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!