Fat Bread

Last year, my home-stay family served me cold khobz shHma, aka fat bread. By "fat," I mean lard, which can be very delicious when cooked right. However, the oily tortillas wrapped around congealed fat were not delicious, and that night, it coated my mouth and throat no matter how many times I brushed my teeth. Since that meal, I tried to avoid khobz shHma.

Have I been missing out...

Last night, my neighbor and I prepared the most delicious fat bread, and it changed my point of view. Here's her "recipe:"

Knead:
-Flour
-Pinch of salt
-Yeast
-Warm water
Cover dough and let it rise. In the meantime,

Saute:
-2 cups finely diced red onions
-1 cup finely diced frozen fat (ideally, saved from the 3id Kbir sheep)
-bushel of finely chopped coriander
-Salt, pepper, ginger, cumin, paprika, and hot pepper flakes to taste
-1 T olive oil

1. Divide dough into ping-pong ball sizes and roll like mochi.
2. With well-oiled hands and surfaces, flatten one ball as thin as possible into a tortilla. The tortilla should be larger than my hand.
3. Put a tablespoon of the cooked fat mixture in the center of the tortilla.
4. Fold the top third of the tortilla over the mixture. Repeat with the bottom third, then the right side and left side. Turn the "burrito" upside-down.
5. Roll out another well-oiled ball into a well-oiled, thin tortilla.
6. Place the first "burrito" in the center of the second tortilla. You should see only one layer of dough above the spoonful of fat.
7. Fold the top third of the tortilla over the other "burrito." Repeat with the bottom third, then right side and left side.
8. With well-oiled hands, pat the tortillas down so they are only about an inch thick.
9. Repeat until you've used up your fat mixture and dough. *We counted out how many balls of dough pairs were rolled, then we divided the fat mixture into equal spoonfuls accordingly.
10. Place oiled "double burritos" on a well-oiled tray and bake on low heat. *We don't use temperature gauges here.

When the bread layers are lightly golden and crisp, turn over each "burrito." Cook until the whole flaky bread is golden brown.

Serve the fat bread hot! Enjoy with a hot glass of sweet mint, flio tea!

Unfortunately, I was too busy eating to take a photo of our fat bread (which I heated up again for breakfast, and again forgot to take a photo of). If you combine the two photos below into one, our fat bread would look like that:


For recipe variations, meat, fish, or any non-watery vegetable can also be added to the fat mixture. Let me know how your fat breads turn out!

Women's Empowerment

Karima called me last night, wondering if I was back in B-town. I told her that I was sick but hoped to visit her soon. So today, Fatiha knocks on my door to check up on me. She walked all the way across town by herself, which is a first, to give me the biggest hug I've gotten in awhile. She thought the craft fair went very well BZAAAF, and she's bursting with new ideas and opinions for the next fair.

We watched http://vimeo.com/17120288, a video interviewing six empowered Moroccan women that was made by a former Morocco PCV, again. Fatiha met one of the speakers at the Kesh craft fair, so it was especially rewarding to re-watch that part. Fatiha told me that Amina gave her so much good advice and motivation at the fair (or at least, that's what my Darija thinks she said). Having left the girls' development association, Fatiha and other girls want to start their own association. Or cooperative. Association? Nothing like coughing your way through a discussion on the differences between the two groups to get you going. In the end, we agreed that a cooperative would be better for her and the girls. I hope she'll remain as dedicated and gung ho as she seems.

When she left, I told her I'm coming with her because I wanted to collect my laundry from the rooftop. She chastised me for being sick and doing my own laundry, instead of calling her over to come do my laundry for me. Obviously. I asked if she wanted to see something gross. What is my Darija word for gross? *Scrunching my face up and saying eww ewww ewww. She comes up on the rooftop with me and steps on the dead baby bird, looking around for the gross thing. I told her she stepped on the dead bird (#3 on my rooftop), and she responded, "So what? It's only a dead bird." She couldn't believe I was afraid of a dead bird, and I couldn't believe she picked it up and flung it around my roof. First, on the plastic staircase covering; second, against the wall. I was afraid she'd joke around and fling it at me, which a glint in her eye told me she thought about it. Instead, she flung the bird off the roof--no warnings given to passerbyers below. Believe me, I'm so thankful I wasn't walking by, and that she got rid of the dead bird for me.

What happened with the other two dead baby birds? Another PCV took care of the first, and the second magically disappeared after a few days. What is God telling me with these birds?? Hrmmm...

(Painting done by local artist, Mohammed, of the walkways in B-town. You need to walk through one of these doorways to get to my house.)

I’m From Morocco; Where the F*** You From?

My close friend does not like B-town. She says the real B-towners have moved away to work (like her), and they only return to visit family on holidays or if they have haneen (nostalgia). Everyone else in town is from the country-side. So all the verbal harassment I get from men (both little boys and wizened men) and shocked stares from women come from outsiders, not B-towners. The true B-towners know there is no future or economy here, a small town that can’t compete with Casa or Marrakesh.

My home-stay family lived near the end of town in the same neighborhood as the screen-printers, my tutor, and association girls. Over the past year, these neighbors have seen me adjust to B-town, and they say I know the town better than they do. I’m probably closer to them than I am to my SBD stagemates. This one neighborhood consists of some of my most favorite people in town, and these people are not B-towners. Most speak fondly of the countryside, where there are animals, grass, fresh water, and clean air. People know and respect each other there, and they’ve invited me countless times to their country homes.

Officially, I am on my third year of PC service: 14 months in RIM and 15 months in ROC. ROC time flew by much faster than RIM time, as I’ve been busy with work projects (3 grants approved!), friendships, access to PC’s library, and home internet. Granted, here in ROC I do not have daily euchre games with interesting American sitemates. Despite spending a slightly longer time in ROC, I feel like I relate to my RIM time and RIM PCVs so much more. I’ll be visiting another ex-RIM PCV in Egypt next month, which makes me so ecstatic just thinking about it!

In the meantime, I have a difficult time commiserating with SBD PCVs here. I just came back to site from Mid-Service Medicals, where we meet with the doctors, dentist (yay, no cavities!), and program staff to recap our 1st year and plan for our 2nd. One of the doctors was my PCMO in RIM, and it was so nice to catch up with her and let out some tears. She said that half of the office shut down, the furniture was given to PC Senegal, housekeeping staff moved to the embassy, and our educated, dedicated program staff faced an almost non-existent job market and personal loans. If you think the economy is pretty bad in America, imagine Nouakchott. They were given a month’s notice that the PC RIM program would be “suspended.” My program manager appeared to have gone into depression. It is such an unfortunate situation, and I am reminded that I'm so blessed to have had the option to move to Morocco.

During MSMs, we had a whole session about how some PCVs feel like they aren’t paid enough and want to be compensated for their "business expenses." I know first-hand that some events, like the craft fair in Kesh, require lots of personal floos. Accordingly, inshallah, PCV expenses will be compensated for grant projects. Yet, that wasn't enough for everyone. These same PCVs grocery shop at the fancy supermarkets (as opposed to the local souk or hanuts), bump into me at expensive restaurants that target foreigners, travel like tourists around country, and some don’t even drink alcohol. How the hell did I save 700 Euros (not dirhams), pay for work projects out of pocket and monthly internet/landline, and treat myself to all the food/beverage luxuries available? Care packages help, but they aren't the reason (thanks for sending the boxes though!). Regardless, I also turned in my Living Allowance survey (apparently only 2/19 SBD PCVs did), which lets PC know how we spend our money. If PCVs want more money, why didn’t they turn in their overdue paperwork? One older woman said to everyone that she doesn’t budget and so couldn’t fill out the form. My silent response: that’s a life skill, not PC’s problem.

Okay, yet another blog entry turned into a rant entry. Believe it or not, I am actually very satisfied here. The Tataoua girls had a blast in Marrakesh: understanding better firsthand business concepts, networking their hearts out, flirting with the PCV boys, and selling a necklace to the US Ambassador’s wife. They made enough profit to invest in new materials for the next fair, and many PCVs complimented their colorful, hand-drawn inventory system. We also saw Keanu Reeves together!~~My rug/couscous artisan introduced me to new parts of Marrakesh’s medina that foreigners don’t enter, and he volunteered to help plan the next Marche Maroc craft fair.
~~All PCVs were invited to the Ambassador’s house for a fabulous dinner (Aunty A: first course after drinks was borscht!), and I bumped into my Moroccan friend there.~~My Marrakesh and Rabat hotels had friendly staff, hot showers, and plenty of stairs for free exercise. The Marrakesh receptionist told me that he loves PC and the tv show LOST, and that I spoke Darija better than any other PCV (that is perhaps an exaggeration on his end).~~Despite feeling completely fine (except for my small cold now), I have a parasite. Nicknamed Lucy, she must be the reason I’ve lost 5 pounds here. Or, it could be due to the abundance of fresh produce and meat (granted I’m a sucker for salt & vinegar chips and local pastries).~~I just ate corn/clam chowder with dill, but I started off with Aunty M’s cookies. Life’s pretty sweet. Happy Holidays!

To end on musical note, another PCV showed me the music video to one song I hear on so many boys’ cell phones in B-town. Check it out here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WVirGjPrT1s

PS: 1st pic is from the "certificate ceremony" at Marche Maroc. 2nd pic is my SBD eating buddy and I sharing chicken caesar salad, lasagne, a bacon cheeseburger, and a milkshake for me and root beer float for her. Love the American Club and friendly waiter who gives us poor PCVs larger portions!

New Business

So how have I kept busy with one association after Ramadan? Some girls decided to start their own business!

With funding from K2K and PCPP, one girl taught 16 other girls how to screen-print and sew their own jellabas. Girls from this class combined their sewing, crocheting, knitting, and traditional bead-making skills to produce products that will appear at a Marrakesh craft fair I'm planning with other PCVs. Learning business skills along the way, these girls have come up with their own business name and logo, sourced and costed their raw materials, conducted market research online (and created an email account), filled out a budget and project outline, and so much more (too full from dinner/tired from long day). "President Worker" Fatiha is becoming a seasoned traveler: her first trip to Casa was to source fabric and materials for the screen-print class and her first trip to Kesh will be this week for the fair!

(A small sample of their work-in-progress. This collage was created for my personal notes, not as an advertisement. I'm just too excited to wait to share their stuff with my biggest fan, my mom!)

Thinking Too Much & Getting Nowhere

My tutor/friend told me this week that I'm the hardest-working PCV that he's ever met. He used to work at a school in the south of Morocco, where he befriended many PCVs, and he helped his best friend research a thesis on PC's impact in Morocco. Whether or not his comment is true (I doubt it is), I am working a whole lot more in ROC than in RIM. Does that also correspond to having more of a positive, sustainable impact? Who knows. Sometimes I wonder why the PC organization continues to run today; other times, I wish everyone could experience it.

The concept of "work" is hazy. Business is so personal here. It seems that knowing how to make delicious couscous offers one more esteem than having a college degree. Sitting and eating the couscous is more important than arriving at my project's class on time. Keeping up appearances (both idiomatically and literally), trying to communicate, and household chores are necessary, and I do them so inefficiently (by my Western standards).

Going to souk is at least a three-hour affair, and it involves greeting friends/work partners/hanai family, shopping for my weekly groceries, and picking up used clothes bargains (a great way to build relationships with the ladies in town). How much of going to souk is a personal errand and how much of it is considered work? All the people who call me "Chinouiya" or "Gazella" and the men who follow me, is the harassment from them worth it? NOTE: by PC and Morocco standards, name calling, verbal abuse, and any cruel action done by kids aren't a big deal. Thus, I shouldn't get angry but just ignore it. Instead, I sometimes ignore this strategy (sometimes to my own detriment).

Not sure of the purpose of this blog entry. I know that I'm out of my house almost all day (when not dealing with craft fair SPA grants...which is finally finished); at night, I dream of my work projects. It's pathetic that 90% or 95% of my emails come from PC, PCVs, or RPCVs. I'm frustrated that God did not will me to have a sitemate, my Spain trip fell through, UH is getting its butt kicked by Boise State, and my Darija is not where I want it to be. I guess this is a mellow vent. Perhaps influenced by my surroundings, I've learned to accept these causes of frustration as something beyond my control (even though another part of me says I'm copping out). On resume-paper, I bet my PC experiences look good. Yet, I'm still unfulfilled.

I guess I need to work harder or I need a break. If you repeat any word enough, it starts sounding strange. I guess it's better not to analyze so much. Back to work, or life. Simplicity can be complex.

FOOD

Born into a family of food lovers, I fit right into one aspect of Moroccan culture. Women and men take pride in what comes out of a Moroccan kitchen, and rarely do I have conversations that don't involve food at some point. From the prices of vegetables at souk to discussions about "foreign-izing" a Moroccan dish, I find myself most comfortable in the kitchen. When I meet strangers, two of the first questions they ask me are whether or not I've eaten Moroccan couscous and do I know how to make bread.

I didn't realize I liked food more than the average person until college. My all-you-can-eat meal plan caused me to gain 30 pounds freshman year--definitely worth all the tupperware recipe experimenting and lively discussions. Emails with mom consisted mostly of descriptions of meals eaten at restaurants or family potlucks. My fondest memories of childhood include watching the Foodnetwork and PBS cooking/travel shows with my grandma, cooking a southern meal and mashed potatoes for my 5th grade class in class, solo experimenting in the kitchen with baking/frying/chopping, watching my DC-aunt make un-Hawaiian meals and desperately wanting to help out (but never allowed), and being pampered with my mom's and dad's cooking skills. Hawaii is a melting pot of international cuisines, and moving to DC exposed me to other ethnic foods (Afghan and Ethiopian seduced me). Actively participating in Restaurant Weeks and finding delicious hole-in-the-walls fulfilled me. Anyone I lived with, dated, or befriended happened to also love food conversations. I didn't have any vegetarian friends.

Then in PC, learning how to cook Senegalese, Mauritanian, and Moroccan cuisines excited me, as does Moroccan market shopping. Instead of studying Darija or reading books at night, I religiously watch Top Chef/Master Chef/Kitchen Nightmares UK/Foodnetwork clips/Hell's Kitchen, thanks to home internet. Watching the Galloping Gourmet, David Rosengarten, or Lydia Bastianich takes me back to the time when the Foodnetwork focused more on food rather than the celebrity chef. Online menus make me dream of good things in store after COS-ing. Yet, every time Gordon throws a delicious-looking beef wellington in the trash, Padma tastes only a small bite of whole dish, or the cooks make five times the amount of food actually served, a piece of me dies (especially when the dish involves cheese or mushrooms). Compared to the cast in these shows--despite fresh produce and meat available here--I am in food purgatory.

I've gone to bed starving living with host families in RIM and ROC. Seeing anorexic-looking children--knowing they are thin by circumstances and not by choice--made my hunger subside. Watching women serve men meat and vegetables then give the leftovers to their children made me indignant. Passing a skin-n-bones person sitting outside pulls my heartstrings, but each time I walk on. We are supposed to live at the level of Moroccans, but comparatively, I eat so well here. I am in food heaven.

Thinking about those "starving children in Africa" and those elegant food critics in New York puts me at an internal crossroad. I need to cook and eat well in order to retain an enjoyable part of my former life. At the same time, I will eat anything in front of me: I appreciate any food. Seeing fellow PCVs waste food still bothers me. PC has completely destroyed any dreams I've had of becoming a food editor.

No doubt, I do miss the variety of ingredients, cooking techniques, crockery and appliances. No one in town can relate to my lochs cravings or find avocados appealing in any other form than as a sugared drink. Ginger must never be used in cookies. What will you do with a kilogram of limes?!! Pork? Hshuma. Goodbye, commiserating-over-food-conversations. As a result, although I eat well here, I look forward to going home to fine dining, happy hour, family potlucks, and "ethnic cuisine." I want to fit into the foodie culture again, but I can't shake off feeling guilty at the same time.

To end on a positive note, one thing that makes food taste delicious, no matter where I am, is the good company I'm with. Thank you for the memories:
(Fave neighborhood Italian restaurant with one of my fave aunties.)

(Annual family luncheon for the ladies.)

(DC friends during Restaurant Week.)

(Hawaii reunion in Boston.)

(Hanai family in Morocco.)

(On-campus picnics in Melbourne.)

(Lydia's in Pittsburgh.)

(Hanai family in Mauritania.)

Dear Moroccans I came across today,

To the female teacher from Casablanca, thank you for your interest regarding where I’m from (America) and specifically, what state I’m from (Hawaii). Why you then had to tell me that I can find my kind of food--Chinese food--in Casablanca, baffled me.

To all, Hawaii is not in China. The two places are more than 7000 kilometers apart.

To the two boys flirting with me, thank you for trying and making me feel attractive. Perhaps you would have had better luck if you 1. stopped saying “hello” and “I love you” repeatedly, 2. didn’t wear girls’ clothes, 3. helped me carry my heavy souk bag, and 4. didn’t bump into other people while staring at me. Actually, there are so many other reasons; I can’t name them all here.

To the vegetable man, thank you for lowering the price of onions and tomatoes for me and tossing in a few extra veggies. May God bless your parents.

To my neighbors, thank you for yelling at the boys for me. I’m sorry that I couldn’t eat enough of the cookies, candies, nuts, and chocolates that you shared with me. I really was full and satisfied with just the tea.

To the people who knew the former volunteer, it’s great that your analytical skills can differentiate our language abilities, fatness, and prettiness. Perhaps there are other characteristics you could compare us with too?

To the A. family, thank you for a delicious lunch. Whatever red meat we ate was so tender and delicious.

To the women and girls in town, thank you for offering to teach me how to cook Moroccan food. Just because I can’t knead my own bread like you doesn’t mean I’m an unfortunate one. Believe it or not, I can cook more than spaghetti and pizza. You’re welcome to come over and eat at my house anytime, just as long as you don’t complain that my food is not Moroccan.

To the kids playing football, I know you purposely kicked the ball towards me. Yes, I can kick the ball back at you, so you don’t need to act so surprised.

To the facebook requesters, I don’t know many Moroccan boys born after 1990 who live outside B-town. Why do you try to “friend” me?

To the woman who couldn’t believe I’m not married, I do hope to return to B-town after PC. Perhaps, if God wills it, I may bring my husband and children with me. You’ll see that I’m not unfortunate or abnormal.

To the locals who have accepted me thus far, thank you so much. I appreciate it.

Sincerely,
Zenab

MaM #4

Name: Habib

Profession: Potter

Place of Work: Qalala

Number of Years Working: +50

Work Schedule: 6AM-sunset, winters off unless the sun is brightly shining

Number of Training Years Needed to be Qualified to Work: 15-25

Number of Qualified People in B-town: 5-6

On Women as Potters: Pottery is difficult/excellent (there is a word in Darija that conveys both meanings). You must be very strong. You might be asked to make a pot that is more than a meter tall, and you must be able to lift it. So women and girls cannot be potters. (*Ironic to me, since women knead bread, run households without modern appliances, carry a week's worth of food from souq, clean up after men...oh, I can go on.)

On his Work: He'll make anything that customers want. From a town outside of Bejaad, Qalala workers will bring in clay. It's not fine clay like in Esfi (beach-town known for its ceramics). With water drawn from the well on-site, the skilled men knead the clay. In one of six cave-like stations, men throw clay on a foot-operated wheel (no electricity involved). They use one small shaper, a wire to cut the clay, and their hands. After the pieces dry, they are fired on-site, using rubber tires as fuel for the kiln. Local associations and stores buy and paint items from the Qalala. (*interesting side note, the motifs on the clay mugs are regional, so one can tell where a mug is from based on the design)

On the Future of Local Pottery: Boys don't want to learn. They can learn to make cups and bowls in 3 years or make bricks, like the ones drying outside, but they don't want to learn how to make vases. People want plastic. Plastic cups, plastic bowls, plastic buckets. It's cheap. No one wants traditional, hand-made ceramics anymore.

The Hardest Thing in PC

I can wipe my butt with my left hand after pooping greenish-yellow diarrhea, gnaw on cold sheep eyeballs, drink well water with the town's goats, babble in front of a crowd of non-English speakers, patiently sit for 16 hours in a bus aisle covered in baby vomit and sardine oil, shine a flashlight on a woman giving birth in the doorway in the middle of the night at my host family's house with no electricity or other adults around, sit through my French teacher's malaria-induced bathroom episodes, help my host mom cut poop-filled intestines with one hand while eating fresh bbq with the other, and god know what else. EASILY.

My fear of creepy crawlers subsided shwiya after a year in RIM. Hundreds of roaches in the outdoor douche? Dump a whole bottle of bleach in there, close the door, and wait a day. Poop/pee in the sand in the meantime while your "bathroom" is under repairs. Cockroach fights Gecko on top of my mosquito net? Be thankful that thin screen is there. Rat in the toilet hole when you need to pee? Scream, hold it until said rat runs off, then pee. Monthly arrival of hundreds of black beetles or white biting bugs? Never turn your light on, learn to appreciate the stars, sweep the dead bugs away in the morning.

I keep my house pretty sparkly clean by PCV standards, so I was surprised to come home to a cockroach infestation this week. Flying cockroaches took over after I was away for only 2 weeks!

Online research didn't calm my nerves. A colony can develop in a week. One egg case can contain 40 eggs. A female can produce 400 babies. New roach hiding spots, feces, and eggs pop up and scare the crap out of me. Seeing a roach crawl up my wall, then walk on my ceiling or fly and land right behind me is freaky. On one hand, roaches are a pretty amazing species. Individualistic and communal. Survivors. Hard-core. Innovative buggahs. Kind of like an ideal PCV. BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN I WANT THEM IN MY HOUSE!

Bug spray, lysol, bribing other PCVs to miss lEid at site to help me out, loud music, sweeping, mopping, and bleaching/omo-ing everything haven't worked so far. I've admitted to locals that dealing with these flying house roaches is the most difficult thing I've ever done here, and one kind sir has agreed to help me. Most laugh and say to buy bug spray/powder. Going to try another killing tactic tomorrow....But if that works, what am I supposed to do with the carcasses??

I'm writing to vent and to stay awake. Maybe one day in the future, I'll look back on this day and laugh at my silliness. I hope that day's tomorrow.

26 Observations

Just came back to site after almost two weeks of traveling ("fake COS/ birthday trip") around Marakesh, Taroudant, Agadir, and Rabat. Had the chance to visit four other PCV sites, meet up with even more PCVs, and enjoy life as best as we could with Ramadan going on. Morocco really is a diverse country, and I look forward to many more travel adventures here! It's hard to believe I've been in-country for a year already and don't mind it. As soon as we were allowed to travel in RIM, I left the country.

Since I love lists, here are 26 (semi-superficial) things I've noticed or learned about myself while traveling:

1. Food, cooking, and dining are really important to me.
2. Swimming pools are a luxury.
3. Green gardens are a luxury too.
4. Rural berber hospitality humbles me.
5. I've lost the "I'm invincible" spirit I had as a kid.
6. PC's goal 3 of sharing our experiences with people in America shouldn't be dismissed. How many Moroccan PCVs would ever burn a Qoran?
7. After not eating all day, some Moroccans break fast with just bread. I'm fortunate to be invited into (strangers') homes and served delicious food.
8. Hotel Tazi in Kesh thinks I'm a regular. Time to find a new watering hole.
9. I was more motivated learning Hassaniya than Darija.
10. I've read more books in RIM; I've watched wayyy more movies in Morocco.
11. While each PCV's experience is unique, I can connect to all the RPCVs I've met so far.
12. The 26th day of Ramadan is the Night of Power. In Rabat, men read the whole Qoran at mosques. Children are dressed in their finest traditional clothes. Girls put on lots of make up. The streets are a place to see and be seen.
13. In Rabat, many foreign restaurants (aka places I wanted to splurge at) are closed during Ramadan.
14. In Agadir, waiters will politely greet you and serve you beer by the beach.
15. The more touristy a spot is, the nicer locals are when you talk to them in Darija.
16. I live a pretty pampered life in B-town compared to other PCVs.
17. Meals with fresh produce excite me more than ice cream (said during the hot season too!).
18. My mom (and my family) loves and supports me. I'm so grateful.
19. Some bus tickets have "stud bus" written on them.
20. I used to believe in seeing all the "tourist spots," but sometimes hotel time with friends is a better alternative, especially when it involves Marjane luxuries, air-conditioning, and pole-vaulting on tv.
21. I am the most organized packer-traveler I know, even though I am a bit more lax now.
22. Looking like a hippie embarrasses me.
23. I admire and respect construction workers and fragile-looking old men who work during Ramadan.
24. McDonald's does not serve adult Muslims during Ramadan. Also, the McArabia burger is no longer on the menu (just when I was ready to splurge on it).
25. Loud music at night annoys me. Why am I going to sleep before other people? Am I getting old?
26. Cockroaches: still can make me scream, but now I can get rid of them myself.

What If's

August 27 has been marked on my calendar, noted in my phone, and a date I can't stop thinking about.

While the new stage anticipates the start of their PC experience in September, I can't forget my original RIM COS date. 14 months in Mauritania, close to a year in Morocco. If I COS-ed tomorrow (aka completed my PC service contract), what would I be doing afterward?

Thought I would cruise ship back to DC, or Hawaii, or some place new, move to the Emirates, travel around Africa and Eastern Europe, or who knows. Vacation in Mexico and Canada. Definitely reconnect with loved ones, eat everything, drink everything, and wear short(er) skirts. Law school? Business school? Foreign service? Back to the corporate world? Whatever it is, I would appreciate life tenfold. The world's my oyster, and PC would be the time for me to decide what I wanted to do next.

Perhaps it's a good thing my new COS-date isn't until next November, because I still have no idea what I want to do next. I'm not prepared for the next step. This month especially, I definitely questioned my commitment to spend another year in Morocco. I miss how things could have been if I didn't, and by things, I mean the optimistic greener grass side of could-have-been's.

Every day, so many things annoy me about being here, but they're balanced out by "awwww" moments that make me think I have the best site/best experience ever. At least, right now at this exact moment anyway. The balance fluctuates between love and hate, appreciation and masochism, "chinouiya" and "bejaadia," and clam chowder verses harira.

I'll be traveling around Morocco for two weeks starting tomorrow: visiting friends, celebrating/mourning the fake-COS-date, being uber productive sourcing material/developing new product ideas/craft-fair planning, pampering myself like a tourist (why hello, American dollars), and trying to survive the Ramadan heat without looking like a hippie/whore.

Me, me, me, blah, blah, blah, whine, contemplate, wine, imagine, plan. To the next step.

Bus Ride

Forgot to share my bus-ride-back-to-site story. What was supposed to be a direct bus ride to my site turned into three buses and quite a small afternoon adventure.

I had to wait a few hours at the bus station in El Jadida, making new (eccentric) friends and meeting 6 other people heading back to my site. The supposed direct buses were full and left hours before they were scheduled to, so we all had to go to Casa first then transfer to another bus. No problem, PCVs are patient and flexible people. The bus station was so crowded though that tickets for bus #22 (my bus) were being sold as people waited for bus #15. This meant that the next bus came and everyone with #15 tickets boarded, then everyone waited for bus #16, then #17, and so on...

Finally in Casa, I transferred to another bus to my site. As we took off, the bus manager went around checking everyone's tickets. Unfortunately for the man behind me, he was sold a ticket from a fake bus manager, which meant that in the end he had to buy another ticket or else get kicked off the bus. The two men argued back and forth, one saying "god bless your parents, I bought this ticket here on this bus" and the other saying "god bless your parents, this is not one of our tickets." The man behind me ended up buying another ticket while saying, "god bless your parents, now I have no more money."

Along the way, a long stop in the middle of the road woke me up from my nap. There was bumper-to-bumper traffic...A bunch of passengers started boarding the bus, and many bags were loaded under the bus. I didn't think it could be any hotter in the bus, until the aisle of people arrived. It turned out another bus stalled, and so our bus was picking up the others passengers. We didn't move until the bus manager collected money from all those stranded passengers in the aisle.

The next long stop happened at a police roadblock. It is illegal for people to stand in buses, but the bus manager pleaded his case--another bus broke down, he's being a good Muslim and taking the passengers--with the policeman.

At my regional capital stop, two women started fighting in the aisle. Physically fighting. Men tried to break them up as the bus manager told me to grab my things because I was being sold to another bus. I didn't want to walk past the fighting women and told him it was not possible. The women let me pass, then went on to verbally assaulting each other.

Apparently, even though the bus manager sold me a ticket to B-town, the bus wasn't going to B-town. He tried to sell me to the other bus managers for 10 dirhams, despite me telling him that the fare is 12-14 dirhams. I gave up arguing with him and said, "because you're friends with all the bus managers, they must give you a discount. Every time I take this route, these men are thieves and charge me more."

This sparked his interest, and he bought me a cold water bottle and asked who am I staying with in B-town. Our conversation went something like this (all in Darija):

me: I live in B-town.

him: You have a house in B-town?

me: Yes.

him: You know people in B-town?

me: Yes, I live there and work there.

*bus toots, driver yells for manager to come back because their bus is taking off

him (with arm gestures): We are in K-town. There's O-town, and then B-town.

me: I know; I travel this way a lot.

him: B-town is two stops away.

*bus toots again, manager flags down soldier

him, to soldier: She is going to B-town. I don't know why she's going there. Make sure she gets there.
*he hands the soldier 10Dh, my bus fare

me: It costs at least 12Dh to get to B-town from here.

him: It's only 10Dh, but for you, here, take 5Dh more.
*I take my own bus fare, and the bus manager runs off.

Long story short, I chatted with the soldier to let him know how comfortable I was traveling and how well I knew the region. I left him in charge of my water bottle while I went off to an ATM. Didn't see him when I came back, so I bought my bus ticket and boarded the bus. As we're waiting to take off, I see him standing in front of the bus holding the water bottle and looking around. I ran out to greet him, and he looked so relieved to see me, as if he took his obligation to the bus manager very seriously.

On that last bus leg to site, he made sure the bus window stayed open for me (he probably wanted it open too) despite the complaints from the other passengers. In my opinion, traveling Moroccans are oblivious (or accustomed) to the heat. We actually had a working AC in the souk bus, but it was much cooler with open windows.

Five hours after I expected, I finally arrived home. When I think back to my time in RIM, I don't remember anymore how my RIM sitemates and I put up with the 12+ hour taxi rides (plus wait time) home. It's all about patience and flexibility, I guess?

El Jadida

With daily temperatures well over 100 degrees and fashion-conscious, wedding-happy locals, B-town was not a place I wanted to spend Throne Holiday Weekend covered up in sweat-stained 3/4 sleeves and long, holey skirts. Ignoring travel advice from my local friends in town, I decided to spend the long weekend at the beach.

There were reasons I was told to see nicer, emptier beaches instead. Once my friends and I arrived in El Jadida, we understood why. A Moroccan tourist destination, the city was CROWDED with city-savvy locals. Despite the masses at the beach/front, carnival, outdoor concert, outdoor shopping streets, old fortress city, and bus station, I could meet up with other PCVs and had a great time.

Found a lovely little hotel with partial ocean view, ate well (lasagne, pesto, fresh fried fish, ice cream, paella, cold beer, steak...), toured the city, attempted to walk to the "Titanic" (a sunken ship a few kilometers away), entered the old Portuguese cistern and church, danced at a soda-only nightclub, played paddleball (fun!), and people-watched bzaaf.

Pictures do more justice, so check out snapfish!

Came back to site, and B-town life keeps going on. Unfortunately, sif doesn't bother the locals. This week, I met up with all my artisans and friends, made my first powerpoint presentation for the carpenters about craft fairs and product development, finally went to the 6am carpet sale at souk, swept one plastic bag of dust off my roof, and already ate couscous (usually a Friday meal). Now that all the trashy magazines have been read (thanks, care packages!), I'm going back to my economics book again. Looking forward to Ramadan so I can finish reading it (and eat bowls and bowls of harira).

Back to another load of laundry...

National News

The rug weaving association made it on national television! 2M came to town and filmed the week-long craft fair yesterday. We watched the report at the AIR-CONDITIONED tent today.

Watch the news report here (flash forward past football to 16-minute marker):
http://www.2m.ma/Infos/node_3807/2010/node_12817/12h45-11

Here's a picture of 2M at the Settat fair, interviewing one of the Chamber of Artisans' leaders:

Settat Fair

Settat, my regional capital, now has a royal golf university, remains of a kasbah, race track, cement factory, and “Mexican” cafe. Seasonal watermelons and cantaloupe flourish in the local soil, and boys and men sell the fruit all along the main highway. As the province’s administrative center, beautiful buildings, parks, cafes, and banks occupy the center of town. Back in the day, according to the Chamber of Artisans’ president, people living in this region developed Setata to help caravans safely pass between Casablanca and Marrakesh, protecting their goods from thieves.

Invited to the Chamber of Artisans annual week-long craft fair, I visited Settat for a day trip. 7 local B-town artisanal groups would have booths to display and sell their traditional handicrafts, and the Chamber also brought old Moroccan tools, antiques, photos, and clothes to display as well.

Getting there was a small adventure. Apparently, lots of B-towners wanted to head up north, so I didn’t mind paying for an inflated priced ticket. Despite the early morning heat, the old man next to me was wearing a ski jacket. I asked him where he was going (Casa), and I told him I was going to Settat. He immediately caused a scene and told me I was on the wrong bus. I told him I was advised to head up north to another town, and then transfer to another bus that would take me directly to Settat. The bus manager calmly assured him I was on the right bus, and the old man told me he would point out my transfer-point city. Despite his thoughtfulness, he fell asleep.

At the transfer city, the bus manager introduced me to another group also going to Settat. We got off on the side of the road, and then I found out the group wasn’t heading to Settat… Fortunately, one other young man said he was heading there (I didn’t know whether or not to believe him), and an approaching bus on the other side of the road was where we needed to be.

We ran to the other side, where a policeman stood near the “bus stop." Although it looked like just another part of the sidewalk to me , it’s uncanny how locals know where these unmarked bus stops and checkpoints are. Apparently, it’s illegal for buses to pull up on the side of the road, and they are fined if caught. As the bus approached, my new stranger friend/stalker (still couldn’t tell at this point) and the bus driver made large gestures to each other. The bus drove on, and--thinking we missed the bus--I asked the man why don’t we just head to the bus station instead. He told me the bus driver will circle around again for us, but we need to walk a few 100 meters down the road. At first, I didn’t believe him, but the bus u-turned and I thought, thank god for his travel company.

This bright idea to move the “bus stop” down the road was actually not a bright idea because the policeman followed us. He waited about 20 meters away from us in the middle of the round-about, and when the bus came back, he made it pull off on the side of the road. Men descended the bus, papers were taken out, and lots of back and forth talking ensued.

I asked my travel companion (who’s also from B-town, dad works at a prison in transfer town, and who’s origin is Settat) why don’t we board the bus or at least find out if this bus is indeed going to Settat (I know, I need to stop asking why questions). He assured me it was and that we should wait right where we were. Preferring the sunny breeze to the hot bus vacuum (and a bit afraid that we were the cause of the bus driver’s trouble), I agreed. Soon, a car pulled up and asked my new friend for directions to Settat. We got a free ride there (I even wore a seatbelt!). It turned out the craft fair was right next to the building that the driver was seeking. Also going on in town were crystal/quartz and pottery exhibitions.

The craft fair didn’t start until the evening and wasn’t open to the public until the mayor and president arrived, so I had to talk my way into the fair. It was pretty easy, since strangers are easily impressed with foreigners who speak darija and the first booth consisted of a B-town rug maker who knew me. I had a nice “preview sale,” got to chat with all the artisans, bettered my relationship with the Chamber of Artisans, and caught a free, informative ride back home with the president. We even stopped for coffee and much-needed cold water at an all-male roadside café. Photos to come on facebook.

Today marks the grand-opening of the rug association’s in-site, week-long craft fair that the association president told me I’m working at. Despite my affection for the weavers, the association is swarming in town gossip for its politics and graft. I’m not sure what to expect, but if the Settat adventure taught me anything, it’s to go with the flow, be active, be honest, and accept things as they are beyond your control.

In other work-related news, the screen-printers grant was approved this morning!!! I’m off to share the good news and figure out last minute logistics!

At Least There Were No Placentas On The Road

God bless America. I won't ever complain again about the Veteran's Hospital in DC (where PC referred me as a patient) or the Hawaii-based insurance my Virginia-based job provided me with.

I started this entry to write about my experience with a local hospital, but then I got distracted. Time flew, and I owe my mom an update. How about a news-headlines-esque blog entry instead?

Guess who happily eats watermelon and cantaloupe now? Although I once thought of these as puke-smelling fruit, I actually enjoy it! My friends have been serving platters of fresh, juicy watermelon, cantaloupe, apricots, and plums after our lunches and dinners together.

At a recent Jazz Festival in Rabat, yours truly heard a Scandinavian band and saw one of the musicians grabbing pizza afterward.

At a more recent Ganaoua Festival in Essaouira, yours truly joined a crowd of thousands of boys to hear a popular hip hop artist perform at 4am on the beach. She also promoted free SIDA (HIV/AIDS) testing and encouraged testers to wait in an orderly line.

My first Moroccan host family warmly welcomed me back to their renovated home. Despite having not kept in touch, knocking on a once-blue-now-black door, and having a stranger answer, I soon caught up with my host family (and met my host mom's father who was in Spain last year). We could actually speak well with each other, and we laughed over some miscommunication from the home-stay experience. My host mom impressed me with how much of me she remembered. Maybe she's Moroccan CIA...

Rumors are afloat of bringing an inflatable couch to the watering hole at my first training site. And of visiting a water park in Marrakesh. (get the afloat pun? ha ha ...ha).

I read an article about the Dunning-Kruger Effect ("our incompetence masks our ability to recognize our incompetence") and wonder how it can apply to us PCVs...

The screen-printers and I are patiently waiting to find out if our grant was approved. This would provide them with material to screen-print clothes for themselves and shirts to sell.

From 50 to 5: this is the number of weavers who still go to the workshop daily. There's an upcoming rug craft fair in site, and they are getting ready for it! Badges with pictures for all exhibitors to come.

Yes, the townspeople have acknowledged that sif (the hot season) has arrived. Wearing 4 pants and 2 long-sleeve tops underneath a jellaba, the local women still confuse this blogger.

The World Cup is actually a big deal here. With Brazil and Ghana out, who will Moroccans cheer for next?

And more importantly, how much longer will all the ice cream/potato chip/cotton candy vendors stay open after sif is over?

*So the blog title was to remind me to put things in perspective. My regional capital's hospital is a place I would never ever want to do another lab test, despite the selectively friendly staff. At least it does not dispose of its placentas and used needles out in the street (like some other hospitals in the world).

World Wise Schools Program

PC has just required that all PCVs participate in the WWS program. Matching each volunteer with a teacher in America, the program allows kids in the U.S. to learn more about a volunteer's unique experience abroad.

Likewise, by keeping in touch with a class, the volunteer is forced to reflect on his/her experiences and fulfill one of the cultural exchange goals of PC. After corresponding with a certain teacher and her classes for the past 2 school years, I am so grateful to participate in this program. The kids' letters, photos, and questions really brighten my days and make me so proud to be a PCV. There are brief moments I question being in PC, but reading the kids' letters really lifts my spirits. Thank you to all teachers in America who are willing to participate in this WWS program!

To learn more about being a part of WWS, go to: http://www.peacecorps.gov/wws/correspond/.


"Last day of school! (Woo-hoo!) When we did our memory books, and the page asked for "important events of the year," the class immediately said, "Writing to Kat!"

Thanks for the wonderful job you did in reaching the kids. I look forward to being in touch next year. Have a great summer!" -my WWS teacher


(Students' drawings hanging in my kitchen)

Even Celebrities Have to Wait

I should know, because, in fact, I am one. This afternoon, the president and all the officials of the largest artisan association in town waited one and a half hours for me to show up at the Chamber of Artisans before commencing the certificate ceremony (for some event that I and my high status can’t be bothered knowing the details). The regional director of the Chamber of Artisans was there too, and yeah, we shot the sh*t one afternoon earlier this week.

Why was I late? I didn’t realize I was a celebrity, so I didn’t think the invitation to attend and my appearance were that important to those at the craft fair event. Thought I’d pop into Maroc Telecom-located just across the street-and pay my phone/internet bill first.

Any PCV with home internet can tell you horror stories about Maroc Telecom, a company that basks in its monopoly status and fails in almost everything it does. Even though I was supposed to be the next customer “in line,” I ended up waiting more than half an hour as the man before me debated which cell phone to buy. The employees in the back drank tea. (don’t mess with a tea break). Another employee directed all customers away from her, except for two loud kids whom she greeted warmly and gave money too. It’s fabulous that the employees put family before work—some American companies can take note. There’s a machine that prints numbered tickets so you know when it’s your turn for “assistance.” I had #44, but the screen flashed #48…As I waited, however, a few of my fans greeted me—one even yelling “Zenab! La bes?!” from outside the store.

So, celebrity status has no perks at Maroc Telecom. I also was carrying a wooden plank (to make a spice rack at my house), and that had no intimidating effects on the MT employees either.

Have to admit though, I think I’m too modest to be a celebrity. I don’t like the paparazzi and forced photo shoots. Nor the employees who hang photos of me on their office walls. Nor the kids who give me candy. Nor the shout-outs as I pass people by. Nor the people fighting over me to come to couscous at their house. Nope, not at all.

*There were so many different levels of sarcasm and irony in this entry. I kind of confused myself. Long story short, Maroc Telecom sucks. And this Det Norske Veritas company that certified MT's quality...I don't trust their consulting!

1/4 Thru!

I'm starting to feel like my town of 40,000 homies isn't so large after all. My "ohana" keeps getting bigger and bigger...and yes, it's a good thing.

Happy 6 months in-service (also feeling deja vu...) to me! Only a year and a half to go, not that anyone's counting. Or maybe I'll live in B-town forever...

Mom, what do you think? :)

MaM #3

3 blogs, 3 days in a row! (don't get used to it...)

It's been awhile since the last MaM, but here we go!

Name: Naima

Age: 18

Family: 2 grandfathers, parents, 2 siblings. But...

Marital Status: Engaged, and lives with fiance's family. Her fiance proposed to her by asking to borrow her pen, to write down her number!

Daily Activities: Making sugary, herbal mint tea in the morning and afternoon; Cleaning and mopping the house and family storefronts; Playing with her future nephew-in-law; Preparing three meals a day and cleaning up afterward; Afternoon nap

Interests: The color purple, Jewelry, Shopping for jellaba fabric and shoes, Looking at fashion magazine photos, Dancing (in private), Moroccan Arabic and Berber music

Any questions for Naima? Let me know and I'll pass them on to her!

A Man with Hair

Today, I found out that Hamid, one of the artisan teachers at the woodwork association, committed suicide yesterday. Some of his closest friends also work at this association, and although the news shocked them, their faces showed no emotional distress. We snacked on Dove chocolates (compliments of my mom) and green wheat stalks, while basking in the late afternoon sun and talking about American products like IcyHot.

A friend of another artisan (a potential translator for me) asked if I knew Hamid. I told him a story about a time when a bunch of the artisan guys and I were talking about marriage. Only Hamid and another artisan had thick, dark hair, and they were the only two unmarried men. We joked that marriage caused baldness or gray hair, and we proved the hair/marriage test with all the guys in the artisanat center. It was a fun moment that made me feel a bit closer to the association members, and today we had a second bittersweet laugh over it. Hamid was 36 years old, an age that reminded me of someone else dear to me. His story is neither the first death nor suicide I heard about since moving here to B-town, but unlike the men who knew him better than I did, my eyes were wet.

Regardless, life goes on. With my new translator, I interviewed another artisan. Learned that while the association members all share the same workshop space and collectively teach 20 boys the trade, each of them had his own customers. I was surprised because I thought they operated as one association, not individually with single orders. I asked if this environment created any internal competition, especially since each artisan had a family to support with the income generated from these sales.

Hamid’s best friend jumped into the conversation and said he “haites” the others—joking and charading that he both “hates” and “hits.” The artisans believed there was no competition between them because they are friends first. I got a list of reasons why they’re proud to be part of the association and its benefits. Even at craft fairs, the products with the best quality will sell. WOW-what a concept.

It was getting dark, and Hamid’s bff asked if I wanted to interview him next. He said he needed some time to cope first with his friend’s passing, which I almost forgot about because of the interview’s light-hearted atmosphere. He asked if we could talk in three days instead…

Although I was invited to dinner with Hamid’s family and friends, I declined—feeling like the attention due to the family would instead shift to me and afraid that I may start crying once I met the women. What’s the culturally appropriate thing to do in this kind of situation??? I wanted to find out more information online. Instead, I found out a friend from high school just gave birth to a little boy! What a ___…not a coincidence, not a small world, but…I’m loss for words…God provides, that’s what the artisans said.

Friday Night Out

This evening, my friend asked me if I wanted to do a tour of town and exercise off some of couscous lunch. With her and her future sister-in-law as my body guards, we linked arms and enjoyed a harassment-free walk and shopping trip.

For a moment, I thought I was back in America, or definitely NOT in a PC country. I experienced a different side of B-town. We looked at nail polish, mp3 players, and handbags. As we tried on cute shoes and trendy western clothes in boutiques, the time flew by. I tried on a pair of skinny jeans (the largest size in the store), and it was still too small…. We also shopped for more jellaba fabric, trading advice on what designs and colors were zweyn. I taught the words bling bling and adorable. Earlier this week, I was afraid my fashion sense had adapted to Moroccan standards, but after this trip, I realize I haven’t reached the full glitter/rhinestone/accessory galore appreciation yet. Alhumdullah. We looked at new clothes until the stores shut down.

Tonight was the latest I’ve ever been out in B-town. It was also nice to “let my hair down” and let out that suppressed, frivolous girl part of me OUTSIDE of the house WITH my Moroccan friends. It was interesting to see hanuts closed, the street vendors all packed up, coffee shops empty, no football cheering or hear music, and the male street loiters gone. Even bumped into a friendly, drunk guy!

What time did I get home? A bit after 10pm. Exciting nights* here in B-town!

*During summer and Ramadan, nightlife is rumored to be bustling. I’ll keep ya updated. Also, since coming back from Kesh (and the successful workshop/craft fair there), the neighborhood boys have been good :)

Boys are Made of Frogs and Snails

Girls are made of sugar and spice and all that’s nice. At least, the girls in my neighborhood are. Ever since I moved into my house at New Year’s, they greet me, kiss my cheeks, and are so polite. Sometimes, the little boys do the same.

There are a couple though, that get a huge kick out of banging on my door and running away, throwing rocks at my door and running away, leaving candy and beer packaging on my door, peeking thru the letter dispenser, and yelling through my windows “How are you? I am fine!”/”You are sexy!”/”What is your name? Are you fine?”

Two American friends stayed at my house this weekend, and, on top of the door pranks, some boys decided to yell, “F*UCK YOU.” Wow…that was a shock.

So today, when I heard prank knocking (which usually happens the most only when other Americans are at my site…so the boys leave a great impression on them), I decided to find the culprits.

They were playing at the end of a walkway, and they saw me approach. I wasn’t sure if these boys were the boys who banged on my door, but when they started to back away, I knew they were guilty. They ran away. In my ankle-length skirt, I sprinted after them. Men, who thought the boys stole something from me, ran after me. Unfortunately, it was nighttime and there were many narrow walkways, and we lost them. I told the men why I was running after the boys, and they told me not to worry—boys are only boys. It reminded me of my first trip to Casablanca, where a man grabbed my butt and I yelled at him in English. Other men ran after him, thinking he stole from me, but they stopped after I told them he only grabbed my butt. Great set of values, I thought.

So I was surprised when a woman knocked on my door later that night. She said she saw me run after the boys, and she asked why I did that. I told her about the immature harassment (knowing that some PCVs have to put up with worse), and that it’s not a big deal for her or me. She told me she knows the boys, and asked if I’d like to visit their houses. …YES.

She kindly greets the women who answered the doors, they exchange a flurry of pleasant-sounding words that I can’t catch, a boy’s brought out (not meeting my eyes), and he’s told to kiss my cheek. As we leave the houses, I hear shouting and hitting. My neighbor tells me she would also tell the boys’ teachers, who will also hit the boys…After almost 2 years of living in “Africa,” I’m immune to hitting kids as means of discipline. Wonder if the prank knocks will continue? She also warmly invited me to her house and enforced that we live in a calm, good neighborhood. Yay, neighborhood watch program.

In other recent news, I had the pleasure of participating in a week-long English immersion camp in Meknes, sponsored by the Ministry of Youth and PC. Met other PCVs and had fun running around. 100 new people know about Honolululu (yes, 3 lu's). I and friends visiting from Namibia travelled through the lovely towns of Chefchaouen and Fes for a few days. Got to eat mousse in Azrou again. Plan on heading to Kesh tomorrow for a craft fair. Been organizing the one-day workshop on selling well at craft fairs for about 50 artisans, and I think I don’t have anything left to be stressed out about. Don’t worry mom, pictures on fbook to come soon, inshallah.

Life is good.

In the News

Morocco Swarms with Street Vendors
By Siham Ali 2010-03-21

For many of Morocco's poor or unemployed, selling goods on the street provides a way to earn a meagre living.

Street vendors can be found all over Morocco, from working-class districts in outlying towns to the city centres in Rabat and Casablanca. For these unofficial traders, selling their fish, vegetables, fruit, clothes and other wares on the ground or from handcarts, life is far from easy.

They spend their days hoping to turn a decent profit and fearing that their goods will be confiscated by the Auxiliary Forces. Illiterates, graduates, young and old people, women and men – they all devote themselves to a profession that enables them to earn a fistful of dirhams a day.

In Rabat's city centre, 36-year-old Mohammed sells socks and sunglasses. He hopes to one day have a proper shop so that he can offer his family a stable life. As an informal vendor, he said, he earns between 30-50 dirhams a day.

A law graduate, Mohammed has been seeking a steady public-sector job for over a decade.

"No private company will recruit university graduates, so I've sat several competitive exams, but I've never been lucky enough to pass," he said. "I'm not ashamed of being a street vendor, despite my level of education, even though deep down I really hope for a better life for my children."

This hope is shared by many vendors who would like to see their source of income become more stable. They include women who do everything they can to overcome the hardships inherent in their profession.

One such woman is 44-year-old Rehma, a widow with four daughters aged 8-19. She sells smuggled goods such as shampoo, soap and pyjamas. "I spend all my time on the move buying my goods and selling them to my customers in several cities," she said.
"I would have liked to have a store of my own, but I can't afford it," Rehma said, adding that the authorities ought to take measures to help street vendors instead of driving them away from major roads.

Many people would like the authorities to build shopping centres at strategic locations and rent them at reasonable prices, so as to legalise this kind of informal business activity.

Sociologist Mohamed Kamal told Magharebia that despite the criticisms made regarding the existence of street vendors, the sector does help to maintain a certain socio-economic balance. He says that Morocco should draw inspiration from the experiences of countries that have successfully established legal venues for street vendors.
The government is working to bring more people into the formal economy. On January 19th, Trade and Industry Minister Ahmed Reda Chami told Parliament that an effective way of organising the sector was overdue.

In the past, he explained to legislators, the approach centred on town planning. Premises were built for street vendors in special locations.

The ministry has begun exploring the issue in partnership with local councils and chambers of commerce in order to find a lasting and effective solution, Chami said.

Pride

Today, my manager came to visit my site. I feel so blessed to have been placed here.

I'm also afraid to write blog entries. Last week, I re-read my journal from my 1st year experience in RIM. With my ignorant comments and naivety, I annoyed myself! At least only I know what I wrote there…

So go to my facebook instead. Just uploaded new photos of Portugal, I mean, Rabat. Very under-rated city, if you get off the tourist/administrative track.

Every Day Surprises Me

The night before, I think about what I’m going to do the next day. I don’t know why I keep doing this, because every day turns out to be different.

For example, today I planned on visiting Said’s family because I told him I would last week (but then went to Casablanca and Khenifra instead…more on that later). A member of the wood-working association, he has been so helpful with my wllft-ing (adjusting to life/work at site). I also found a great article with colored photographs of Moroccan woodwork that I wanted to give to him.

Walking to his house, I bumped into a woman in my aerobics class. I didn’t recognize her at first because she was wearing a jellaba and not workout attire. She invited me to her house…

Since it was a rainy, thundery Saturday, I assumed work at the artisanat center would be sluggish. Instead, party planning was in action. Rooms that are usually vacant and dirty were filled with rugs, couches, chairs, and new lightbulbs. Apparently, there was going to be a party at 2pm to celebrate Women’s Day; one weaver from the carpet association would be recognized for her accomplishments. The president invited, actually ordered, me to lunch with his “family.”

His family turned out to be members from the Moussem Association (they plan an annual Horse and Gun Show in town) and a girl from the countryside who was going to ride a horse today, despite the thunder. I was pretty confused with this “party” was going to be like. We feasted on a huge meat platter, powdered sugar couscous plate, and fruit bowl.

Then it was time to pick up the horse. The stable owner asked if I was Mustapha’s daughter.... Kawto, the girl, mounted the horse in her purple velvet jelleba and fine gold jewelry. The horse walked-not trotted/galloped-and we followed via car, attracting a large following of kids through town.



We approached women and kids carrying bamboo poles of scarves and fake flowers. Kawto’s horse put on a dance and energetic clapping ensued. Alhumdullah, I got to watch this event in a car and avoided the rain. The procession paraded around town and ended up at the artisanat center.

I’ve never seen the center so crowded. Bumped into lots of familiar faces and met new ones, like members of a music association—old men reviving the traditional music scene. They played instruments, we clapped, people fought over my attention, and I yelled at sketchy boys. Overall, it was fun (especially in the company of my former neighbors and English-loving lycee girls) and well worth it (since one of the screen-printer’s was there and we made a date to “talk business” tomorrow).

The screen-printer and her siblings walked me to my friend’s house. We meandered through the narrow medina maze avoiding a crazy man. Had delicious sugary tea at my friend Salwa’s house. She added green leaves that neither of us knew the name for in English/French/Darija. Helped her open her hanut, then I visited her sister Turia’s house. Apparently, out-of-town doctors were in town this weekend to help with eye surgeries, and Turia was asked to cater dinner.

I saw the largest cooking pot (it could have fit three of me inside) in my life there at her house. Cookies, couscous, and chicken were being cooked and plated. I asked to help out, but I was told to eat cookies and pastries instead. Okay, no problem!




Turia’s son is no longer afraid of me, which means he loves climbing, hugging, and playing with me. I guess I was there to keep him occupied while everyone else worked. Turia stuffed my bag with so much fruit and cookies to take home…yay for skimming off of the top.

Didn’t go to aerobics today, but I happened to walk by the “gym” just as all the women were leaving. Warm greetings in the rain at night made me feel oh-so-local. We munched on the roasted sunflower seeds my bread vendor gave me for free a few minutes before. After that, I owed my mom a blog entry, and here it is.

I also planned this morning to share a Tahir Shah book I just finished reading (yay bus rides to/from Khenifra). He lives with his family in Casablanca, where I spent the Prophet’s Birthday holiday (aka Feast of Tea and Cookies) last weekend. Stories interest him, and I highly recommend googling/reading him.

So long story short, I still have to visit Said’s house, but I did give him the article and did my Shah shoutout. I’ve been here for almost six months already and something tells me the next twenty are going to fly by.

Never Have I Ever…Until Today

-Got a fridge fixed for about $10, plus a free offer for a wooden platform to put the fridge on

-Heard a car alarm go off in Morocco

-Poured 4 GLASSES of oil into one batch of cookies

-Gave away half a head of cabbage to a friend

Clearly, I live a very exciting life... On that note, I'm going to a "black tie event" tomorrow and a "business meeting" in another city the day after. Should be good times, if god wills it. Ta ta for now.

(was this entry really worth posting? hi mom-i love you)

Ifolki

I am learning Tifinagh, the Berber script. Because Arabic (and its many dialects), French, Spanish, Japanese, and Hawaiian aren't enough...