the idea of covering his mouth when he coughed just didn’t stick. I spent the entire week being coughed on by this sweet heart of a Petri dish and ended up coming down with a plague that verged on death two days before Christmas. Alas, I spent my Christmas all alone and sick. But a bunch of people at the Christmas party I had planned on going to texted and called me to send well wishes and let me know I was missed, and my parents called me to wish me merry Christmas and then made pitying noises at my plight. So I was alone, but by no means lonely. Actually, it was a great opportunity for me to look at my life and realize that with the love and support of friends and family like mine nobody could be lonely.
I don’t care if it’s a mushy thing to do, it’s the holidays and that’s the time to be mushy. I want to thank you all for making my life so very, very rich. I’d be lost without you guys.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
I'm not dead yet!
It's been an age... again.
In October I updated for both August and September in the hopes that I would make a second update that month and bring myself up to even. Alas, the best intentions of mice and men, no? I do have an excuse though; the day after I updated the blog my site mate Yusuf and I had planned on using my laptop to show an inspirational video to students at the high school in celebration of National Women’s day. I had just turned on the evil magic picture box that is my laptop when the cord the goes from the wall to my charger started crackling and popping. Using my awe-inspiring intellect I assessed the situation: crackling noises + electronic equipment= no good. I had just unplugged the extension cord from the wall (I wasn’t willing the touch the sizzling cord) when the wires burned though the insulating rubber tube and started throwing sparks into the air.
I was alarmed but not surprised, the wiring in Moroccan cords is always a bit shoddy, the cord I purchased to replace that one makes the third I have purchased for this computer. Ironically the last one kicked the bucket around this time last year, too; I guess they only have a one year life span. Not that it applies too much to me: this time next year I’ll be celebrating the holidays with my friends and family in America! Can I get a woot woot? I’m still happy here and having the time of my life, but 26 months is a long time.
Not having a computer for the movie turned out to be alright that night because the teachers weren’t organized yet to show the movie. Yusuf was bummed by that, he had wanted to show the movie (You Can Dream: Moroccan Women who do) on Morocco’s National Women’s Day. Alas, it was not to be, it ended up taking three weeks before everyone was ready to show it.
On a much more inspiring note, THE DAR SHEBAB IS OPEN! Dar shebab being the youth center, huzzah! It’s been open about a month now and I could not be happier. Yusuf and I are both working there, for most youth centers as small as ours is it would be a bad idea to have two PCVs in so small an area; but for us it works like a dream. I don’t know if it’s because there really is that much work to be done or because Yusuf and I work so well together. Whatever the reason I feel so blessed to have real work to do and a schedule to follow. Alhamdullila. I think the big reason why Yusuf and I don’t get in one another’s way is because we have very different goals and different group we want to focus on. He’s interested in the older students because he has a lot of project ideas, and complex ideas to build up.
My focus is on the wee ones because the most tragic thing I’ve been seeing here is an absolute lack of creativity. Perhaps this is because my nearest and dearest are authors, artists, and scientists; and these fields all require large amounts of creativity. The fact is that everywhere I turn I see creativity wanting to show itself in the kids, but by the time they reach adulthood it’s been snuffed out. Isn’t that awful? I have zeroed my focus in on my fabulous budding artists teaching them to think outside of the box so that they are prepared to be innovative leaders of the future. At least that’s the twist I’m putting on it, in truth I’m the arts and crafts teacher for elementary age kiddos.
We laugh but these things are surprisingly new concepts to my little pets. I introduced the card game Uno to them the first day and we are still working out the skills of taking turns in order, matching colors or number, and NOT cheating. This is shocking but, as Yusuf pointed out to me, this is the first and only time a lot of these kids have had to follow these guide lines. Keep in mind they don’t have board games or things like that here, they have soccer and that’s a bit of a pell-mell game. Fact: played Uno for six months. Resumé reads: taught youths to work together, and encouraged rule following.
That sums up my role as a day care teacher, arts and crafts lady is ever so much more fun. It’s important to go slowly when building creativity, if you hand a student a coloring picture they will want you to tell them what color to make each thing. I once handed out coloring pictures of a boy and girl brushing their teeth (art md la (or no) I am a health educator, too) and everyone wanted to know what color the kids hair was and what color they should make the clothes. I said, “Whatever you want.” I was rewarded by blank stares. One boy decided to rebel against the norm (and, I think, me) and gave the boy green hair. I blew his mind when I said it looked good, he should color his hair that color. So it is that I have to take my art classes slowly, we began with origami, this seems like a contradiction but it’s not. These kids lack inspiration, not skill; they are all very talented it just needs to be encouraged. Origami is great because it requires step-by-step instruction, but it shows them something new made from something as commonplace as a piece of paper. I love it because it requires them to make the thing they want and it proves to them that they can do it themselves; from here I will move on to you can build ANYTHING yourself... but that won’t be for a while. We’ve spent the last three weeks making fish, cranes, frogs, balloons, and throwing stars- I’ve kept the x-wing fighters to myself, these kids are talented but lack the patience to make one of those.
Last week I also began to teach them how to draw anything they see. I tell them how to draw everything via circles, squares, and triangles, and I am beginning to see some branching out into creativity now. I’ll be standing at the white board showing them how to draw a dog or a cat (Trogdor is a favourite among the kids) and someone will call out, “Touria! Hassan isn’t drawing what we’re drawing!” I always say, “Hassan, what are you drawing?” And then I try to encourage the student (not always Hassan) and try to push the idea of free draw on other kids. “That is very nice Hassan. Does everyone see how he used squares and circles and rectangles? Isn’t that a very good picture? I think you all could draw your own pictures, too, if you wanted.” This is usually greeted by crickets, but I have hope.
Some of the older kids are even moving on to the 3-D pictures, the concept of a horizon line was kind of hard to explain but they caught on really quickly. It’s a wild paradigm shift for me; in America we associate brilliance with creativity; and a lack of creativity with general incompetence and even stupidity. In Morocco everyone know how to build a house complete with electricity and plumbing by the time they’re fifteen, but if you hand a fifteen year old a piece of paper and colored pencils and tell them to draw anything they want they won’t have a clue. So it is that I had thought it would take months to finally get to the point we could introduce the horizon lines, but they knew exactly what I meant when I said, “If you look down the road a really long ways everything gets smaller and smaller, yes?” Students: “Yes! And far far away it all disappears.” Me: “Yes! To draw that make a spot on the paper and that is what you use to draw your shape.” Students: “Like this?” Me: “Perfect! You are so talented. Now remember, everything has to go toward the spot, otherwise your pcture just looks funny.” I don’t care how smart they are, I’m not ready to introduce Picasso and cubism yet.
That has been my life up to this week. This week has been devoted to studying for the dreaded GRE, ack! I took the test this morning in Rabat, I had forgotten how stressful testing is. I’m relieved to have the test over with but I’m terrified that I failed. Mind you I had the same feeling of foreboding about my EMT exam and I scored a 95% on that, so don’t take my feelings as intuitive. The worst part about the exam, says she who no longer has it looming over her head, is the waiting for the results. I won’t be able to check my results online until mid December. Le sigh.
Well, dear and patient reader, we now come to the end of my update. Oghallah, I will have new and exciting tales to regale you with in my next update... which may or may not come in the December. By the way, oghallah is the the old Spanish version of enchallah-if God wills it.Old as in from pre- Spanish Inquisition when Spain were a Muslim country and, therefore, had a use for a Muslim phrase. There, now I have told you tales and given you a new fact, my work here is done!
In October I updated for both August and September in the hopes that I would make a second update that month and bring myself up to even. Alas, the best intentions of mice and men, no? I do have an excuse though; the day after I updated the blog my site mate Yusuf and I had planned on using my laptop to show an inspirational video to students at the high school in celebration of National Women’s day. I had just turned on the evil magic picture box that is my laptop when the cord the goes from the wall to my charger started crackling and popping. Using my awe-inspiring intellect I assessed the situation: crackling noises + electronic equipment= no good. I had just unplugged the extension cord from the wall (I wasn’t willing the touch the sizzling cord) when the wires burned though the insulating rubber tube and started throwing sparks into the air.
I was alarmed but not surprised, the wiring in Moroccan cords is always a bit shoddy, the cord I purchased to replace that one makes the third I have purchased for this computer. Ironically the last one kicked the bucket around this time last year, too; I guess they only have a one year life span. Not that it applies too much to me: this time next year I’ll be celebrating the holidays with my friends and family in America! Can I get a woot woot? I’m still happy here and having the time of my life, but 26 months is a long time.
Not having a computer for the movie turned out to be alright that night because the teachers weren’t organized yet to show the movie. Yusuf was bummed by that, he had wanted to show the movie (You Can Dream: Moroccan Women who do) on Morocco’s National Women’s Day. Alas, it was not to be, it ended up taking three weeks before everyone was ready to show it.
On a much more inspiring note, THE DAR SHEBAB IS OPEN! Dar shebab being the youth center, huzzah! It’s been open about a month now and I could not be happier. Yusuf and I are both working there, for most youth centers as small as ours is it would be a bad idea to have two PCVs in so small an area; but for us it works like a dream. I don’t know if it’s because there really is that much work to be done or because Yusuf and I work so well together. Whatever the reason I feel so blessed to have real work to do and a schedule to follow. Alhamdullila. I think the big reason why Yusuf and I don’t get in one another’s way is because we have very different goals and different group we want to focus on. He’s interested in the older students because he has a lot of project ideas, and complex ideas to build up.
My focus is on the wee ones because the most tragic thing I’ve been seeing here is an absolute lack of creativity. Perhaps this is because my nearest and dearest are authors, artists, and scientists; and these fields all require large amounts of creativity. The fact is that everywhere I turn I see creativity wanting to show itself in the kids, but by the time they reach adulthood it’s been snuffed out. Isn’t that awful? I have zeroed my focus in on my fabulous budding artists teaching them to think outside of the box so that they are prepared to be innovative leaders of the future. At least that’s the twist I’m putting on it, in truth I’m the arts and crafts teacher for elementary age kiddos.
We laugh but these things are surprisingly new concepts to my little pets. I introduced the card game Uno to them the first day and we are still working out the skills of taking turns in order, matching colors or number, and NOT cheating. This is shocking but, as Yusuf pointed out to me, this is the first and only time a lot of these kids have had to follow these guide lines. Keep in mind they don’t have board games or things like that here, they have soccer and that’s a bit of a pell-mell game. Fact: played Uno for six months. Resumé reads: taught youths to work together, and encouraged rule following.
That sums up my role as a day care teacher, arts and crafts lady is ever so much more fun. It’s important to go slowly when building creativity, if you hand a student a coloring picture they will want you to tell them what color to make each thing. I once handed out coloring pictures of a boy and girl brushing their teeth (art md la (or no) I am a health educator, too) and everyone wanted to know what color the kids hair was and what color they should make the clothes. I said, “Whatever you want.” I was rewarded by blank stares. One boy decided to rebel against the norm (and, I think, me) and gave the boy green hair. I blew his mind when I said it looked good, he should color his hair that color. So it is that I have to take my art classes slowly, we began with origami, this seems like a contradiction but it’s not. These kids lack inspiration, not skill; they are all very talented it just needs to be encouraged. Origami is great because it requires step-by-step instruction, but it shows them something new made from something as commonplace as a piece of paper. I love it because it requires them to make the thing they want and it proves to them that they can do it themselves; from here I will move on to you can build ANYTHING yourself... but that won’t be for a while. We’ve spent the last three weeks making fish, cranes, frogs, balloons, and throwing stars- I’ve kept the x-wing fighters to myself, these kids are talented but lack the patience to make one of those.
Last week I also began to teach them how to draw anything they see. I tell them how to draw everything via circles, squares, and triangles, and I am beginning to see some branching out into creativity now. I’ll be standing at the white board showing them how to draw a dog or a cat (Trogdor is a favourite among the kids) and someone will call out, “Touria! Hassan isn’t drawing what we’re drawing!” I always say, “Hassan, what are you drawing?” And then I try to encourage the student (not always Hassan) and try to push the idea of free draw on other kids. “That is very nice Hassan. Does everyone see how he used squares and circles and rectangles? Isn’t that a very good picture? I think you all could draw your own pictures, too, if you wanted.” This is usually greeted by crickets, but I have hope.
Some of the older kids are even moving on to the 3-D pictures, the concept of a horizon line was kind of hard to explain but they caught on really quickly. It’s a wild paradigm shift for me; in America we associate brilliance with creativity; and a lack of creativity with general incompetence and even stupidity. In Morocco everyone know how to build a house complete with electricity and plumbing by the time they’re fifteen, but if you hand a fifteen year old a piece of paper and colored pencils and tell them to draw anything they want they won’t have a clue. So it is that I had thought it would take months to finally get to the point we could introduce the horizon lines, but they knew exactly what I meant when I said, “If you look down the road a really long ways everything gets smaller and smaller, yes?” Students: “Yes! And far far away it all disappears.” Me: “Yes! To draw that make a spot on the paper and that is what you use to draw your shape.” Students: “Like this?” Me: “Perfect! You are so talented. Now remember, everything has to go toward the spot, otherwise your pcture just looks funny.” I don’t care how smart they are, I’m not ready to introduce Picasso and cubism yet.
That has been my life up to this week. This week has been devoted to studying for the dreaded GRE, ack! I took the test this morning in Rabat, I had forgotten how stressful testing is. I’m relieved to have the test over with but I’m terrified that I failed. Mind you I had the same feeling of foreboding about my EMT exam and I scored a 95% on that, so don’t take my feelings as intuitive. The worst part about the exam, says she who no longer has it looming over her head, is the waiting for the results. I won’t be able to check my results online until mid December. Le sigh.
Well, dear and patient reader, we now come to the end of my update. Oghallah, I will have new and exciting tales to regale you with in my next update... which may or may not come in the December. By the way, oghallah is the the old Spanish version of enchallah-if God wills it.Old as in from pre- Spanish Inquisition when Spain were a Muslim country and, therefore, had a use for a Muslim phrase. There, now I have told you tales and given you a new fact, my work here is done!
Sunday, October 2, 2011
An adventure without Misadventure has no Perspective
Sometimes as I sit writing my blogs I wonder if I don’t go out of my way a little just to make myself more interesting to you. After all, you all deserves to get an epic event every so often just for having stuck with my tale this long.
Well, my friends, I have such an occurrence for you this month.
My parting words last month were that I was about to have a lovely Roman holiday so I could avoid the trials of Ramadan. This is just what I did, but my adventure was not all riding Vespas without helmets like Ms. Hepburn. While I must say it was a great deal of fun, everyday was full of impromptu art, history, and Italian language courses. My only complaint is that this fabulous event was capped on either end with epic tragedies on par with Oedipus. The only way I was able to maintain a stiff upper lip was to remember that you, my captivated audience, would commiserate with/ find humor in/ be enraged on behalf of/ or in some way find emotional entertainment in my catastrophes.
To begin from the beginning, my friend Andrew and I decided that we deserved a vacation; August was the best time for this because it coincides with the Islamic month of Ramadan: a month in which the entire country of Morocco (the entire Arab world really) shuts down. The cheapest flight to be had flew from Fes to Rome, so we agreed to meet in Fes the day before the flight so we could run a last couple of errands. I arrived early in the morning so I booked a hotel room and loafed about waiting for Andrew’s bus to get in. He arrived in the early afternoon and we spent a couple of hours going around getting those last minute things.
The next morning our flight was scheduled to leave at 8 am so we git to the airport at 5 thinking it would be like any other international flight where you need to be there three hours before hand. It was when I went to pay for the taxi ride that I realized something was very, very wrong. My money wasn’t in the backpack pocket I had put it in. Fortunately Andrew was able to pay for the taxi so we were not in trouble. When we were inside at the airport cafe I unpacked my entire bag and found that my money was gone. At some point during the previous day while Andrew and I were going around town someone who works for the hotel went into our room and stole the vast majority of the money I’d been so carefully saving. They didn’t get it all because I’ve been warned never to keep all of my money in one place, but they did get away with most of it. Even more unfortunately, there was no way I would have time to find a taxi and go back to the hotel to harangue them, or go to the police and file a report without missing the plane. So I got on the plane in a seething rage and hoped for the best when we landed.
The flight was an uneventful two hours in which I spent most of it asleep; I’ve always found that disasters and disappointment are easier to deal with after a nap. The flight lands and something interesting happened, everyone in the airplane clapped and cheered... as if there was any doubt we were going to make it? Well, I’m sure the pilot appreciated the gratitude regardless.
Rome was amazing. I could go on about the details forever, but there weren’t any real anecdotes for your amusement. So I’ll be succinct, the art, architecture, and food were all to die for. And everything inspires your inner artist. I would spend whole days sitting in front of buildings or statues sketching them. Although, I have to admit three weeks is too long to stay in any city, even one of the most interesting cities in the world. On the bright side, I can give suggestions to anyone who is Rome-ward bound.
My next anecdote occurred when Andrew and I were headed to the airport. Our flight left at 7 am but the buses don’t start running until 8. We knew this ahead of time so it was no big deal, we decided we’d just head to the airport in the evening, and spent the night there. So we packed up and left the apartment at 10:30 aiming to catch the second to the last train at 11:30. We got to the station, bought out tickets and went to the platform marked on the ticket. At the time marked on the ticket we got onto the train that had the number marked on the ticket. Then we sat and enjoyed our last ride out of Rome, 15min after leaving the station we saw the airport and or stop... then the train passed the airport and or stop... After thirty min Andrew and I began to worry so we divided and went in search of someone who could tell us where we were going. He went up the train and I went down. I had to go through four cars before I could find someone who was awake. I walk up to him and asked if he spoke French or English. No. Alright, I’ve picked up a handful of Italian words in my three weeks.
Me:“I want to go to the airport.”
Man: “No, we passed it. This train doesn’t stop there,”
Me: “Where are we going?”
Man: “Sicily, non-stop.”
Me: *shocked pause with eyes the size of saucers* “When will we get there?”
Man: “6.”
Me: *%@^ “Thank you”
I return to Andrew who hadn’t gotten far b/c the door to our car at the other end was locked. I told him we were going to that beautiful island at the bottom the country against our will. I’m sitting there toying with the idea of pulling the emergency brake, or jumping from the speeding train. Andrew’s response was, “Then we’re going to Sicily... This makes us stowaways.” That had a surprisingly calming effect.
So we sat and waited to be discovered. Finally, at 5 in the morning a ticket collector came by. Fortunately he spoke French so I explained our problem. At first he thought we had deliberately missed our plane and were extending our vacation. He wanted us to pay 60 euros each for our mis-adventure. Eventually we got him to understand that we DIDN’T want to go to Sicily. We wanted to go back to Rome so we could get back to being PCVs in Morocco. At this point I decided to stop trusting fate to help me out so I pulled out some good old-fashioned Catholic guilt. I told him all about the Peace Corps, and our work in Morocco. As it turns out his mom is Moroccan and he was very impressed with us. He told us we would be stopping for about thirty seconds at a station 20 min away, and we could get off there and catch the 7:30 train to Rome. We would miss our plane, but at least we weren’t being charged 120 euros. I’ll take what I can get.
We get off at a village that amounted to a stop sign in the road and learned that all of the northbound trains were sold out for the next three days. And I mean all, not just those to Rome, but every train to every place north of our stop sign. Before I was resigned, now I was despondent. Ugh
Suddenly Andrew has this brilliant idea. Sicily has two airports; maybe we can hop a puddle jumper from the island to Rome and be home with only one day’s loss. Huzzah!
So we buy two tickets to the island for 12 euros each (what a bargain) and wait to see what new adventure would find us. Now I know you are all wondering how it’s possible to buy a train ticket to an island that doesn’t have a RR bridge. We catch a connecting ferry. Sorry, I know that was anti-climactic. Our trip to Sicily- now that we WANT to go there- was a smooth operation. And a beautiful trip too, Mt Edna is breath taking.
So we got to Catania and hunt down another internet cafe. Here we learn that all plane rides to Rome are 300 euros per seat. It would be cheaper for us to stay here for three days and wait for a train. Then it was my turn to be brilliant. We got here via ferry; I bet we could get to Rome’s port town via ferry too. And for the same price as a train ticket we found a ferry the next night. AND we found plane tickets for the morning after we would arrive in Rome. Allhamdullila! And with much ado and fanfair Andrew and I finally get back to Morocco three days after our intended return date.
I bet you think my mis-adventure ends here don’t you? Well I’m back in Morocco but I’m only in Marrakech; home is a long ways off yet, and now I’m going on four days without sleep- trains and ferries make terrible sleeping places.
Quick transport fact: under normal circumstances the best way home from ‘Kech is a train to Meknes and a bus from there home.
Quick culture fact: I got home the first day after Ramadan. That’s like trying to travel on Christmas day.
So I get to the train station and my ticket is three times what is normally is. I am not amused. Then the train which is usually 7 hours takes 9 and I miss the last bus home by 20 min. So I walk over to the taxi stand to see if they’ll take me home. I find the taxi that is going to Errachidia- the first major city south of my village- the man says he won’t stop in my village, he is only going to Errach. I tell him He is passing through my village anyway. He says no he won’t stop for me. “Fine, then just slow down I’ll jump out!” But to no avail. At last I am at my wits end, so close to home but so far away, then I hear a bus called out that is going to my friends city. So I call up my favourite Persian and ask in my sweetest voice if he will let me crash with him and I will trade him a fabulous tale. Thirty min later I was sitting on his ponj retelling this same tale.
The next day I was finally home. I slept for a day and half.
After so much adventure I was glad to be back in my village for the month of September. In July and Aug it’s just too hot to be active, but Sept. is when it’s cool enough to work but people are trying to enjoy their lazy summer as long as possible so they encourage you to relax just a little while longer. Last year this drove me nuts, this year I was more than happy to comply.
Isn’t it funny that I can fill three pages with stuff I did one month, then summarize the next month with a paragraph? Ah life, it’s full of dichotomies. And with that epiphany I will say ado.
Well, my friends, I have such an occurrence for you this month.
My parting words last month were that I was about to have a lovely Roman holiday so I could avoid the trials of Ramadan. This is just what I did, but my adventure was not all riding Vespas without helmets like Ms. Hepburn. While I must say it was a great deal of fun, everyday was full of impromptu art, history, and Italian language courses. My only complaint is that this fabulous event was capped on either end with epic tragedies on par with Oedipus. The only way I was able to maintain a stiff upper lip was to remember that you, my captivated audience, would commiserate with/ find humor in/ be enraged on behalf of/ or in some way find emotional entertainment in my catastrophes.
To begin from the beginning, my friend Andrew and I decided that we deserved a vacation; August was the best time for this because it coincides with the Islamic month of Ramadan: a month in which the entire country of Morocco (the entire Arab world really) shuts down. The cheapest flight to be had flew from Fes to Rome, so we agreed to meet in Fes the day before the flight so we could run a last couple of errands. I arrived early in the morning so I booked a hotel room and loafed about waiting for Andrew’s bus to get in. He arrived in the early afternoon and we spent a couple of hours going around getting those last minute things.
The next morning our flight was scheduled to leave at 8 am so we git to the airport at 5 thinking it would be like any other international flight where you need to be there three hours before hand. It was when I went to pay for the taxi ride that I realized something was very, very wrong. My money wasn’t in the backpack pocket I had put it in. Fortunately Andrew was able to pay for the taxi so we were not in trouble. When we were inside at the airport cafe I unpacked my entire bag and found that my money was gone. At some point during the previous day while Andrew and I were going around town someone who works for the hotel went into our room and stole the vast majority of the money I’d been so carefully saving. They didn’t get it all because I’ve been warned never to keep all of my money in one place, but they did get away with most of it. Even more unfortunately, there was no way I would have time to find a taxi and go back to the hotel to harangue them, or go to the police and file a report without missing the plane. So I got on the plane in a seething rage and hoped for the best when we landed.
The flight was an uneventful two hours in which I spent most of it asleep; I’ve always found that disasters and disappointment are easier to deal with after a nap. The flight lands and something interesting happened, everyone in the airplane clapped and cheered... as if there was any doubt we were going to make it? Well, I’m sure the pilot appreciated the gratitude regardless.
Rome was amazing. I could go on about the details forever, but there weren’t any real anecdotes for your amusement. So I’ll be succinct, the art, architecture, and food were all to die for. And everything inspires your inner artist. I would spend whole days sitting in front of buildings or statues sketching them. Although, I have to admit three weeks is too long to stay in any city, even one of the most interesting cities in the world. On the bright side, I can give suggestions to anyone who is Rome-ward bound.
My next anecdote occurred when Andrew and I were headed to the airport. Our flight left at 7 am but the buses don’t start running until 8. We knew this ahead of time so it was no big deal, we decided we’d just head to the airport in the evening, and spent the night there. So we packed up and left the apartment at 10:30 aiming to catch the second to the last train at 11:30. We got to the station, bought out tickets and went to the platform marked on the ticket. At the time marked on the ticket we got onto the train that had the number marked on the ticket. Then we sat and enjoyed our last ride out of Rome, 15min after leaving the station we saw the airport and or stop... then the train passed the airport and or stop... After thirty min Andrew and I began to worry so we divided and went in search of someone who could tell us where we were going. He went up the train and I went down. I had to go through four cars before I could find someone who was awake. I walk up to him and asked if he spoke French or English. No. Alright, I’ve picked up a handful of Italian words in my three weeks.
Me:“I want to go to the airport.”
Man: “No, we passed it. This train doesn’t stop there,”
Me: “Where are we going?”
Man: “Sicily, non-stop.”
Me: *shocked pause with eyes the size of saucers* “When will we get there?”
Man: “6.”
Me: *%@^ “Thank you”
I return to Andrew who hadn’t gotten far b/c the door to our car at the other end was locked. I told him we were going to that beautiful island at the bottom the country against our will. I’m sitting there toying with the idea of pulling the emergency brake, or jumping from the speeding train. Andrew’s response was, “Then we’re going to Sicily... This makes us stowaways.” That had a surprisingly calming effect.
So we sat and waited to be discovered. Finally, at 5 in the morning a ticket collector came by. Fortunately he spoke French so I explained our problem. At first he thought we had deliberately missed our plane and were extending our vacation. He wanted us to pay 60 euros each for our mis-adventure. Eventually we got him to understand that we DIDN’T want to go to Sicily. We wanted to go back to Rome so we could get back to being PCVs in Morocco. At this point I decided to stop trusting fate to help me out so I pulled out some good old-fashioned Catholic guilt. I told him all about the Peace Corps, and our work in Morocco. As it turns out his mom is Moroccan and he was very impressed with us. He told us we would be stopping for about thirty seconds at a station 20 min away, and we could get off there and catch the 7:30 train to Rome. We would miss our plane, but at least we weren’t being charged 120 euros. I’ll take what I can get.
We get off at a village that amounted to a stop sign in the road and learned that all of the northbound trains were sold out for the next three days. And I mean all, not just those to Rome, but every train to every place north of our stop sign. Before I was resigned, now I was despondent. Ugh
Suddenly Andrew has this brilliant idea. Sicily has two airports; maybe we can hop a puddle jumper from the island to Rome and be home with only one day’s loss. Huzzah!
So we buy two tickets to the island for 12 euros each (what a bargain) and wait to see what new adventure would find us. Now I know you are all wondering how it’s possible to buy a train ticket to an island that doesn’t have a RR bridge. We catch a connecting ferry. Sorry, I know that was anti-climactic. Our trip to Sicily- now that we WANT to go there- was a smooth operation. And a beautiful trip too, Mt Edna is breath taking.
So we got to Catania and hunt down another internet cafe. Here we learn that all plane rides to Rome are 300 euros per seat. It would be cheaper for us to stay here for three days and wait for a train. Then it was my turn to be brilliant. We got here via ferry; I bet we could get to Rome’s port town via ferry too. And for the same price as a train ticket we found a ferry the next night. AND we found plane tickets for the morning after we would arrive in Rome. Allhamdullila! And with much ado and fanfair Andrew and I finally get back to Morocco three days after our intended return date.
I bet you think my mis-adventure ends here don’t you? Well I’m back in Morocco but I’m only in Marrakech; home is a long ways off yet, and now I’m going on four days without sleep- trains and ferries make terrible sleeping places.
Quick transport fact: under normal circumstances the best way home from ‘Kech is a train to Meknes and a bus from there home.
Quick culture fact: I got home the first day after Ramadan. That’s like trying to travel on Christmas day.
So I get to the train station and my ticket is three times what is normally is. I am not amused. Then the train which is usually 7 hours takes 9 and I miss the last bus home by 20 min. So I walk over to the taxi stand to see if they’ll take me home. I find the taxi that is going to Errachidia- the first major city south of my village- the man says he won’t stop in my village, he is only going to Errach. I tell him He is passing through my village anyway. He says no he won’t stop for me. “Fine, then just slow down I’ll jump out!” But to no avail. At last I am at my wits end, so close to home but so far away, then I hear a bus called out that is going to my friends city. So I call up my favourite Persian and ask in my sweetest voice if he will let me crash with him and I will trade him a fabulous tale. Thirty min later I was sitting on his ponj retelling this same tale.
The next day I was finally home. I slept for a day and half.
After so much adventure I was glad to be back in my village for the month of September. In July and Aug it’s just too hot to be active, but Sept. is when it’s cool enough to work but people are trying to enjoy their lazy summer as long as possible so they encourage you to relax just a little while longer. Last year this drove me nuts, this year I was more than happy to comply.
Isn’t it funny that I can fill three pages with stuff I did one month, then summarize the next month with a paragraph? Ah life, it’s full of dichotomies. And with that epiphany I will say ado.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Where did July go?
Beloved friends and family, as this most recent month draws to a close I am reminded that it is time to update the blog to let one and all know that I am still alive of up to deeds both saintly and nefarious. I feel like I was just updating the blog last week, not last month. This morning, while I was contemplating what anecdotes I should recount for your amusement, I finally realized why I only update once a month. I only have enough interesting stories for one update a month. If I were to post multiple times per month I would be reduced to telling you about what I bought at market... while the market is endlessly fascinating, I must say that my grocery list is not.
To update one and all on the goings on in my life I should begin where I left off in June. I was just about to catch a bus to Essouara for my second Ganoua Music Festival. This is an international festival that is meant to celebrate all forms of all forms of music, but with an emphasis on African and Arab heritage. This means we have people from all over the world coming to the festival to play and be heard. Last year my favourite group was actually two groups who got together to perform. They were a group from Pakistan and a group from England; this show was particularly fabulous because- due to flight delays- they had had no time to practice together. It was just an jam fest with two bands who couldn’t speak to each other because neither spoke the others language but they both spoke music. Very awesome. This year the music was less poetic, no international mixing, but there was a jazz band from Haiti- I was disappointed, I hoped for Duke Ellington and was given Kenny G. Alas. But there was a band from Mali and THAT was glorious. Even though I couldn’t understand the words I loved the flow and the beat of the music. To be fair I was at that particular stage with a friend who loves Malian music, so I could have loved it because I associate it with someone I love and respect. Isn’t it funny how things like that affect one another?
While we were walking back to the apartment I told my friend that I was a little sad not to have heard any groups that had moved me the way the Pakistani/ English group did last year. Jeff, because he is a fount of musical knowledge, said that it was just a matter of perspective. The very existence of the Ganoua is a celebration of the most moving types of music Morocco has. Heretofore I had thought Ganoua was just a funny African name, in truth the history is much more tragic. The Ganoua music is a music created by an instrument that is very much like a castanet, except larger, louder, and much more cacophonous. I found it to be very annoying until this last month.
Long, long ago in Moroccan history, long before the French found Morocco, Morocco, Mauritania, and Algeria were one huge kingdom called Mauritania. The king of Mauritania captured slaves from a number of sub-Saharan countries but largely from Ghana. We have all seen and heard about the forced marches of the slave trains across the Sahara, and we all know what horrible conditions slaves lived in so I see no reason to repeat them for the story. Overtime the huge kingdom of Mauritania broke into the three smaller countries and the slavery was outlawed, but these slaves had been removed from their homelands for so many generations that it was better for them to remain in Morocco. All the same, they wanted to remember their origins so they created the Ganoua music. That harsh instrument I disliked so much was created to mimic the sound of the chains the slaves wore as they crossed the desert and lived out their lives in captivity: a harsh sound for a harsh memory.
Of course I was at the Festival to work, not just to listen to the music. My job was to take blood pressures and encourage people to stop smoking and get some exercise. I have to admit, I think I was feeling a bit sadistic that week because I defiantly leaned on the scare tactics to get people to listen to me. I would often get high-ish bps of 90/120 (this is high eough to take a few years off your life at the end, but nothing that is going to kill you today) but if these people were smokers I would tell them it was the end of the world for them, if they didn’t get their acts together they were going to die at a young age and leave their wives widows and their children without a father; all because they wanted to smoke now. Shame on them. I don’t know that I made anyone stop smoking but I could see by the looks in their eyes that they hadn’t thought about the effects of their smoking from that point of view before.
Of course this tactic was very age specific, you can’t threaten leaving a wife and children behind to teenagers; they don’t have such worries. Some important background for my readers about the younger demographic of Moroccan guys who come to the Ganoua Festival: they are there to find a foreign woman to marry and take them out of Morocco- and they are determined. So if I had a young smoker at my bp booth I would tell them they would never find a woman to take them to France or America because they taste like an ash tray. One guy asked, “You won’t marry me?” I asked him, “Why would want to marry a man who’s killing himself when I have my pick of hundreds of men who aren’t?”
To be completely honest I think I was a nicer person before I was able to speak the language. As I said before, deeds both saintly and nefarious.
You guys are staring at your screens right now appalled that I would be so cruel to people. OK, OK, I was nice to most of the people; it was only the guys who tried to cop a feel while I was taking their pressure that I smote with the fear of nicotine and tar. The rest of the time I would shake my mom finger at them and tell if they didn’t think their lives were important enough to take care of they should go have good long chat with themselves to see what was wrong. One guy- probably 17 or 18- really cracked me up though. He looked like a typical Moroccan teenager: too much product in his hair, too much cologne, and an Engrish tee-shirt (see www.engrish.com), but as I slid my cuff on his arm I saw that his bracelet had a marijuana leaf on it. I thought to myself, “Hmm I wonder if he smokes?” So I took his bp and asked if he smokes. He said no. I took his wrist, looked at his bracelet, looked him square in the eyes and asked, “Do you smoke?” He blushed bright pink and his friends roared with laughter. I doubt I changed his life, but at least I got a laugh out of it.
The entire week and a half was basically that. The next week and a half I had another Operation Smile Mission. This one was local so the doctors all came from the immediate areas of Italy, France, and Morocco. This was my third mission and I have to say it’s getting better and better every time; I’m starting to be seen as one of the veteran Op Smile ppl. Most of the team kind of sees me as little more than the pet American who keeps showing up. But the people I work with the most know what I do in Morocco outside of Op Smile and they appreciate my efforts. I am consoled by the fact that the people who I work with the most are the anaesthesiologists, plastic surgeons, and COEs-so I have everyone of import on my side. Everyone else feels obligated to be patient with my poor language skills because the higher ups think I’m nifty... mine is a blessed life.
After three weeks of travel I was ready to be home. And I arrived just in time to host a couple of couch surfers. I recently signed up to a website called www.couchsurfing.org because I have a wonderful village that simply does not get enough attention from the outside world. When people visit my half of Morocco they always go to Merzoug (the dunes) to ride camels, then they hop a bus and head to Fes. The highway they take (there is only one through the entire province) takes them right through my village, but no one ever stops to see the real Tamazight life style. This, I think, is a tragedy. So I signed up to host people so that I can take them around to meet my friends and see what a real Moroccan life is like.
The guest I hosted this month where a couple of sisters from Slovenia, Petra and Ivana. They stayed with me for three days and we had so much fun. I took them to a baby naming ceremony, and we drank tea with my favourite family, and we had dinner with my landlord. My site mate Yusuf also helped me entertain and we spent sometime over at his house playing guitar, singing songs, and they showed us a traditional Slavic dance (fun fact: polka comes from Slovenia). After three days I was very sorry to see them go but I hope to see them again someday in Slovenia. I have to say that I highly recommend couchsurfing.org to one and all!
The rest of the month has been very slow. Now that it’s July the country has slowed to a crawl and won’t really pick up until September. Especially with the prospect of Ramadan (it begins on the new moon which will be in a couple of days). Although I had a bit of excitement, I fried and egg on the sidewalk this afternoon. I always thought that was a tongue in cheek statement, but I had an egg that wasn’t safe to eat anymore so I thought, “Hmm... I wonder.” To be honest it took about ten minutes for the whole egg to cook, but cook it did. Now I have an egg stuck on my front porch because I didn’t think to melt a bit of butter first. Alas, that is what summer excitement is.
BUT, I have a remedy to this boredom. Next month I’m going on vacation to Rome. Huzzah! I know you guys are probably thinking if a Peace Corps Volunteer can afford a trip to Rome we are paid too much. Don’t fear for you tax monies, the tickets were $14 each way and I’ve been skipping meals for months to save the money. Wish me luck, the next time you hear from me I’ll have tales of questing through Italy!
To update one and all on the goings on in my life I should begin where I left off in June. I was just about to catch a bus to Essouara for my second Ganoua Music Festival. This is an international festival that is meant to celebrate all forms of all forms of music, but with an emphasis on African and Arab heritage. This means we have people from all over the world coming to the festival to play and be heard. Last year my favourite group was actually two groups who got together to perform. They were a group from Pakistan and a group from England; this show was particularly fabulous because- due to flight delays- they had had no time to practice together. It was just an jam fest with two bands who couldn’t speak to each other because neither spoke the others language but they both spoke music. Very awesome. This year the music was less poetic, no international mixing, but there was a jazz band from Haiti- I was disappointed, I hoped for Duke Ellington and was given Kenny G. Alas. But there was a band from Mali and THAT was glorious. Even though I couldn’t understand the words I loved the flow and the beat of the music. To be fair I was at that particular stage with a friend who loves Malian music, so I could have loved it because I associate it with someone I love and respect. Isn’t it funny how things like that affect one another?
While we were walking back to the apartment I told my friend that I was a little sad not to have heard any groups that had moved me the way the Pakistani/ English group did last year. Jeff, because he is a fount of musical knowledge, said that it was just a matter of perspective. The very existence of the Ganoua is a celebration of the most moving types of music Morocco has. Heretofore I had thought Ganoua was just a funny African name, in truth the history is much more tragic. The Ganoua music is a music created by an instrument that is very much like a castanet, except larger, louder, and much more cacophonous. I found it to be very annoying until this last month.
Long, long ago in Moroccan history, long before the French found Morocco, Morocco, Mauritania, and Algeria were one huge kingdom called Mauritania. The king of Mauritania captured slaves from a number of sub-Saharan countries but largely from Ghana. We have all seen and heard about the forced marches of the slave trains across the Sahara, and we all know what horrible conditions slaves lived in so I see no reason to repeat them for the story. Overtime the huge kingdom of Mauritania broke into the three smaller countries and the slavery was outlawed, but these slaves had been removed from their homelands for so many generations that it was better for them to remain in Morocco. All the same, they wanted to remember their origins so they created the Ganoua music. That harsh instrument I disliked so much was created to mimic the sound of the chains the slaves wore as they crossed the desert and lived out their lives in captivity: a harsh sound for a harsh memory.
Of course I was at the Festival to work, not just to listen to the music. My job was to take blood pressures and encourage people to stop smoking and get some exercise. I have to admit, I think I was feeling a bit sadistic that week because I defiantly leaned on the scare tactics to get people to listen to me. I would often get high-ish bps of 90/120 (this is high eough to take a few years off your life at the end, but nothing that is going to kill you today) but if these people were smokers I would tell them it was the end of the world for them, if they didn’t get their acts together they were going to die at a young age and leave their wives widows and their children without a father; all because they wanted to smoke now. Shame on them. I don’t know that I made anyone stop smoking but I could see by the looks in their eyes that they hadn’t thought about the effects of their smoking from that point of view before.
Of course this tactic was very age specific, you can’t threaten leaving a wife and children behind to teenagers; they don’t have such worries. Some important background for my readers about the younger demographic of Moroccan guys who come to the Ganoua Festival: they are there to find a foreign woman to marry and take them out of Morocco- and they are determined. So if I had a young smoker at my bp booth I would tell them they would never find a woman to take them to France or America because they taste like an ash tray. One guy asked, “You won’t marry me?” I asked him, “Why would want to marry a man who’s killing himself when I have my pick of hundreds of men who aren’t?”
To be completely honest I think I was a nicer person before I was able to speak the language. As I said before, deeds both saintly and nefarious.
You guys are staring at your screens right now appalled that I would be so cruel to people. OK, OK, I was nice to most of the people; it was only the guys who tried to cop a feel while I was taking their pressure that I smote with the fear of nicotine and tar. The rest of the time I would shake my mom finger at them and tell if they didn’t think their lives were important enough to take care of they should go have good long chat with themselves to see what was wrong. One guy- probably 17 or 18- really cracked me up though. He looked like a typical Moroccan teenager: too much product in his hair, too much cologne, and an Engrish tee-shirt (see www.engrish.com), but as I slid my cuff on his arm I saw that his bracelet had a marijuana leaf on it. I thought to myself, “Hmm I wonder if he smokes?” So I took his bp and asked if he smokes. He said no. I took his wrist, looked at his bracelet, looked him square in the eyes and asked, “Do you smoke?” He blushed bright pink and his friends roared with laughter. I doubt I changed his life, but at least I got a laugh out of it.
The entire week and a half was basically that. The next week and a half I had another Operation Smile Mission. This one was local so the doctors all came from the immediate areas of Italy, France, and Morocco. This was my third mission and I have to say it’s getting better and better every time; I’m starting to be seen as one of the veteran Op Smile ppl. Most of the team kind of sees me as little more than the pet American who keeps showing up. But the people I work with the most know what I do in Morocco outside of Op Smile and they appreciate my efforts. I am consoled by the fact that the people who I work with the most are the anaesthesiologists, plastic surgeons, and COEs-so I have everyone of import on my side. Everyone else feels obligated to be patient with my poor language skills because the higher ups think I’m nifty... mine is a blessed life.
After three weeks of travel I was ready to be home. And I arrived just in time to host a couple of couch surfers. I recently signed up to a website called www.couchsurfing.org because I have a wonderful village that simply does not get enough attention from the outside world. When people visit my half of Morocco they always go to Merzoug (the dunes) to ride camels, then they hop a bus and head to Fes. The highway they take (there is only one through the entire province) takes them right through my village, but no one ever stops to see the real Tamazight life style. This, I think, is a tragedy. So I signed up to host people so that I can take them around to meet my friends and see what a real Moroccan life is like.
The guest I hosted this month where a couple of sisters from Slovenia, Petra and Ivana. They stayed with me for three days and we had so much fun. I took them to a baby naming ceremony, and we drank tea with my favourite family, and we had dinner with my landlord. My site mate Yusuf also helped me entertain and we spent sometime over at his house playing guitar, singing songs, and they showed us a traditional Slavic dance (fun fact: polka comes from Slovenia). After three days I was very sorry to see them go but I hope to see them again someday in Slovenia. I have to say that I highly recommend couchsurfing.org to one and all!
The rest of the month has been very slow. Now that it’s July the country has slowed to a crawl and won’t really pick up until September. Especially with the prospect of Ramadan (it begins on the new moon which will be in a couple of days). Although I had a bit of excitement, I fried and egg on the sidewalk this afternoon. I always thought that was a tongue in cheek statement, but I had an egg that wasn’t safe to eat anymore so I thought, “Hmm... I wonder.” To be honest it took about ten minutes for the whole egg to cook, but cook it did. Now I have an egg stuck on my front porch because I didn’t think to melt a bit of butter first. Alas, that is what summer excitement is.
BUT, I have a remedy to this boredom. Next month I’m going on vacation to Rome. Huzzah! I know you guys are probably thinking if a Peace Corps Volunteer can afford a trip to Rome we are paid too much. Don’t fear for you tax monies, the tickets were $14 each way and I’ve been skipping meals for months to save the money. Wish me luck, the next time you hear from me I’ll have tales of questing through Italy!
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