RoLLeRCoAsTer

If the “mattress furniture” store was open, there would be no blog entry. I’d be sitting on my new sedari, a kind of stuffed couch, studying Darija/writing letters/planning pillow color schemes instead.

If I didn’t just write a monthly report and compile a powerpoint presentation for training next week (am I back in college? Or facing an “adventure of a lifetime?”), this entry would have been me musing about my “work” here, thoughts on sustainability, and how it would impact what I want to do after service. There would have been lots of open-ended questions too. I’ve been feeling jaded/motivated/useless/useful/happy/annoyed a lot recently—save that for emails.

So instead, because I will be away from my home internet for the next two weeks and feel obligated to update (hi mom!...do I get spam too?), I’ve compiled some random thoughts and stories from this month.

-Only in Btown, not all of Morocco, do people say “waa” to mean “yes.”

-Some men have cute scarves and gloves, which makes me smile to see them. I also envy them because they are warm. Unfortunately, some take my smile as a sign of flirting, so I’m trying to control my facial reactions.

-After I told my supervisor, association members, teachers, and friends that I’ll be gone for a 2-week training in another city, most say things along the lines of “enjoy your vacation”/”when you’re there, you must visit the nearby cities of x & y”/”there’s a lot of snow there” followed by hand flicks to indicate “a lot.”

-The clothes that people see me in are all used, from the flea market or souq, because I didn’t bring a winter “shta” wardrobe with me. I’ve found some goodies, like a Burberry coat and cool yellow gloves.

-People like to practice their English with me. One man with what seems like autism has taken a liking to me. Talking in English, French, and Darija, he makes me wonder what his life has been like. It must have been very interesting.

-When I complain to my local friend of the “fishbowl effect,” she tells me it’s only because I’m beautiful. Whether true or not, we’ll then have a discussion on business theory or jellaba fashion. People like her make me happy here.

-There are a lot of people that give off a “crazy” appearance. Barefoot in 6 degrees and talking to themselves, skipping and whooping down the street, carrying a stick running around town, they, so far, have all been men.

-I’ve been taking an aerobics class three times a week. Before class, I always hate going (reasons include: it’s too cold to change clothes, Akon’s overplayed, I can work out on my own). After class, I’m always in a great mood. Love my new buddies and the feeling that I can excel at something here.

-My town has 40,000 people. Yet, I’m starting to bump into acquaintances at the crowded souk, big markets, and on the road. I love playing the “8 degrees” game to figure out how people I know relate to each other. Degrees of separation are usually a lot less than I think.

-Most households eat couscous every Friday for lunch. Hosts generally give me a spoon and towel to place on my lap. Depending on how the others eat, I’ll use a spoon or my hand. Today I was invited for the first time to my counterpart’s house, a somewhat respected woman who organizes development work in town. Yesterday, she told me I need to do more work (which really upset me because I am doing as best as I can and she has shown no interest in collaborating with me). Today, she complimented me on my couscous “balling” technique. I felt like those two comments canceled each other out. Oh, standards.

-At Georgetown, I joined a for-fun coalition of high heelers against cobblestone. After never wearing heels in RIM and my first 4 months in Morocco, I have rejoined the coalition in Btown (thanks flea market). Although more unwanted attention ensued, it’s so nice to walk around in heels again.

-Avocado + sugar + milk blended together = simple, delicious

-I write entries that put me in a more carefree and happy mood when I finish typing them. It helps me deal with the stress/frustration from feeling incompetent/clueless/useless when I speak/work/try to live here. Writing reminds me why I’m still here.

-I always wonder how much information to share with every story I write about. I think of onions and layers. What’s the most appropriate layer for this blog? Whatever I want.

-Chopping veggies and washing dishes in cold weather where you can see your breath in your house is not very pleasant. I try to stick to one pot meals.

-I recommend reading The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver. I didn’t sleep much for two nights this week in order to read it.

-Books and libraries (not a place for gov’t cost cuts) are a luxury that I wish more Americans would appreciate and take advantage of. As my language tutor says, “You can tell a lot about a society by its classroom.”

Foodie's Dream Meal

From LEid Sqir in September to Hagouza in January, ‘tis the holiday season in Morocco. I’ve observed countless feasts, remembrances, non-work days, Muslim holidays, American holidays, and now one Berber holiday.

Last night, I celebrated (code word for “gorged at”) Hagouza, my third New Year’s/السنة الجديدة/Bonne Année dinner, with my new, gregarious neighbors. An old Berber tradition, this holiday somehow always falls on January 13. As with other events, food is the focal point; last night, however, I ATE THE BEST MEAL EVER IN MOROCCO. Each household, Arab or Berber, buys a free-range chicken from the countryside to eat for dinner. A Moroccan “bldi” chicken is neither your Whole Food’s chicken nor your 3-star Michelin restaurant poulet: it’s better. In America, chicken had been my least-preferred meat, but now I’m having second thoughts.

Fatima and I made rufisa, which consists of layers of tortillas and said chicken simmered all day in a vegetable and lentil sauce. Sprinkled on top were fresh, raw almonds. Garnished with one date and one whole egg for each person (for good luck…wink wink), the dinner was served in an extra-large tagine. WOW. Her and her husband, her brother, her nephew, and I feasted well. I was told a proverb: eat well then dance well. We drank Coca-Cola (part of their tradition) and tonic water to help digest. After the meal/Trader Joe cookies/fruit, I told them my newly-thought-up-proverb: Eat well then sleep well. However, there was dancing, laughing, warmth, 5 languages spoken (English, French, Arabic, Tashelheit, and Italian) and, most importantly for me, acceptance.

These are my kind of people, and I’m grateful they’re my neighbors. I’ve been forced to attend Friday’s cous cous lunch and was told of further dinner get-togethers involving kefta and harira. Looking forward to it! Also looking forward to figuring out who is leaving sfnj, an oily donut, and Heineken leftovers on my doorstep. Two steps forward and one step back….

Weekend Trip to Marrakesh

I spent the weekend in sunny but cool Marrakesh (for general information and photos: http://wikitravel.org/en/Marrakech). Stayed near Jema il-Fna: home to street performers, local food and orange juice stalls, knick knacks for sale, and tourists/locals alike.

Meandered thru the wall-enclosed medina’s narrow covered roads selling a variety of goods: wooden carvings and sculptures, metal lanterns, produce and meat, pointy leather shoes called “belga,” square candles, red rugs, silver jewelry, “local” clothes for a tourist market, knock-off DVDs, knock-off designer clothes, 30 dirham sunglasses (happily picked up two pairs...my only non-food purchase except for a pink lighter), paintings of desert life, leather goods like furniture and bags, scarves, carpets, live chickens and eggs, postcards, tile artwork, and so on. Heard honks from mopeds zipping by and whishes from bicycle tires. Sometimes the road deadended into a mosque or door. For every path you took, you forsook three others and a tiny lane. Your senses overwhelmed you at first.Everything’s so colorful, merchants beckon you to the aisle after aisle of identical goods, your heart skips a beat when a moped just races two centimeters past you, your heart drops seeing an old or young beggar, you brush angrily by the teenagers murmuring inappropriate things in your ear, and faux tour guides all of ten years old want to help you find your way.

I overate in Marrakesh. Didn’t want to get too close to the tumblers, singers, snake charmers, henna women, card tellers, or prize game set-ups. Didn’t want to get too close to the street food tent, where men persistently pester you to sit at their booths (advice for travelers who want a quick getaway: say you just ate/will come back soon). Instead, avocado juice shops, restaurants serving both pizza and tagine, and cafes became sanctuaries where my friend and I could catch our senses. No one interrupted you too much when you sat on a rooftop terrace or behind the security of a table.

We people-watched: the man who sold coat hangers in an intersection, motorists who held up traffic to greet one another, tourists who held hands/butts (how inappropriate), boys hitting on girls, women in hijab, women in skinny jeans, blind men begging and finding their ways with a cane, kids selling kleenex, cute coats and boots worn by teenager girls, cute jeans and caps worn by teenager boys, families eating ice cream cones, tourists in horse carriages. It’s impossible to generalize Marrakesh because there are so many exceptions and such a melange of traditional and contemporary.

Saw lots of beautiful parks and gardens. Spent a morning at the artisanat complex and saw beautiful (touristy) things. There are palm (or date?) trees, olive trees, and flowers that remind me of Hawaii. Sat on a bench at one next to the Koutoubia mosque until the sun set. Passed by $$$ hotels and restaurants, gazing longingly at the swimming pools and restaurant menus. Despite the cold and full stomach, a dip on a pool followed by a bottle of red wine seemed so lovely. Good thing/Oh well I’m (not) a tourist. Wowed some people with my Arabic, but also made a street stall haggler yell after me that my darija was horrible, as well as my American accent.

Definitely a place I will go back to. But next time, I’m either traveling with my Moroccan friends or bringing my own bottle opener. As the tee-shirts sais, I <3 Morocco.

RIM beats 'ROC

Since I now have internet in my house, I can blog whenever I want: as soon as I wake up, on my way to the bathroom at 2am (from drinking too much tea in the evening), while cooking dinner...the possibilities are endless.

I am blogging now because the friend I was supposed to meet has been snowed in at site and can't leave. So, instead of having a FABULOUS WEEKEND GETAWAY IN MARAKESH TOGETHER, I am taking advantage of my UNLIMITED NEW HOME INTERNET CONNECTION. It got me thinking. There are some parts about being a PCV in Mauritania that definitely beat life here. Such as:

1. Snow never kept you away from your travel/vacation plans.
2. I never wore my American winter jacket indoors over 4 tops, jeans, and two pairs of socks AND still felt cold.
3. There were no yummy pastry shops in town to spend your money at and get fat.
4. Kids listened to Shakira and Akon on their cell phones, not Bryan Adams and Toni Braxton.
5. Bathrooms had makareshs (teapots to assist with pouring water to clean yourself), not large buckets.
6. Never saw a mouse swim in a toilet in Mauritania.
7. People knew less English, so you could talk about them without them knowing.
8. Hand-washed clothes dried faster.
9. Houses had yards. I had a huge yard that kept more street noise away.
10. PC chose hotels for volunteers that had hot water, ac, and television included in the rooms.
11. There were more wedding celebrations than funerals (perhaps other towns are luckier than mine).
12. Never had to wait for hours for the internet installation guys, the painters, and cement roofers to come to my house.
13. Shelves were concrete blocks and wooden planks. No hastles with bargaining and carrying plastic dressers back home.
14. We used checkbooks, not atm cards, to get our money. And there was a bank at my site. No atm fees.
15. Less tourists meant less people trying to rip you off in the big cities. And more genuine hospitality.
16. Never got dropped off on the side of a freeway at night on my way to visit host family friends.
17. Rubbish went over the neighbor's wall or was burnt in the yard. Didn't have to cart it down the street to the bins.
18. Businesses didn't post hours of operation signs that they didn't follow. You never expected a place to be open, so you never got annoyed when it wasn't.
19. Sitemates were AMAZING.
20. Got to share care package treats, instead of overindulging and feeling sick.
21. I lived better than my neighbors. Here, my neighbors offer to let me wear their clothes, use their washing machines, eat their food, give me work projects, clean my house...

I miss the good old days in the Posh Corps. I guess I have to face the harsh realities of the tough life here. They take away from my dedication to goal one, but...I'm trying to face and accept daily life here. Thank you for your support!!