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.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Monday, December 13, 2010
Cont. from before
Lol, sorry I cut myslf off mid word b/c I was skyping the parents and forgot that I was blogging too. Hee hee, hey! That's an idea, you should all set up skype accounts so I can talk to you guys, or at least leave skype messages.
So as I was saying before. I think the PCVs i my province deliberatly celebrate things in a hilariously non-sequitar manner. During CBT (remember those posts? they feel like a life time ago) we celbrated Easter at the Buddist's home, Halloween was celebrated by dining on sushi in Marrakech, Thanksgiving was enjoyed at the home of our beautiful PCV of Latina origin (I would like to specify here- for those who might be offended... it's funny. You know it. Admit it and set yourself free.);) and we will be spending a very festive and jouyous Christmas at the home of the only Errachidia/ Midelt resident Jew. Hee hee hee Have I mentiond I love my provintial gang? We're the nicest, prettiest, and best team-work-doing group in Morocco.
There, the gauntlet is thrown, if there are any other PCV Moroccans reading this, I dare you to prove me wrong!
In other news, there may not be any Christmas spirit here yet but I can tell I'm getting in the mood, I always celebrate the Holidays by cooking and it's no different here. But I must add, in reference to the song, No there is no Christmas in Africa... alas. If anyone wants to send me some snow I'de be glad. (Dearest brother, hint hint:P )
Ha! Here's a funny PCV Erika Story. One day I was feeling so sad that there's no Christmas and there aren't any evergreens here to have in my house (not even a Charlie Brown miskeen one!) so I drew one on a giant sheet of paper and taped it to my wall. And I drew an angel and some bulbs... and one charlie Brown Bulb in honor of how miskeen this is.
So as I was saying before. I think the PCVs i my province deliberatly celebrate things in a hilariously non-sequitar manner. During CBT (remember those posts? they feel like a life time ago) we celbrated Easter at the Buddist's home, Halloween was celebrated by dining on sushi in Marrakech, Thanksgiving was enjoyed at the home of our beautiful PCV of Latina origin (I would like to specify here- for those who might be offended... it's funny. You know it. Admit it and set yourself free.);) and we will be spending a very festive and jouyous Christmas at the home of the only Errachidia/ Midelt resident Jew. Hee hee hee Have I mentiond I love my provintial gang? We're the nicest, prettiest, and best team-work-doing group in Morocco.
There, the gauntlet is thrown, if there are any other PCV Moroccans reading this, I dare you to prove me wrong!
In other news, there may not be any Christmas spirit here yet but I can tell I'm getting in the mood, I always celebrate the Holidays by cooking and it's no different here. But I must add, in reference to the song, No there is no Christmas in Africa... alas. If anyone wants to send me some snow I'de be glad. (Dearest brother, hint hint:P )
Ha! Here's a funny PCV Erika Story. One day I was feeling so sad that there's no Christmas and there aren't any evergreens here to have in my house (not even a Charlie Brown miskeen one!) so I drew one on a giant sheet of paper and taped it to my wall. And I drew an angel and some bulbs... and one charlie Brown Bulb in honor of how miskeen this is.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Good heavens where does the time go? When last I checked in (poem not included) I was headed off to Azilal to work with Operation Smile... that was the beginning of October. Now it’s nearly Christmas... I blame ninja monkeys.
Whew, I have so very much to tell you all, my faithful and patient readers. Operation smile was amazing. When I agree to these shenanigans I assumed they would be having me do filing, and pushing a pen. Imagine my surprise when they threw me right into the thick of things. O. S. is based in the U.S. but it has branch offices all over the world. The offices represented this time around were the Casablanca, Rome, and Philippines offices. This meant all the doctors and anaesthesiologists
were Arabs, Italians, and Philippines. With so many nationalities and so many languages spoken they had to find one over arching language to speak; Italy’s primary languages are Italian and French, Morocco’s are Arabic, French, and Spanish, and the Philippines use Tonka, English, and French.
Therefore it should come as no surprise to anyone that the language selected was English. I’m stymied too. Even more flummoxing is that the American PCVs were chosen to be the translators for all the admin and patients. So who did I translate for? Ah well I am an EMT and therefore have “medical training” so I worked in the recovery room and translated and assisted the intensivist and the two nurses who worked with her. The intensivist’s name was Roberta (an Italian) and her nurses were Arab Moroccans (this means they speak Arabic instead of the Tamazirt I speak). Roberta
spoke Italian, Greek, English, and a little French, one nurse spoke Arabic and some English, and the second nurse spoke Arabic, a little English, and only knew the parts of French that Roberta didn’t know. This meant that not only was I translating between the patients and the doctors I was also translating between the doctors... after five days I had a splitting headache. It was a relief when the patiens came in after surgery b/c it meant no more talking for a while.
My job with the patients had 2 sides. 90% of our patients were between the ages of 6 months and 8; these patients were the hardest b/c they were just coming out from the gas when they would be wheeled in to us. This meant that we had someone who was too young to understand what had happened to them waking up in a room full of strangers in incredible pain. My job, along with my friend, and fellow EMT Andrew, was to play human straight jacket with the kids long enough for more drugs to kick in and knock them out. This was done to keep them from rolling off the bed or ripping out their IVs; it was actually kind of fun... as much fun as getting kicked and smacked
by semi- conscious wee ones can be. The 10% of the patients that were adults we helped were much easier. I just had to tell them in tam what the doctors told me in English; they usually nodded dreamily and then took a nap. They were nice.
The way the system works is that we spend the first two days of the week processing patients then we have three days of surgery. This operation we did over 170 surgeries and I saw all of them. When I got home all I wanted to do was sleep. Alas no sleep for me.
I was home for a few days then I had to head off to Marrakech for more PC meetings and training. That was quite the event. It’s a beautiful and historic city so it’s definitely worth seeing. The trouble is it’s also very touristy so it’s really expensive and, therefore, not somewhere you want to stay. Not only is it expensive but the taxi drivers assume all foreigners are tourists so they try to rip us
off. They also only speak French and Arabic. At this point my Tam is a million times better than my French so this was both hard and profoundly frustrating to me. One very eventful experience involved an especially persistent driver who would not take “let me out” for an answer.
It was about 10 pm and I was on my way home from dinner; my comrades were headed to the bar but I only had enough money for my taxi home so I said my goodbyes. I hailed a cab, climbed in, said the name of my hotel, and we were off. After about two blocks I realized the meter wasn’t on so I asked him to turn it on. He only spoke French so I only caught about half of his sentence but it amounted to, “No, it’s night time so the fare is extra.” I asked how much and he said something I
didn’t understand, I had to ask him three times before I got it... 50 dhs. BTW it was 18 dhs to the
restaurant from the hotel, naturally, I lost my temper. I said, “No, it’s 18 dhs from there to here so it should be 18 back.” He said, “No, it’s late. I won’t get anyone on the way back. You have to pay double for the trip.” (Double 18 is 32, not 50) I said, “No, it’s too much, pull over. I’m done.” At this point he backs down and says, “OK, OK 30 dhs.” Too late, I was way past bargaining. I said, “No, pull
over.” The guy kept driving and insisting that 30 was a fair price. So I popped the door open on the moving taxi... he turned on the meter. Hee hee hee. At this point I pull out my money and realize I only have 15 dhs so when the meter reached 15 I told that was all the money I had, he needed to pull over. To this he responded, “No, no, I have to take you all the way or God will punish me.” Not
only did I win, I also beat the system! I’m amazing.
Finally, back home. For the last two months my friend James and I have been working with one of our Moroccan friends to teach a class of 10 high school students about HIV/AIDs and have them paint a poster and write a skit. They are having a competition with other classes in the area led by other PCVs this weekend. I am so proud of my class; they have an amazing skit that totally defies what the world’s culture heretofore has taught. They are vilifying the disease rather than the people
who have it.
This project was moving along so smoothly and I had three others lined up to start doing at the local youth center where I could teach English, health lessons, and arts and crafts. I was just about to begin when all of a sudden the administrator was pulled and sent to another town a million miles away and wasn’t replaced. So the building has been closed since the end of October.
How can this happen? Well, around September the powers that be decided to shuffle state lines about a bit. The only trouble is that the different regional governments don’t communicate with one another. This meant that the 13 villages I live and work in wound up in a limbo like area... think the Afghanistan- Pakistan Border minus war and conflict. It was during this vague time that I was trying to get permission for my AIDs Awareness Project... that was dreadful. First I took a 45 min
taxi to Errachidia, my old capital city, and my officials informed me that my village was now in the Midelt province. I was nonplussed but accepted my fate. Took the 45 min taxi home then caught an hour long bus to Midelt, the capital of Midelt (they like to keep things simple). It was here that I was informed that my village was in Errachidia and the state lines hadn’t moved that far south... yeah. I
decided if the powers that be don’t care enough to figure out which province I was in they wouldn’t care if I taught some lessons; I was right, no one cared.
Long story short someone finally found their crayon and finished re drawing the state lines. I am now in Midelt. Upon realising that they had a new village with a fabulous administrator in the youth center they decided they had a better place for him. Thus they shipped him off elsewhere and forgot to file the “replace this guy” paper work. Hmph. With any luck this will soon be resolved.
In other news the weather is cooling off and the scorpions have all gone into hibernation, as have most of the more unpleasant bugs. Also, there is no heating in Moroccan houses so those that are still awake feel little need to come inside. I thought this was a great boon... until I was sitting in my main room one night and a mouse ran across the room. I was not impressed. The solution I came up with for this problem fits with another thing I’ve been thinking about for quite so time. A few
months ago my friends cat had kittens and I wanted one, now I had an excuse! We decided on her name by having her walk on James’ Italian book and the first name she put her paw on would be hers. Her name is Elizibetha, I call her Lizzy and she is so cute! Although one of the first things she did when I let her into the house was run full tilt into a wall and knock herself silly. It was in that moment I began to appreciate how a parent feels when they watch their child do something very, very stupid. It was a "Dear God, why did I get the retarded one?" moment.
This brings us to Thanksgiving. We had a small gathering of just the ppl who live nearby; it was nice but it’s just really hard to get into the holiday spirit when the leaves are only just beginning to turn. Back home the leaves have already fallen, been raked up, and snow fallen to cover the branches with whit instead of green and gold. I feel more like picking apples than singing carols. Ah well, I’ll
just appreciate being home for the Holidays more when I finally get there.
Hee hee, I think the Peace Corps Morocco/ Errachidia gang delibertly does things to m
Sorry for the length but this brings us up to today. I’ll try to do better next month.
Whew, I have so very much to tell you all, my faithful and patient readers. Operation smile was amazing. When I agree to these shenanigans I assumed they would be having me do filing, and pushing a pen. Imagine my surprise when they threw me right into the thick of things. O. S. is based in the U.S. but it has branch offices all over the world. The offices represented this time around were the Casablanca, Rome, and Philippines offices. This meant all the doctors and anaesthesiologists
were Arabs, Italians, and Philippines. With so many nationalities and so many languages spoken they had to find one over arching language to speak; Italy’s primary languages are Italian and French, Morocco’s are Arabic, French, and Spanish, and the Philippines use Tonka, English, and French.
Therefore it should come as no surprise to anyone that the language selected was English. I’m stymied too. Even more flummoxing is that the American PCVs were chosen to be the translators for all the admin and patients. So who did I translate for? Ah well I am an EMT and therefore have “medical training” so I worked in the recovery room and translated and assisted the intensivist and the two nurses who worked with her. The intensivist’s name was Roberta (an Italian) and her nurses were Arab Moroccans (this means they speak Arabic instead of the Tamazirt I speak). Roberta
spoke Italian, Greek, English, and a little French, one nurse spoke Arabic and some English, and the second nurse spoke Arabic, a little English, and only knew the parts of French that Roberta didn’t know. This meant that not only was I translating between the patients and the doctors I was also translating between the doctors... after five days I had a splitting headache. It was a relief when the patiens came in after surgery b/c it meant no more talking for a while.
My job with the patients had 2 sides. 90% of our patients were between the ages of 6 months and 8; these patients were the hardest b/c they were just coming out from the gas when they would be wheeled in to us. This meant that we had someone who was too young to understand what had happened to them waking up in a room full of strangers in incredible pain. My job, along with my friend, and fellow EMT Andrew, was to play human straight jacket with the kids long enough for more drugs to kick in and knock them out. This was done to keep them from rolling off the bed or ripping out their IVs; it was actually kind of fun... as much fun as getting kicked and smacked
by semi- conscious wee ones can be. The 10% of the patients that were adults we helped were much easier. I just had to tell them in tam what the doctors told me in English; they usually nodded dreamily and then took a nap. They were nice.
The way the system works is that we spend the first two days of the week processing patients then we have three days of surgery. This operation we did over 170 surgeries and I saw all of them. When I got home all I wanted to do was sleep. Alas no sleep for me.
I was home for a few days then I had to head off to Marrakech for more PC meetings and training. That was quite the event. It’s a beautiful and historic city so it’s definitely worth seeing. The trouble is it’s also very touristy so it’s really expensive and, therefore, not somewhere you want to stay. Not only is it expensive but the taxi drivers assume all foreigners are tourists so they try to rip us
off. They also only speak French and Arabic. At this point my Tam is a million times better than my French so this was both hard and profoundly frustrating to me. One very eventful experience involved an especially persistent driver who would not take “let me out” for an answer.
It was about 10 pm and I was on my way home from dinner; my comrades were headed to the bar but I only had enough money for my taxi home so I said my goodbyes. I hailed a cab, climbed in, said the name of my hotel, and we were off. After about two blocks I realized the meter wasn’t on so I asked him to turn it on. He only spoke French so I only caught about half of his sentence but it amounted to, “No, it’s night time so the fare is extra.” I asked how much and he said something I
didn’t understand, I had to ask him three times before I got it... 50 dhs. BTW it was 18 dhs to the
restaurant from the hotel, naturally, I lost my temper. I said, “No, it’s 18 dhs from there to here so it should be 18 back.” He said, “No, it’s late. I won’t get anyone on the way back. You have to pay double for the trip.” (Double 18 is 32, not 50) I said, “No, it’s too much, pull over. I’m done.” At this point he backs down and says, “OK, OK 30 dhs.” Too late, I was way past bargaining. I said, “No, pull
over.” The guy kept driving and insisting that 30 was a fair price. So I popped the door open on the moving taxi... he turned on the meter. Hee hee hee. At this point I pull out my money and realize I only have 15 dhs so when the meter reached 15 I told that was all the money I had, he needed to pull over. To this he responded, “No, no, I have to take you all the way or God will punish me.” Not
only did I win, I also beat the system! I’m amazing.
Finally, back home. For the last two months my friend James and I have been working with one of our Moroccan friends to teach a class of 10 high school students about HIV/AIDs and have them paint a poster and write a skit. They are having a competition with other classes in the area led by other PCVs this weekend. I am so proud of my class; they have an amazing skit that totally defies what the world’s culture heretofore has taught. They are vilifying the disease rather than the people
who have it.
This project was moving along so smoothly and I had three others lined up to start doing at the local youth center where I could teach English, health lessons, and arts and crafts. I was just about to begin when all of a sudden the administrator was pulled and sent to another town a million miles away and wasn’t replaced. So the building has been closed since the end of October.
How can this happen? Well, around September the powers that be decided to shuffle state lines about a bit. The only trouble is that the different regional governments don’t communicate with one another. This meant that the 13 villages I live and work in wound up in a limbo like area... think the Afghanistan- Pakistan Border minus war and conflict. It was during this vague time that I was trying to get permission for my AIDs Awareness Project... that was dreadful. First I took a 45 min
taxi to Errachidia, my old capital city, and my officials informed me that my village was now in the Midelt province. I was nonplussed but accepted my fate. Took the 45 min taxi home then caught an hour long bus to Midelt, the capital of Midelt (they like to keep things simple). It was here that I was informed that my village was in Errachidia and the state lines hadn’t moved that far south... yeah. I
decided if the powers that be don’t care enough to figure out which province I was in they wouldn’t care if I taught some lessons; I was right, no one cared.
Long story short someone finally found their crayon and finished re drawing the state lines. I am now in Midelt. Upon realising that they had a new village with a fabulous administrator in the youth center they decided they had a better place for him. Thus they shipped him off elsewhere and forgot to file the “replace this guy” paper work. Hmph. With any luck this will soon be resolved.
In other news the weather is cooling off and the scorpions have all gone into hibernation, as have most of the more unpleasant bugs. Also, there is no heating in Moroccan houses so those that are still awake feel little need to come inside. I thought this was a great boon... until I was sitting in my main room one night and a mouse ran across the room. I was not impressed. The solution I came up with for this problem fits with another thing I’ve been thinking about for quite so time. A few
months ago my friends cat had kittens and I wanted one, now I had an excuse! We decided on her name by having her walk on James’ Italian book and the first name she put her paw on would be hers. Her name is Elizibetha, I call her Lizzy and she is so cute! Although one of the first things she did when I let her into the house was run full tilt into a wall and knock herself silly. It was in that moment I began to appreciate how a parent feels when they watch their child do something very, very stupid. It was a "Dear God, why did I get the retarded one?" moment.
This brings us to Thanksgiving. We had a small gathering of just the ppl who live nearby; it was nice but it’s just really hard to get into the holiday spirit when the leaves are only just beginning to turn. Back home the leaves have already fallen, been raked up, and snow fallen to cover the branches with whit instead of green and gold. I feel more like picking apples than singing carols. Ah well, I’ll
just appreciate being home for the Holidays more when I finally get there.
Hee hee, I think the Peace Corps Morocco/ Errachidia gang delibertly does things to m
Sorry for the length but this brings us up to today. I’ll try to do better next month.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Holy-whatever-u-worship, where did November go?
Gah! I blink and it's December! What the kiblashery? so I have this lovely million mile long blog typed up and ready to be posted... on my laptop which I left at home. Hee hee... sorry. I'll post it when I'm in town again I promise! For now I shall write you all a poem thqt doesn't rhyme. Hey, if the Greeks can do it so can I.
Nine months in a foreign country.
Foreign smells, language, even minds.
When I lived in the US I took so much for granted.
Never again will I fail to acknowledge your gifts, oh toilet paper.
Yet nine months is not long at all.
A year ago next week I was told I would go on this adventure.
When last I posted I had not even thought of my
cotume for all Hallow's Eve.
Now I am making a paper tree to celebrate Christmas Eve.
Fini
I'll make up for it next time. the post is so long you'll need to take bathroom breaks. Like that billion hour Civil War movie Gods and Generals. Except mines better b/c the beards don't suck.
Stay tooned...
Nine months in a foreign country.
Foreign smells, language, even minds.
When I lived in the US I took so much for granted.
Never again will I fail to acknowledge your gifts, oh toilet paper.
Yet nine months is not long at all.
A year ago next week I was told I would go on this adventure.
When last I posted I had not even thought of my
cotume for all Hallow's Eve.
Now I am making a paper tree to celebrate Christmas Eve.
Fini
I'll make up for it next time. the post is so long you'll need to take bathroom breaks. Like that billion hour Civil War movie Gods and Generals. Except mines better b/c the beards don't suck.
Stay tooned...
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Oh My God It's October Already?
I have now been in country for seven months and am shocked to realize it. The newest wave of trainees arrived in Morocco a few weeks ago, it seems like just yesterday I was doing what they are now: using my first squatty potty, realizing the only dish washers here are at the distal end of each arm- good word to know, look it up, and hot running water is a gift from God. Ah, I laugh to think of these new, unbroken trainees... Actually I don't b/c these are all business and school volunteers so they'll all live in cities and never really see the rustic life. I feel sorry for them, PC will probablybe harder for them b/c they will continue to live the way they did in the States but w/ less advanced technology so they will be reminded every day of what they are doing w/o. I have simply upended my life all together and have mostly forgotten the technologies I once had. I actually didn't realize I didn't have a dish washer until a few weeks ago, it was weirder realizing I hadn't noticed than it was realizing I didn't have one. I was talking to a business PCV last week who still uses a hair dryer. I'm proud of myself if I was my hair more than once a week so the thought of a hair dryer left me speachless.
Yes,friends, I only wash my hair once or twice a week, and bathing happens even less often... I was able to avoid becoming a dirty hippy all through college yet 7 months in Morocco and I'm debating if dreds aren't an acceptable look after all. HA! gotcha, I'm not to dredlocks yet, I just wanted to scare you.
As for the blistering heat, yes it has finally broken. It dropped thirty degrees in about two weeks. This made me laugh because I was glorying in the cool weather when I saw the bank thermometer in town and realized if was a "cool" 90 degrees. I quess I'm aclimated. BTW, weather here isn'tlike weather back home. In CO it gets hot then cold and back to hot, etc. Here it's a constant wave, the temp gets war,er spring through fall then gets colder fall through spring. I kind of miss COs pschyzo weather, this is boring. I probably won't be saying boring in Jan after three months of 30 degrees.
Actually Oct is my favorite month so far. The weather is perfect it's just a little warmer than crisp but everything feels fresh... Like the weather back home around mid sept.
The older PCVs say it gets cold around Nov and snows Jan- Feb. This doesn't sound too bad... Ionly dread it because there are no heaters in this countery. Did I already tell you guys about this? If so please forgive me. There is only one kind of heater, its a small ceramic coil you twist into the top of a propane tank and light. Yes, a heater here is an open fire at the top of a propane tank. The PCV I replaced gave me hers but I'm definatly intimidated by it. I'll probably only use it when I have to bathe- that probably won't be very often- lol. Otherwise I'll be wrapped up in blankets drinking Hot cocoa. Yes, I have that here, I have to make the recipe myself b/c they sell unsweetened cacao powder here. Not comlaining, it's pretty good stuff and cheap too.
OK, so brief update since last blog.
I went to a city called Meknes a couple of weekends ago just for a break and I visited the ancient ruins outside the city. It was a Roman city called Volubilis and the ruins were amazing! The fact that they could do these amazing works of art and architecture two thousand years ago boggles the mind. The Romans might have had their flaws but you have to hand it to them for their engineering too.
The week after that we had a festival called the Wedding Festival just outside of a mountain town called Imilchil. A group of PCVs worked a health booth educating ppl about blood pressure and why high blood pressure is a problem. There were 5 ppl in the booth trained to take blood pressures and we were able to take well over 500 bps in 2 days.Yes I feel like strutting around going, "Look at me and my bad self." It's not surprising that we had so many ppl at the booth. Remember when you were a little kid- unless you're like me in which case, remember last week?- and you would go to the bp machine in the King Soopers Pharmacie just to have the machine test you heart rate and bp even though you had no idea what it meant. That's how Moroccans are with regular bp cuffs. They don't know what it means they just like to sit there. At the booth we would explain why they should care about their bps- it helped that they were attached to the cuff when we started talking so they couldn't escape. HAhahaha, I forced knowledge on them, I am so crafty.
HA just noticed I spelled Pharmecy w/ an ie and I'm leaving it b/c that's the French and it makes me laugh that I had to read the word three times before I figures out why I thought it looked funny.
Alright friends, I must dash, I am headed to a city called Azilal -check ur maps to find me- to help an American NGO called Operation Smile. For thos ethat don't know they're a group that preforms free surgeries on bebies born with cleft pallets. Since I have medical training- not much but it's enough I guess- they need me- and the other EMS PCVs- to help with pre and post op patients. In other words, I'm off to go help babies have a brand new start at life! Be jealous bwahahahaha! I'm totally being a jerk on perpose, Operation Smile has offices State side too so instead of being jealous you should contact them and help out.Heeheehee, was that manipulative?
OK must dash, wish me luck!
Yes,friends, I only wash my hair once or twice a week, and bathing happens even less often... I was able to avoid becoming a dirty hippy all through college yet 7 months in Morocco and I'm debating if dreds aren't an acceptable look after all. HA! gotcha, I'm not to dredlocks yet, I just wanted to scare you.
As for the blistering heat, yes it has finally broken. It dropped thirty degrees in about two weeks. This made me laugh because I was glorying in the cool weather when I saw the bank thermometer in town and realized if was a "cool" 90 degrees. I quess I'm aclimated. BTW, weather here isn'tlike weather back home. In CO it gets hot then cold and back to hot, etc. Here it's a constant wave, the temp gets war,er spring through fall then gets colder fall through spring. I kind of miss COs pschyzo weather, this is boring. I probably won't be saying boring in Jan after three months of 30 degrees.
Actually Oct is my favorite month so far. The weather is perfect it's just a little warmer than crisp but everything feels fresh... Like the weather back home around mid sept.
The older PCVs say it gets cold around Nov and snows Jan- Feb. This doesn't sound too bad... Ionly dread it because there are no heaters in this countery. Did I already tell you guys about this? If so please forgive me. There is only one kind of heater, its a small ceramic coil you twist into the top of a propane tank and light. Yes, a heater here is an open fire at the top of a propane tank. The PCV I replaced gave me hers but I'm definatly intimidated by it. I'll probably only use it when I have to bathe- that probably won't be very often- lol. Otherwise I'll be wrapped up in blankets drinking Hot cocoa. Yes, I have that here, I have to make the recipe myself b/c they sell unsweetened cacao powder here. Not comlaining, it's pretty good stuff and cheap too.
OK, so brief update since last blog.
I went to a city called Meknes a couple of weekends ago just for a break and I visited the ancient ruins outside the city. It was a Roman city called Volubilis and the ruins were amazing! The fact that they could do these amazing works of art and architecture two thousand years ago boggles the mind. The Romans might have had their flaws but you have to hand it to them for their engineering too.
The week after that we had a festival called the Wedding Festival just outside of a mountain town called Imilchil. A group of PCVs worked a health booth educating ppl about blood pressure and why high blood pressure is a problem. There were 5 ppl in the booth trained to take blood pressures and we were able to take well over 500 bps in 2 days.Yes I feel like strutting around going, "Look at me and my bad self." It's not surprising that we had so many ppl at the booth. Remember when you were a little kid- unless you're like me in which case, remember last week?- and you would go to the bp machine in the King Soopers Pharmacie just to have the machine test you heart rate and bp even though you had no idea what it meant. That's how Moroccans are with regular bp cuffs. They don't know what it means they just like to sit there. At the booth we would explain why they should care about their bps- it helped that they were attached to the cuff when we started talking so they couldn't escape. HAhahaha, I forced knowledge on them, I am so crafty.
HA just noticed I spelled Pharmecy w/ an ie and I'm leaving it b/c that's the French and it makes me laugh that I had to read the word three times before I figures out why I thought it looked funny.
Alright friends, I must dash, I am headed to a city called Azilal -check ur maps to find me- to help an American NGO called Operation Smile. For thos ethat don't know they're a group that preforms free surgeries on bebies born with cleft pallets. Since I have medical training- not much but it's enough I guess- they need me- and the other EMS PCVs- to help with pre and post op patients. In other words, I'm off to go help babies have a brand new start at life! Be jealous bwahahahaha! I'm totally being a jerk on perpose, Operation Smile has offices State side too so instead of being jealous you should contact them and help out.Heeheehee, was that manipulative?
OK must dash, wish me luck!
Friday, September 17, 2010
Ah hahahaha I lived!
Sorry it's been so long my internet connection wouldn't allow me to access my blog (blah) but here it is now.
Ramadan was a most interesting time. I quit fasting after about a week and a half, I gained ten pounds when I switched my daytime habits for my night time habits and it made me very sick, constant headaches, cranky all the time (we know how I can be when I’m hungry), and I felt like crap on the whole. once I was back to breakfast, lunch, and dinner at normal times all was well in the world again; when I attempted to explain to ppl that fasting made me sick they said, “No, it’s good for your health.” There was no discussion, just no, you don’t feel sick, fasting is good for you. So in the end I just lied to everyone and told them I was fasting; no, I don’t feel guilty at all.
Even though I wasn't fasting everyone else still was so there was nothing to be done during the day except wait for that dreadfully boring month to pass, ugh. Imagine if you will a month of undeserved house arrest. Glorious saints be praised for my amazing parents who sent me non-perishable foods and crafts to kill the time. This was an absolute God send, especially when I ran out of fruits and veggies and was in no mood to venture out into the market place where all the cranky, fasting shop keepers were in no mood to try to understand my heavily accented tash.
Having so much time on my hands has also lead to the development of such fascinating time killing hobbies as cleaning house, paper making, and finding new materials with which to make crafts. Yes friends, you read correctly, house cleaning- le gasp! I, who have embraced so dearly the idea of creative clutter, clean my house everyday and sweep it entirely out every other day. The sweeping is necessary only b/c my thatch roof is forever dropping bits of dirt and on the rare occasion it rains I have small rivulets of mud that come through my two windowless skylights; those funny German steins make so much sense now. Actually, mud thatching doesn’t shed nearly so badly as straw thatching so I really can’t complain- The Germans of yore had it much messier; all the same, I do have a newly found appreciation for drywall. No, what has me most alarmed is not that I clean house so often but how thoroughly I do it and the fact that I can’t go to bed until everything is exactly where is should be. I don’t think I’ll ever be my messy self again, I shall have to venture forward ever bravely, and more tidily, I guess.
The crafting with new materials is much more interesting though. I have learned that you can crochet with plastic bags! I feel most resourceful. The idea was given to me from a rumour that women in other parts of Morocco get together and crochet market bags out of used plastic bags; they are then able to sell them to local general store keepers for a little spending money of their own. I thought I might be able to do the same for the women in my site, should they have the free time to get together. The women in my site are constantly working so finding the time to have a crochet circle is improbable. Here’s hoping all the same.
A little background on why this is such an innovative idea out here in the middle of the desert. Very few communities in Morocco have trash pickup, as a matter of fact even my souk town, which, by Moroccan standards is a city, doesn’t have trash pickup. This means that in the less developed areas like mine all non-biodegradable wastes are dealt with in two ways: they are thrown to the side of the road, or are burned. Burning trash in Morocco is illegal... yet there is still no national waste management system... a conundrum- ‘though many ppl burn their trash anyway. Long explanation shortened, the trash that isn’t burned is polluting the countryside; most of this garbage is made up of candy wrappers, plastic bags, and disposable diapers. The most obvious action for a PCV such as myself to do would be to collect the garbage, no? This would be especially significant with the diapers, as they pose an immediate health hazard. The problem with this clever idea is what would I do with the garbage once collected? See above to my options... burn the plastic? Hmm, do we leave the plastic as it is- an eyesore- or burn it- thus creating toxic and environmentally harmful fumes... back to the drawing board. Ah ha! Turn the garbage into a commodity! Corporate America’s done it with all our excess corn (see any ingredient list near you) why can’t this American do it with plastic?
Environmentalists everywhere will tell you to just leave the current mess and turn your attention instead to preventing it from growing. So why can’t I just accept the fate of the environment and focus myself on other tasks? Allow me to answer this question with a story. One morning about two months ago I was sitting on the patio at a cafe sipping an espresso waiting for my friend to meet me. Mozart was playing in the background and I was watching birds as they rose and fell high above me, playing on the spiraling updraft created by the mountains surrounding the city. It was a serene moment as I watched the black birds weaving among the white birds, then I saw a bright blue bird in the group and realized I was watching probably a hundred plastic bags caught in the wind... the serenity of the moment was destroyed; even Mozart seemed garish at that moment. Every time I see a bag thrown to the side of the road I am reminded of that experience and am, therefore, unable to focus my hopes on other projects.
All of you duckies back home might thing of paper making as a quaint passtime, I know b/c I too felt that way when I lived in a country in which there is organized waste management and recycling. Now that I must either break Moroccan law and burn my waste or throw it to the side of the road I find myself seeking ways to reduce not only my plastic waste but all others too. It is with great fervour, therefore, that I recycle my scrap paper into new paper. Of course my means are very rudimentory so I can't get that thin notebook paper we are all so fond of. All the same, if anyone would like to get a letter on some of my very not fancy handmade cardstock be sure to send me a letter w/ a return address, or, of course, post it in a comment here, but I would prefer a letter for a letter. It's much more fun
Unfortunately for my boatloads of free time paper making, developing new crafting materials and cleaning house don't actually take that much time. In America our culture is to sit down with some sort of junk food and a movie at times like this. Now that I have a computer I have been able to buy a few movies but junk food (or any comfort food for that matter) is much harder to come by. For example, if I want chips and salsa I must first travel the 3km to the main road, from whence I take a taxi to the market to buy all the ingredients I need (this requires going to two different stores and one veggie stand). Then retrace all the steps to get home again- now laden with groceries. Now that I’m home I can make my salsa, first I roast the peppers, then dice everything, then mix it and set it aside to let the flavours marry. Now, I have to make the chips, first, I make the tortillas (they don’t have those here) and cut them into chips, then I heat some oil, fry said triangles, and salt them. Now I can sit down and enjoy my chips and salsa while watching a movie. Don’t think I don’t feel smug; I am quite smitten.
A final thought. Remember in my last entry when I vented about the proper use of “beg the question”? I saw it written in the “improper” form the other day and I nearly had a heart attack due to the source. It was written in a book by Michael Pollan, the man who is the Knight Professor of Journalism at Berkeley (that’s a big deal, for those of you who don’t know), a frequent contributor to The New York Times, and one of my favourite investigative authors. The fact that a man of this calibre would use such a phrase leads me to one, humbling conclusion. *le deep sigh* The English language has once again evolved and begging the question now has two meanings.
Begging the question [begıng ðıe kwestſn] 1) To argue a point without first establishing the truth of its basis. 2) To bring something to mind that was not afore mentioned.
Most gracious readers, I admit defeat and bow to the inevitable. Honestly I shouldn’t be upset that the English language continues to evolve. After all, language is no different than anything else; that which does not change with situations will die. Something the French Academy should remember, fun fact, the French Academy (no I don’t know who they are either but apparently they have some sway over the French Language) will not allow the language to change. Pronunciations do not change, meanings of words are never altered, and words are neither added nor subtracted from the official language. I don’t know how they do it but this seems to be their primary purpose in existing.
Until next time my dearest friends.
Ramadan was a most interesting time. I quit fasting after about a week and a half, I gained ten pounds when I switched my daytime habits for my night time habits and it made me very sick, constant headaches, cranky all the time (we know how I can be when I’m hungry), and I felt like crap on the whole. once I was back to breakfast, lunch, and dinner at normal times all was well in the world again; when I attempted to explain to ppl that fasting made me sick they said, “No, it’s good for your health.” There was no discussion, just no, you don’t feel sick, fasting is good for you. So in the end I just lied to everyone and told them I was fasting; no, I don’t feel guilty at all.
Even though I wasn't fasting everyone else still was so there was nothing to be done during the day except wait for that dreadfully boring month to pass, ugh. Imagine if you will a month of undeserved house arrest. Glorious saints be praised for my amazing parents who sent me non-perishable foods and crafts to kill the time. This was an absolute God send, especially when I ran out of fruits and veggies and was in no mood to venture out into the market place where all the cranky, fasting shop keepers were in no mood to try to understand my heavily accented tash.
Having so much time on my hands has also lead to the development of such fascinating time killing hobbies as cleaning house, paper making, and finding new materials with which to make crafts. Yes friends, you read correctly, house cleaning- le gasp! I, who have embraced so dearly the idea of creative clutter, clean my house everyday and sweep it entirely out every other day. The sweeping is necessary only b/c my thatch roof is forever dropping bits of dirt and on the rare occasion it rains I have small rivulets of mud that come through my two windowless skylights; those funny German steins make so much sense now. Actually, mud thatching doesn’t shed nearly so badly as straw thatching so I really can’t complain- The Germans of yore had it much messier; all the same, I do have a newly found appreciation for drywall. No, what has me most alarmed is not that I clean house so often but how thoroughly I do it and the fact that I can’t go to bed until everything is exactly where is should be. I don’t think I’ll ever be my messy self again, I shall have to venture forward ever bravely, and more tidily, I guess.
The crafting with new materials is much more interesting though. I have learned that you can crochet with plastic bags! I feel most resourceful. The idea was given to me from a rumour that women in other parts of Morocco get together and crochet market bags out of used plastic bags; they are then able to sell them to local general store keepers for a little spending money of their own. I thought I might be able to do the same for the women in my site, should they have the free time to get together. The women in my site are constantly working so finding the time to have a crochet circle is improbable. Here’s hoping all the same.
A little background on why this is such an innovative idea out here in the middle of the desert. Very few communities in Morocco have trash pickup, as a matter of fact even my souk town, which, by Moroccan standards is a city, doesn’t have trash pickup. This means that in the less developed areas like mine all non-biodegradable wastes are dealt with in two ways: they are thrown to the side of the road, or are burned. Burning trash in Morocco is illegal... yet there is still no national waste management system... a conundrum- ‘though many ppl burn their trash anyway. Long explanation shortened, the trash that isn’t burned is polluting the countryside; most of this garbage is made up of candy wrappers, plastic bags, and disposable diapers. The most obvious action for a PCV such as myself to do would be to collect the garbage, no? This would be especially significant with the diapers, as they pose an immediate health hazard. The problem with this clever idea is what would I do with the garbage once collected? See above to my options... burn the plastic? Hmm, do we leave the plastic as it is- an eyesore- or burn it- thus creating toxic and environmentally harmful fumes... back to the drawing board. Ah ha! Turn the garbage into a commodity! Corporate America’s done it with all our excess corn (see any ingredient list near you) why can’t this American do it with plastic?
Environmentalists everywhere will tell you to just leave the current mess and turn your attention instead to preventing it from growing. So why can’t I just accept the fate of the environment and focus myself on other tasks? Allow me to answer this question with a story. One morning about two months ago I was sitting on the patio at a cafe sipping an espresso waiting for my friend to meet me. Mozart was playing in the background and I was watching birds as they rose and fell high above me, playing on the spiraling updraft created by the mountains surrounding the city. It was a serene moment as I watched the black birds weaving among the white birds, then I saw a bright blue bird in the group and realized I was watching probably a hundred plastic bags caught in the wind... the serenity of the moment was destroyed; even Mozart seemed garish at that moment. Every time I see a bag thrown to the side of the road I am reminded of that experience and am, therefore, unable to focus my hopes on other projects.
All of you duckies back home might thing of paper making as a quaint passtime, I know b/c I too felt that way when I lived in a country in which there is organized waste management and recycling. Now that I must either break Moroccan law and burn my waste or throw it to the side of the road I find myself seeking ways to reduce not only my plastic waste but all others too. It is with great fervour, therefore, that I recycle my scrap paper into new paper. Of course my means are very rudimentory so I can't get that thin notebook paper we are all so fond of. All the same, if anyone would like to get a letter on some of my very not fancy handmade cardstock be sure to send me a letter w/ a return address, or, of course, post it in a comment here, but I would prefer a letter for a letter. It's much more fun
Unfortunately for my boatloads of free time paper making, developing new crafting materials and cleaning house don't actually take that much time. In America our culture is to sit down with some sort of junk food and a movie at times like this. Now that I have a computer I have been able to buy a few movies but junk food (or any comfort food for that matter) is much harder to come by. For example, if I want chips and salsa I must first travel the 3km to the main road, from whence I take a taxi to the market to buy all the ingredients I need (this requires going to two different stores and one veggie stand). Then retrace all the steps to get home again- now laden with groceries. Now that I’m home I can make my salsa, first I roast the peppers, then dice everything, then mix it and set it aside to let the flavours marry. Now, I have to make the chips, first, I make the tortillas (they don’t have those here) and cut them into chips, then I heat some oil, fry said triangles, and salt them. Now I can sit down and enjoy my chips and salsa while watching a movie. Don’t think I don’t feel smug; I am quite smitten.
A final thought. Remember in my last entry when I vented about the proper use of “beg the question”? I saw it written in the “improper” form the other day and I nearly had a heart attack due to the source. It was written in a book by Michael Pollan, the man who is the Knight Professor of Journalism at Berkeley (that’s a big deal, for those of you who don’t know), a frequent contributor to The New York Times, and one of my favourite investigative authors. The fact that a man of this calibre would use such a phrase leads me to one, humbling conclusion. *le deep sigh* The English language has once again evolved and begging the question now has two meanings.
Begging the question [begıng ðıe kwestſn] 1) To argue a point without first establishing the truth of its basis. 2) To bring something to mind that was not afore mentioned.
Most gracious readers, I admit defeat and bow to the inevitable. Honestly I shouldn’t be upset that the English language continues to evolve. After all, language is no different than anything else; that which does not change with situations will die. Something the French Academy should remember, fun fact, the French Academy (no I don’t know who they are either but apparently they have some sway over the French Language) will not allow the language to change. Pronunciations do not change, meanings of words are never altered, and words are neither added nor subtracted from the official language. I don’t know how they do it but this seems to be their primary purpose in existing.
Until next time my dearest friends.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Five months in and still learning new things.
Fun Moroccan Fact: Women don’t take their husbands last name, they keep their own. More interestingly, even though they move into their husbands’ house- and this often means leaving their own village- they do not take their husbands family as a part of themselves. I am referring to the idea of the wife becoming a part of the husband’s family, ie “mother-in-law.” (the amazirt call them the parents of my husband/wife) Another example, even if I were to marry a Smith from Golden and move to Golden I would still consider myself a Pullen of Arvada my entire life. I imagine the adoption of the husband’s family is a product of our culture of taking on the last name so I see it as interesting. I fixate on this point b/c it created an Erika-puts-her-cultural-foot-in-her-cultural-mouth moment.
Remember my telling you guys that my site is all one big family? Well that means that all the families share the same name and when I leave the site it’s such a small village that, when asked where I live, I tell them Ait (the people of) that last name because nobody knows the village. Everyone knows that family though. Well I mentioned that to my host sister (who is a member of that family) and she laughed and said yes, it’s a small ighram and they are all related. Well some women were talking about this same thing a few days later, and I didn’t understand everything they were saying but I kind of was following. One woman said, yeah I have to tell people I live in Ait ____ b/c nobody know where _____ is. Then a bunch of the women got defensive that the place shouldn’t be called Ait _____ (It’s common to call bled tribes by the founding family’s name instead of coming up with a real name) So they looked to me to solve their dispute, remember I didn’t understand most of what they said so I decided to answer honestly. I said, When I talk to the gendarms I have to call it Ait ____ (bad idea). All the women threw their hands in the air and informed me that none of them were of that last name, that was when I learned the women who called it Ait ____ was one of the single women of that last name and all the other women had married into the village and, therefore, do not identify with my village.
Idle thought, because I have too much time on my hands thanks to Ramadan, marriage in Europe (specifically England is what I’m referencing but it’s pretty much the same across the board) just two or three centuries ago (a few hundred years is a “just” in the anthropologists mind) were not unlike these marriages. Women would have arranged marriages or be married off to anyone their parents could afford to marry them too and even so the woman would be considered part of her family from that region and not really a member of her husband’s family. She was just “accepted” into the cool kid group if she had a son.
So for simplification of explaining relationships out in the boondocks of Morocco, think of England in the mid 15 or 1600’s. I specify the boondocks because the big cities are much more revolutionary, in Marrakech people even date, not openly and they certainly don’t hold hands, but there is relationship building before marriage. The social upheaval of the rebellious youths is upon us, Lord have mercy.
In other news, Ramadan is going well. It started four days ago and, actually, it’s not as hard as I had thought. Actually, I’m kind of cheating, I’ve changed my day life for my night life, I stay up and eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner at night till morning call to prayer at 4 am. After call to prayer I go to bed and stay there till about 11 am. Then I just have 8 hours to kill before I can eat again.
Remember my telling you guys that my site is all one big family? Well that means that all the families share the same name and when I leave the site it’s such a small village that, when asked where I live, I tell them Ait (the people of) that last name because nobody knows the village. Everyone knows that family though. Well I mentioned that to my host sister (who is a member of that family) and she laughed and said yes, it’s a small ighram and they are all related. Well some women were talking about this same thing a few days later, and I didn’t understand everything they were saying but I kind of was following. One woman said, yeah I have to tell people I live in Ait ____ b/c nobody know where _____ is. Then a bunch of the women got defensive that the place shouldn’t be called Ait _____ (It’s common to call bled tribes by the founding family’s name instead of coming up with a real name) So they looked to me to solve their dispute, remember I didn’t understand most of what they said so I decided to answer honestly. I said, When I talk to the gendarms I have to call it Ait ____ (bad idea). All the women threw their hands in the air and informed me that none of them were of that last name, that was when I learned the women who called it Ait ____ was one of the single women of that last name and all the other women had married into the village and, therefore, do not identify with my village.
Idle thought, because I have too much time on my hands thanks to Ramadan, marriage in Europe (specifically England is what I’m referencing but it’s pretty much the same across the board) just two or three centuries ago (a few hundred years is a “just” in the anthropologists mind) were not unlike these marriages. Women would have arranged marriages or be married off to anyone their parents could afford to marry them too and even so the woman would be considered part of her family from that region and not really a member of her husband’s family. She was just “accepted” into the cool kid group if she had a son.
So for simplification of explaining relationships out in the boondocks of Morocco, think of England in the mid 15 or 1600’s. I specify the boondocks because the big cities are much more revolutionary, in Marrakech people even date, not openly and they certainly don’t hold hands, but there is relationship building before marriage. The social upheaval of the rebellious youths is upon us, Lord have mercy.
In other news, Ramadan is going well. It started four days ago and, actually, it’s not as hard as I had thought. Actually, I’m kind of cheating, I’ve changed my day life for my night life, I stay up and eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner at night till morning call to prayer at 4 am. After call to prayer I go to bed and stay there till about 11 am. Then I just have 8 hours to kill before I can eat again.
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