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!
Sunday, November 27, 2011
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!
Monday, June 13, 2011
Like Whitesnake, here I go again.
Dear, kind, indulgent readers, le sigh, it’s time to just accept that I will always be the occasional yet verbose blogger. It’s turning into a bit of a habit that I post a novella length update, apologize, swear to update more often and in shorter pieces, then time passes and I find myself in the same scenario. Alas, I am the way that I am.
Now the topic you’re all on tenterhooks to hear about... Me!
Oh my, all the things that are new that need talking about. When last you left your intrepid heroine (c’est moi) I was Fes-ward bound to assist Operation Smile yet again with another mission. This time, I announced, that I was going as an official, titled, volunteer. My title? Patient Imaging Technician... yes... I’m a PIT. This rather unfortunate title causes me to pause and tip my hat to Ms. Bombeck. I may be a PIT, but, if life is a bowl of cherries, I’m glad I’m not in the pits. The job of a PIT is exactly what it seems like: I take pictures of patients. This is pretty boring the first couple of days of the mission: 8 hours of snapping shots of squalling wee ones for two days. Then the surgeries start and things get interesting. Once the patients are put under I come in and take a few more pictures then I hang around until the surgeons are done and I take even more pictures. You may be thinking, why so many pictures? An excellent question, Operation Smile may be a humanitarian organization offering free services to those who could never get them otherwise; but, free or not, they still expect professional level work. The photos are meant for quality control. So that’s my small but important role with OS.
Some of you may be thinking my job sounds dry but to you I say, “NAY!” Actually it’s amazing. The doctors and nurses that come to work with OS are some of the best people in their field. They come from all over the world to do this work.BTW not only are they doing this work but they have to pay for the opportunity to do this and they have to take vacation time for this from their real jobs. I, personally, enjoyed working with them because they were fun to be around and because they encouraged me to hang around and see what was going on during the surgery. It was so very, very cool. There were, also, a couple of residents who were there for the educational experience and they were happy to answer all of my questions.
Immediately after Op Smile My counterpart and I organized an AIDs awareness 5 km run for the students that live in my market town. That was a glorious success. We had a turnout of nearly 150 students, most of these were boys under the age of 15 but I am not complaining. As a matter of fact, I am just grateful we had people show up. The first event is notoriously a flop in regards to attendance numbers. This means that next year (absolutely everyone demanded we do this again next year) we may double or even triple the attendance numbers. I am very excited.
Hmm, what came next... oh! My parents! Huzzah! It was absolutely wonderful having daddy and the mom lady seeing my life and the beloved-thorn-in-my-side that is Morocco. What can I say, Moroccans drive me nuts but, by god, they drive ME nuts... and I love ‘em. Trash talk Morocco at your own risk >:| That’s my scary face... it makes you quake in your boots. Having the parents here was really a fun experience. One, b/c mom and dad are awesome. Two, b/c seeing their reactions to Morocco reminded me of what I felt like the first few weeks I was in Morocco. We had a blast, we saw visited the night market in Marrakech, walked through the Rose fields of Klaat M’Gouna (the City of Roses) and drove past the nomads and wild camels that live near my village-I think I was more excited about this then they were. My parents were absolute troopers, too, I wasn’t very nice to them (to be honest). I made them travel via souk bus b/c that’s how Moroccans travel and it’s the best way to see the country. But it’s also very dirt... and you take your life into your hands every time you step foot onto one of these death traps they call a bus. I think the night we spent in a very loud hotel followed by a ten hour bus ride was a bleak point in their adventure. It didn’t help that the slave driver (yours truly) took them immediately off the bus in Fes to walk through the medina to see the tannery. I thought it was a lovely stroll; they titled it a “forced march.” Alright, I own that one... my bad, I’m sorry. I just forget that other people don’t have to walk 2 miles to get a ride anytime you want to go somewhere. I find walking therapeutic; I guess this is not the commonly held belief.
One down side to seeing my parents reaction to all the things I accept as part of life is that I realized how much I have changed... and I begin to worry I really, really won’t fit in when I get back home. It’s a good thing you guys love me, b/c I’m going to be testing the limits until I readjust.
After taking my parents on a short visit around Morocco we took a week and went up to Spain. Oh my heaves, it was glorious! We went to see Alhambra in Granada, and we saw the Hotel America. Mom snapped a picture of the sign in such a way that it said “Hotel ‘Merica”- Facebook download pending. I got a kick out of it when we made a 3 hour trip to Great Britain in the form of Gibraltar (I got to see the monkeys! And our bus driver got one to jump onto my shoulder... hee hee hee) Of course while we were in GB we ate fish and chips, I felt very authentic. We made a couple of other stops here and there but my favorite place was Barcelona. It was so much fun! We saw Gaudi’s Cathedral and I have to tell you, if you were to visit Spain and only got to see the Cathedral it would be a trip worth doing.
EEEEEEEEEE! After we went to the Cathedral we passed a... STARBUCKS! Are they the devil? Yes. But I have been living in a developing country for over a year and that Carmel Macchiato was glorious! I even made my parents take a picture of me with said beverage in front of said store to prove I wasn’t dreaming.
So I have to say that the trip was a definite success.
I got home from this grand adventure and almost immediately had to take a work trip to Rabat (the capitol of Morocco) where PC HQ is so I could have my mid service medical check-up. A clean bill of health... ish. At least I don’t have any parasites (nearly all PCVs end up with some type) I do have giarrdia but it’s a minor case and since it’s unavoidable the doctors say it’s better I just wait until the end of my service to treat it. In the spirit of open mindedness, and since I’m going to be spending so much time with it, I named it Leroy.
So that took a little less than a week and I was finally free to go home. Now the thing about my home is that it’s made out of mud brick. This is quaint most of the time... except it’s been raining for the last three weeks and last sat (when I’d been home for about two days) my roof caved in! Ok I’m exaggerating, I just wound up with more holes in the roof then I had buckets and it was basically raining inside my house. This wouldn't be quite so bad except a leak in your mud brick roof doesn’t just mean the rain comes in; it means a stream of mud comes in. Blah. So with my main room quickly becoming a swimming pool I packed up all of my possessions and moved into the spare room of a PCV who lives near me. I’m just glad I have someone so close to me and that I so few belongings that everything I have only fills half of that spare room. I am now in the process of finding a new home. There was a bright side to this event, though; I have been planning on moving into the village i am now in for a few weeks now. This just accelerated the process. Huzzah.
Alright my dearly beloved, you are now updated to all of the events in my life. Next week I am headed back to Essouara for the Ganoua Music Festival where I will offer free blood pressure testing to people as a ploy to get them to listen to our health lessons. I was at this event last year and i had so much fun i know this will be equally as fabulous. It’s kind of weird to me that I have been here long enough to be doing my second anything when it comes to annual stuff. This was my second birthday in March, we just finished my second spring, it’s getting back into the hundreds and so marks the beginning of my second summer, this is my second Ganaua... weird, mes amis, very, very weird. Funny thing about this being my second summer, I was walking down the street this morning thinking, “Oh this is lovely, maybe it’s going to be a mild summer.” Then I saw the bank thermometer when I got into town... it was 100 degrees at 9 am. Maybe I’m just adjusted, or maybe once you’ve lived through 120 degrees, 100 degrees is nothing.
Ah well, I must be off to the market, those lovely summer veggies are calling my name.
Ciao!
Now the topic you’re all on tenterhooks to hear about... Me!
Oh my, all the things that are new that need talking about. When last you left your intrepid heroine (c’est moi) I was Fes-ward bound to assist Operation Smile yet again with another mission. This time, I announced, that I was going as an official, titled, volunteer. My title? Patient Imaging Technician... yes... I’m a PIT. This rather unfortunate title causes me to pause and tip my hat to Ms. Bombeck. I may be a PIT, but, if life is a bowl of cherries, I’m glad I’m not in the pits. The job of a PIT is exactly what it seems like: I take pictures of patients. This is pretty boring the first couple of days of the mission: 8 hours of snapping shots of squalling wee ones for two days. Then the surgeries start and things get interesting. Once the patients are put under I come in and take a few more pictures then I hang around until the surgeons are done and I take even more pictures. You may be thinking, why so many pictures? An excellent question, Operation Smile may be a humanitarian organization offering free services to those who could never get them otherwise; but, free or not, they still expect professional level work. The photos are meant for quality control. So that’s my small but important role with OS.
Some of you may be thinking my job sounds dry but to you I say, “NAY!” Actually it’s amazing. The doctors and nurses that come to work with OS are some of the best people in their field. They come from all over the world to do this work.BTW not only are they doing this work but they have to pay for the opportunity to do this and they have to take vacation time for this from their real jobs. I, personally, enjoyed working with them because they were fun to be around and because they encouraged me to hang around and see what was going on during the surgery. It was so very, very cool. There were, also, a couple of residents who were there for the educational experience and they were happy to answer all of my questions.
Immediately after Op Smile My counterpart and I organized an AIDs awareness 5 km run for the students that live in my market town. That was a glorious success. We had a turnout of nearly 150 students, most of these were boys under the age of 15 but I am not complaining. As a matter of fact, I am just grateful we had people show up. The first event is notoriously a flop in regards to attendance numbers. This means that next year (absolutely everyone demanded we do this again next year) we may double or even triple the attendance numbers. I am very excited.
Hmm, what came next... oh! My parents! Huzzah! It was absolutely wonderful having daddy and the mom lady seeing my life and the beloved-thorn-in-my-side that is Morocco. What can I say, Moroccans drive me nuts but, by god, they drive ME nuts... and I love ‘em. Trash talk Morocco at your own risk >:| That’s my scary face... it makes you quake in your boots. Having the parents here was really a fun experience. One, b/c mom and dad are awesome. Two, b/c seeing their reactions to Morocco reminded me of what I felt like the first few weeks I was in Morocco. We had a blast, we saw visited the night market in Marrakech, walked through the Rose fields of Klaat M’Gouna (the City of Roses) and drove past the nomads and wild camels that live near my village-I think I was more excited about this then they were. My parents were absolute troopers, too, I wasn’t very nice to them (to be honest). I made them travel via souk bus b/c that’s how Moroccans travel and it’s the best way to see the country. But it’s also very dirt... and you take your life into your hands every time you step foot onto one of these death traps they call a bus. I think the night we spent in a very loud hotel followed by a ten hour bus ride was a bleak point in their adventure. It didn’t help that the slave driver (yours truly) took them immediately off the bus in Fes to walk through the medina to see the tannery. I thought it was a lovely stroll; they titled it a “forced march.” Alright, I own that one... my bad, I’m sorry. I just forget that other people don’t have to walk 2 miles to get a ride anytime you want to go somewhere. I find walking therapeutic; I guess this is not the commonly held belief.
One down side to seeing my parents reaction to all the things I accept as part of life is that I realized how much I have changed... and I begin to worry I really, really won’t fit in when I get back home. It’s a good thing you guys love me, b/c I’m going to be testing the limits until I readjust.
After taking my parents on a short visit around Morocco we took a week and went up to Spain. Oh my heaves, it was glorious! We went to see Alhambra in Granada, and we saw the Hotel America. Mom snapped a picture of the sign in such a way that it said “Hotel ‘Merica”- Facebook download pending. I got a kick out of it when we made a 3 hour trip to Great Britain in the form of Gibraltar (I got to see the monkeys! And our bus driver got one to jump onto my shoulder... hee hee hee) Of course while we were in GB we ate fish and chips, I felt very authentic. We made a couple of other stops here and there but my favorite place was Barcelona. It was so much fun! We saw Gaudi’s Cathedral and I have to tell you, if you were to visit Spain and only got to see the Cathedral it would be a trip worth doing.
EEEEEEEEEE! After we went to the Cathedral we passed a... STARBUCKS! Are they the devil? Yes. But I have been living in a developing country for over a year and that Carmel Macchiato was glorious! I even made my parents take a picture of me with said beverage in front of said store to prove I wasn’t dreaming.
So I have to say that the trip was a definite success.
I got home from this grand adventure and almost immediately had to take a work trip to Rabat (the capitol of Morocco) where PC HQ is so I could have my mid service medical check-up. A clean bill of health... ish. At least I don’t have any parasites (nearly all PCVs end up with some type) I do have giarrdia but it’s a minor case and since it’s unavoidable the doctors say it’s better I just wait until the end of my service to treat it. In the spirit of open mindedness, and since I’m going to be spending so much time with it, I named it Leroy.
So that took a little less than a week and I was finally free to go home. Now the thing about my home is that it’s made out of mud brick. This is quaint most of the time... except it’s been raining for the last three weeks and last sat (when I’d been home for about two days) my roof caved in! Ok I’m exaggerating, I just wound up with more holes in the roof then I had buckets and it was basically raining inside my house. This wouldn't be quite so bad except a leak in your mud brick roof doesn’t just mean the rain comes in; it means a stream of mud comes in. Blah. So with my main room quickly becoming a swimming pool I packed up all of my possessions and moved into the spare room of a PCV who lives near me. I’m just glad I have someone so close to me and that I so few belongings that everything I have only fills half of that spare room. I am now in the process of finding a new home. There was a bright side to this event, though; I have been planning on moving into the village i am now in for a few weeks now. This just accelerated the process. Huzzah.
Alright my dearly beloved, you are now updated to all of the events in my life. Next week I am headed back to Essouara for the Ganoua Music Festival where I will offer free blood pressure testing to people as a ploy to get them to listen to our health lessons. I was at this event last year and i had so much fun i know this will be equally as fabulous. It’s kind of weird to me that I have been here long enough to be doing my second anything when it comes to annual stuff. This was my second birthday in March, we just finished my second spring, it’s getting back into the hundreds and so marks the beginning of my second summer, this is my second Ganaua... weird, mes amis, very, very weird. Funny thing about this being my second summer, I was walking down the street this morning thinking, “Oh this is lovely, maybe it’s going to be a mild summer.” Then I saw the bank thermometer when I got into town... it was 100 degrees at 9 am. Maybe I’m just adjusted, or maybe once you’ve lived through 120 degrees, 100 degrees is nothing.
Ah well, I must be off to the market, those lovely summer veggies are calling my name.
Ciao!
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
If Adventure Doesx Not Befall a Young Lady in Her Own Village, She Must Go Out and Find It Herself
Thank you Jane Austin.
Good heavens timing is passing at an alarming rate! First in that it’s been two months since my last update- oops, sorry- and second in that I have been in that fabulously interesting country for a whole year now... jeezy creezy! I’m just going to apologize now for what I know will be a very long entry.
Starting at the beginning since my last update would be late Jan early Feb. This was a pretty boring time for me because it was still too cold to even think properly, let alone actually do stuff. This entire time period would be utterly unworthy of mention were it not for all the political hubbub here in the Arab world: first in Tunisia, then Egypt, now Algeria, Libya, Mauritania, and (sort of) Morocco. I have to say this is a really, really exciting time to be living in this part of the world. History is totally changing, never before in all history have Arabs risen up against their leaders. If you guys haven’t been following the stuff in this part of the world I suggest you look into it, Tunisia and Egypt are the coolest, Libya is the saddest.
In the spirit of not posting a novel of an update I’m only going to talk about Morocco’s reaction to the political upheaval. This is b/c it’s not really in the news that much and b/c it’s the topic that applies to me and tells you if you should be worried about me. In brief, don’t worry. ;P
There’s a bit of background about Morocco I want you all to know before I describe the people’s actions. Moroccans are not Arabs, even those that call themselves “Arabs” only use this moniker in comparison to the native Amazir ppl. If you ask them if they’re Arab like Egypt they will say, no we’re Moroccan; I love taxi drivers b/c they love to talk so I learn a lot about the country this way. In Rabat, Casablanca, and Midelt three different shifurs (taxi drivers) said the same thing, “Politics are stupid, Morocco is Muslim not Arab.” When I asked if they were going to have demonstrations like Egypt or Algeria I got a, you-done-bummpt-yo-head look and they all said, “We will never do what Algeria does” Hee, I really do love these ppl, they are so predictably stubborn. In case I’m not making sense in this, let me shorten it to this, Morocco is an island in the Arab world
This unique identity means that they don’t feel like they have to unify with other Islamic countries. There have been a handful of riots in big cities, rumor has it a few buildings have been burned out (everything’s made of cement so they burn out rather than down) because they do want change within the government but it’s nothing like what the rest of North Africa is going through. There are a lot of demonstrations all over but these are really chill. For example, in my souk town they have a demonstration every Sunday at 4:30 but they walk through the streets holding Moroccan flags, and one Che Guevara flag, it’s more like a parade than a rebellion, though. I asked a girls standing next to me what they wanted to change and she said that they like the government and the king they just want different ppl in the political positions. 75- 80% of the population is under 35 years old but the whole government (except the King) are over 60 years old. The ppl what to be represented in their own government. The lady (about my age) asked me if I thought what the group was doing was bad. I told her I’m an American, we believe everyone should be able to speak and be heard, in the streets and in the government. She got this huge smile and said, “This is why Morocco and America are friends, we agree. America is very, very good.”
Hells to the yeah, my friend, hells to the yeah.
One actual riot against the man did happen in the village I do most of my work in; it was done by my students. I wasn’t there to see it b/c one of my students called me the night before and said, “Don’t come to school tomorrow, we are going to demonstrate against the school so no one will come to class. Can you come the day after to teach class?” Oh you wild and crazy high schoolers, in the end they did get a bit roucus, they broke a window in the school. Want to know what their demands from the school were? A changing room to have some where to change in their PE clothes, doors on the bathroom stalls, and getting rid of a teacher thet don’t like- all reasonable except the teacher, she’s just doing her job.
In other news, i've now had my 2nd of 3 birthdays in Morocco, one more and I'm Hooomewaard bound! Que music. ;P That, coupled with my one year in country anniversary seemed to be everyone's signal to give me work- i am not complaining! In Jan I was doing bupkiss, now I am teaching a health club in one of the cities near me, working with a drama club to teach other people health lessons in another, Teaching a weekly women's health class in that village, organizing a 5km AIDs Awareeness run at the end of April, and talking with some town's men about setting up a landfill and trash pick up system... But that's just the immediate future, I have a few other projects coming up in the Fall but I'll think about those later. :) Can I get Lahumdullah? Lahumdullah!
Phew! This is long!
Next, HA do you guys remember my finding people's need, and woeful inability, to identify my national hertiage? I can not tell you how many times ppl in America would assume me to be Native American, Latina, Jewish, or just generally Mediterranean? Well the tradition coninues here and it seems to be getting harder and harder for ppl to catch my roots. when I forst arrived in country Moroccans would ask if I was French or Spanish. Now They ask me if I'm Moroccan or Spanish. But the cake takers, I think, were two guys in two cities with in the same week who asked me if I am Japanese... Side note, these ppl know what the Japanese look like, Japan has a Peace Corps here in Morocco and both cities where i was have JIKA volunteers in them... I guess my features are really, really enigmatic. lol, This just goes to show that racism is stupid and pointless.
OK I think I've gone on enough for now
Peace, love, and rainbows for you all!
Good heavens timing is passing at an alarming rate! First in that it’s been two months since my last update- oops, sorry- and second in that I have been in that fabulously interesting country for a whole year now... jeezy creezy! I’m just going to apologize now for what I know will be a very long entry.
Starting at the beginning since my last update would be late Jan early Feb. This was a pretty boring time for me because it was still too cold to even think properly, let alone actually do stuff. This entire time period would be utterly unworthy of mention were it not for all the political hubbub here in the Arab world: first in Tunisia, then Egypt, now Algeria, Libya, Mauritania, and (sort of) Morocco. I have to say this is a really, really exciting time to be living in this part of the world. History is totally changing, never before in all history have Arabs risen up against their leaders. If you guys haven’t been following the stuff in this part of the world I suggest you look into it, Tunisia and Egypt are the coolest, Libya is the saddest.
In the spirit of not posting a novel of an update I’m only going to talk about Morocco’s reaction to the political upheaval. This is b/c it’s not really in the news that much and b/c it’s the topic that applies to me and tells you if you should be worried about me. In brief, don’t worry. ;P
There’s a bit of background about Morocco I want you all to know before I describe the people’s actions. Moroccans are not Arabs, even those that call themselves “Arabs” only use this moniker in comparison to the native Amazir ppl. If you ask them if they’re Arab like Egypt they will say, no we’re Moroccan; I love taxi drivers b/c they love to talk so I learn a lot about the country this way. In Rabat, Casablanca, and Midelt three different shifurs (taxi drivers) said the same thing, “Politics are stupid, Morocco is Muslim not Arab.” When I asked if they were going to have demonstrations like Egypt or Algeria I got a, you-done-bummpt-yo-head look and they all said, “We will never do what Algeria does” Hee, I really do love these ppl, they are so predictably stubborn. In case I’m not making sense in this, let me shorten it to this, Morocco is an island in the Arab world
This unique identity means that they don’t feel like they have to unify with other Islamic countries. There have been a handful of riots in big cities, rumor has it a few buildings have been burned out (everything’s made of cement so they burn out rather than down) because they do want change within the government but it’s nothing like what the rest of North Africa is going through. There are a lot of demonstrations all over but these are really chill. For example, in my souk town they have a demonstration every Sunday at 4:30 but they walk through the streets holding Moroccan flags, and one Che Guevara flag, it’s more like a parade than a rebellion, though. I asked a girls standing next to me what they wanted to change and she said that they like the government and the king they just want different ppl in the political positions. 75- 80% of the population is under 35 years old but the whole government (except the King) are over 60 years old. The ppl what to be represented in their own government. The lady (about my age) asked me if I thought what the group was doing was bad. I told her I’m an American, we believe everyone should be able to speak and be heard, in the streets and in the government. She got this huge smile and said, “This is why Morocco and America are friends, we agree. America is very, very good.”
Hells to the yeah, my friend, hells to the yeah.
One actual riot against the man did happen in the village I do most of my work in; it was done by my students. I wasn’t there to see it b/c one of my students called me the night before and said, “Don’t come to school tomorrow, we are going to demonstrate against the school so no one will come to class. Can you come the day after to teach class?” Oh you wild and crazy high schoolers, in the end they did get a bit roucus, they broke a window in the school. Want to know what their demands from the school were? A changing room to have some where to change in their PE clothes, doors on the bathroom stalls, and getting rid of a teacher thet don’t like- all reasonable except the teacher, she’s just doing her job.
In other news, i've now had my 2nd of 3 birthdays in Morocco, one more and I'm Hooomewaard bound! Que music. ;P That, coupled with my one year in country anniversary seemed to be everyone's signal to give me work- i am not complaining! In Jan I was doing bupkiss, now I am teaching a health club in one of the cities near me, working with a drama club to teach other people health lessons in another, Teaching a weekly women's health class in that village, organizing a 5km AIDs Awareeness run at the end of April, and talking with some town's men about setting up a landfill and trash pick up system... But that's just the immediate future, I have a few other projects coming up in the Fall but I'll think about those later. :) Can I get Lahumdullah? Lahumdullah!
Phew! This is long!
Next, HA do you guys remember my finding people's need, and woeful inability, to identify my national hertiage? I can not tell you how many times ppl in America would assume me to be Native American, Latina, Jewish, or just generally Mediterranean? Well the tradition coninues here and it seems to be getting harder and harder for ppl to catch my roots. when I forst arrived in country Moroccans would ask if I was French or Spanish. Now They ask me if I'm Moroccan or Spanish. But the cake takers, I think, were two guys in two cities with in the same week who asked me if I am Japanese... Side note, these ppl know what the Japanese look like, Japan has a Peace Corps here in Morocco and both cities where i was have JIKA volunteers in them... I guess my features are really, really enigmatic. lol, This just goes to show that racism is stupid and pointless.
OK I think I've gone on enough for now
Peace, love, and rainbows for you all!
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Le gasp! Is it really 2011?
I don't know where the time goes but wherever it went it did so quickly!
Whew, where to begin? If Julie Andrews taught us anything it's that the beginning is the best place to begin.
The week after my last post the olive harvest began in my area. This is the major cash crop for most of my villages so everyone and their grandmother (literally) went out to the field to work. I didn't want to be left out of all the fun so I put on my lets-get-grubby- face and trecked out to the fields; I had so much fun I can't believe it! So the way olives are harvested pretty much hasn't changed since the first olive harvest took place in the fields of Ur: the women put big rugs under the tress and hit the lower branches with big sticks to nock all the olives down while the men climbe the trees and do the same to the higher branches. I, being foriegn ands an owner of denim jeans, got to help in whatever capacity I wanted... I was up the nearest tree so quickly the woman who had been stading nearest to me looked around and said; "where'd she go?" I spent the next two days monkying through the green foliege hunting the small black fruits.
I'm sure most ppl who have never helped in the olive harvest think this is not a very interesting story. You have to see it from a big picture kind of way. This is something that has been done for eons exactly the same way! This is something that not only Jesus probably did, but Mohammed, Abraham, and Noah too! Not only that but thousands, if not millions, of ppl were doing the same thing all over the world at the exact same time! WOW!!
After the harvest there was Christmas, we had the most relaxing Christmas I think I have ever had: there was feasting, festivity, and even some frisbeeing. I'm afraid there is no epic tale to share about my Yule tide.
New Years, however, is a very different story. A couple of the PCVs in the area took the weekend off and went south to the Sahara and rode camels out to the middle of the dunes! Oh my heavens it was so very much fun. There was a huge group of ppl from Ireland, Italy, Spain, France, and the US and we all rode camels an hour into the desert where we spent the night in traditional nomadic tents. When we reached camp we were at the base of the biggest dune in the area so a bunch of us decided to climb it... that took 2 hours. From the top we could see Algeria we were so high. We watched the sun set from there. We spent the rest of the night singing traditional Moroccan songs sitting around a bon fire. Definitely a New Years to be remembered.
Last week was back to work for me, I guess my Peace Corps can't be all climbinbg trees and sitting ontop of smelly herbivores.
I spent the week working with KOICA (South Korea's version of the Peace Corps). Frist I went to Rabat (the capital) for some training and team bonding. There I joined up with some other PCVs and we met the 15 or so KOICA volunteers and the 5 Moroccan teachers who were working with us. This was fabulous b/c only 4 of the non-PCVs spoke English; this ment there was a lot of French used when I worked with the Moroccans and a lot of charades used Witht the Koreans. Fun fact: there is no way to use hand gestures for "glitter". This is significant b/c we used glitter to teach hand washing lessons but glitter just isn't one of those words that ever made it onto any of the grammer quiz lists in anyones' studies. In the end I showed them the rhine stones on my glasses and made a sprinkling gesture with my hands. HA! I'll bet you all thought my sparkly glasses were frivelous and silly; little did you know we would have been lost without them. Yes I'm feeling smug. :D
Phew! Alright, that brings you all up to date on my life as of today. I hope you guys are all doing well... you know you guys could tell me how you are all doing. I have email, snail mail,... you could even comment on these blogs... I miss you guys.
Whew, where to begin? If Julie Andrews taught us anything it's that the beginning is the best place to begin.
The week after my last post the olive harvest began in my area. This is the major cash crop for most of my villages so everyone and their grandmother (literally) went out to the field to work. I didn't want to be left out of all the fun so I put on my lets-get-grubby- face and trecked out to the fields; I had so much fun I can't believe it! So the way olives are harvested pretty much hasn't changed since the first olive harvest took place in the fields of Ur: the women put big rugs under the tress and hit the lower branches with big sticks to nock all the olives down while the men climbe the trees and do the same to the higher branches. I, being foriegn ands an owner of denim jeans, got to help in whatever capacity I wanted... I was up the nearest tree so quickly the woman who had been stading nearest to me looked around and said; "where'd she go?" I spent the next two days monkying through the green foliege hunting the small black fruits.
I'm sure most ppl who have never helped in the olive harvest think this is not a very interesting story. You have to see it from a big picture kind of way. This is something that has been done for eons exactly the same way! This is something that not only Jesus probably did, but Mohammed, Abraham, and Noah too! Not only that but thousands, if not millions, of ppl were doing the same thing all over the world at the exact same time! WOW!!
After the harvest there was Christmas, we had the most relaxing Christmas I think I have ever had: there was feasting, festivity, and even some frisbeeing. I'm afraid there is no epic tale to share about my Yule tide.
New Years, however, is a very different story. A couple of the PCVs in the area took the weekend off and went south to the Sahara and rode camels out to the middle of the dunes! Oh my heavens it was so very much fun. There was a huge group of ppl from Ireland, Italy, Spain, France, and the US and we all rode camels an hour into the desert where we spent the night in traditional nomadic tents. When we reached camp we were at the base of the biggest dune in the area so a bunch of us decided to climb it... that took 2 hours. From the top we could see Algeria we were so high. We watched the sun set from there. We spent the rest of the night singing traditional Moroccan songs sitting around a bon fire. Definitely a New Years to be remembered.
Last week was back to work for me, I guess my Peace Corps can't be all climbinbg trees and sitting ontop of smelly herbivores.
I spent the week working with KOICA (South Korea's version of the Peace Corps). Frist I went to Rabat (the capital) for some training and team bonding. There I joined up with some other PCVs and we met the 15 or so KOICA volunteers and the 5 Moroccan teachers who were working with us. This was fabulous b/c only 4 of the non-PCVs spoke English; this ment there was a lot of French used when I worked with the Moroccans and a lot of charades used Witht the Koreans. Fun fact: there is no way to use hand gestures for "glitter". This is significant b/c we used glitter to teach hand washing lessons but glitter just isn't one of those words that ever made it onto any of the grammer quiz lists in anyones' studies. In the end I showed them the rhine stones on my glasses and made a sprinkling gesture with my hands. HA! I'll bet you all thought my sparkly glasses were frivelous and silly; little did you know we would have been lost without them. Yes I'm feeling smug. :D
Phew! Alright, that brings you all up to date on my life as of today. I hope you guys are all doing well... you know you guys could tell me how you are all doing. I have email, snail mail,... you could even comment on these blogs... I miss you guys.
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