Hello Again, West Africa!

I've read some really great PCV blogs and some pretty annoying ones over the past three years. My own half-cared-for blogbaby is something I put together mainly for my mom to see what I've been up to on the other side of the globe. Because I emailed and posted photos online, spent most of my time with my community, and am still a pretty ignorant, self-absorbed "chinouiya westerner," this blog took a backseat. Retrospectively, I'm not too proud of my posts.

All that will change!!! Inshallah...

Once I get medically approved, I will head to Burkina Faso (see the tan-colored country below Mali) for a 6-month contract with FAIJ, an organization that provides the Burkinabe youth with microfinance loans for their entrepreneurial projects. Here's more info about FAIJ copied from its website (oui, je dois parler en francais pour ce travail, mais, alhumdulilah, il y a googletranslator):

PRESENTATION
Le Fonds d'Appui aux Initiatives des Jeunes est une innovation du Gouvernement visant à améliorer l’accès des jeunes en général et singulièrement des jeunes formés en entreprenariat, au financement des micro-projets. Il a pour objectif l’insertion socio-professionnelle des jeunes par la création des opportunités d’emploi.
Le Fonds a donc pour activité principale, le financement des micro-projets des jeunes aux conditions établies.

OBJECTIF GENERAL
Le Fonds d'Appui aux Initiatives des Jeunes vise globalement à réduire la pauvreté, le chômage, le sous emploi des jeunes en milieux urbain et rural.

OBJECTIFS SPECIFIQUES
•Financer des prêts individuels et communautaires.
•Suivre et encadrer les promoteurs.
•Former la jeunesse.

BENEFICIAIRES
Les bénéficiaires du Fonds d'Appui aux Initiatives des Jeunes sont:
•les jeunes de nationalité burkinabé âgés de 15 à 35 ans ,ayant reçu une formation en entreprenariat et porteurs d'un projet ;
•les associations de jeunesse détentrices d'un projet générateur de revenuset /ou créateur d'emplois et dont deux(2)responsables(au moins)ont bénéficié d'une formation en entreprenariat ;
•toute personne ayant un projet susceptible de créer des emplois pour les jeunes.

CONDITIONS D'ELIGIBILITE
•Etre jeunes, de 15 à 35 ans.
•Avoir suivi avec succès une formation en entreprenariat.
•Avoir un projet générateur de revenus et créateur d'emplois.
•Etre de bonne moralité.
•Avoir l'aval d'un Mentor ou d'un Parrain.
•Accepter que le fonds assure le suivi de l'activité de l'entreprise investissements réalisés , comptabilité ) et cela jusqu'au remboursement intégral du prêt.
•Participer aux actions de formation et d'encadrement proposées par le fonds.

CONDITIONS D'OCTROI
Le FAIJ ne conditionne pas systématiquement son financement à une garantie ou un aval. Le traitement sera au cas par cas en fonction du montant sollicité. C'est la nature de l'activité financée et la qualité du promoteur qui seront les facteurs déterminants dans l'octroi du crédit.

Les concours du Fonds varient de 200 000 F CFA à 2 000 000 F CFA. Le taux d'intérêt est de 2% pour les personnes handicapées, 3,5% pour les filles et 4% pour les hommes.
La durée de remboursement est de 3 à 36 mois.Il peut être appliqué un différé de paiement de 0 à 6 mois maximum.

Six months isn't a long period of time, and my role will be to act as a business/financial adviser in the capital, Ouagadougou. What this job (and the culture and lifestyle accompanied with it) actually entails, stay tuned!

A Color Town

After visiting Chefchaouen last spring, I came back to Btown with an idea to increase tourism in town. Google Chefchaouen, and you'll see that the town is painted in beautiful blue and white tones. So I told some rug sellers here (half joking), "What if we paint Btown green? We'll be known as the green city, and all the tourists will come here and buy your rugs!"

A year and a half later, my idea's catching on...Check out these freshly painted neighborhoods:

Flashback Email from RIM

Oh, how innocent and excited I was when I first joined PC!

-----Original Message-----
From: K [mailto:@gmail.com]
Sent: Thursday, July 17, 2008 2:59 AM
Subject: Life with a Host Family, unproofread and written fast, pls feel free to fwd to friends/fam

Been living with my stage family for just about three weeks now. The worse few days have been the last few days, because I had a really bad case of diarrhea (I think it's because I was dumb and had a couple of frozen hibiscus sugar popsicle-like things called ball de bastiques, which are made with unfiltered water). That's pretty much out of my system thanks to antibiotics. Got to spend a day back at the Peace Corps center in a fly-free, ac room, drinking all the Gatorade I wanted (which wasn't much at the time, since whatever I ate went straight through me). I'll no longer take for granted being in a room with less than ten flies, furniture, or moving air. The up sides of having diarrhea have been getting to bond with other sick volunteers (bowel movement is a popular topic of convo) and not being afraid of using the outdoor bathroom/douche (aka hole in the ground). I've become completely efficient at bugspraying the douche and using a teapot sans toilet paper, all while holding my flashlight in between my head and right shoulder.

In other news, I'm starting to get adjusted to life here. Every morning, I have bread and tea for breakfast, which kind of makes me feel like I'm in prison, but it's food so I can't complain. Then, I walk for about ten minutes past the goats, cows, chickens, dogs, and donkeys that roam the sandy road to my 4-hour long language class. It's not very productive for me, but I just keep telling myself that any French I learn is helpful.

Doesn't matter that most people here speak Hassaniaya.. We eat rice and fish every day for lunch, called maruhoot. It's so hot and humid in the afternoon, it's no surprise the whole town shuts down between 12-4. I usually hang out with my family or with any neighboring family (a few PC volunteers live near me and my neighbors have electricity and tvs). At 4:00, I go back to language for a couple hours. Me and two other kids are learning French now, and hopefully, inshallah (if god wills it), we'll switch over to hassaniya soon. After class, I either visit friends, play cribbage, play Frisbee, or watch tv at someone else's house. I've hit it off with a 27-yr old Sonnike woman. We sometimes have dance parties, joke about stealing babies, and pretend to steal other people's husbands. Sounds strange, I know. But here, marriage, kids, and religion are life. To be 23 and not married with no kids is crazy. I've received countless marriage proposals, questions why I'm not married, and offers to convert to Islam.

Sometimes I can joke around with answers, and sometimes I have to talk to really ignorant people who get me so mad. I just have to keep putting myself in their shoes: some toubab (foreigner) who doesn't know our culture, speak any one of our languages, and doesn't cover herself from head to toe in 100+ weather, and who left the land of riches and opportunity to come here, single and old, must be crazy. Why else would she come here?

My 14 year old sister is married and has a baby. Right now, our host mom is in Nouakchott, so it's the 14 yr old, me, our 5 yr old brother, and the baby at the "house." Typing this now, it sounds odd that she's taking care of everyone, and the 5 yr old is already an uncle, but that's pretty normal here. Naked babies and naked kids, who pee anywhere they please. I had another brother, but one day he left for Nouakchott and I don't think he's coming back soon. He's 8, and the 5 yr old really misses him. Since he's been gone, I've become one of the 5 yr old's favorite toys. The kids on my street think I'm a great toy, and there are so many of them, and they all know my name (I realize my English grammer sucks now). My neighbors have a pet cow and goat, and my other neighbors have a pet monkey. Kids are free to roam around the town. It's so interesting how there are no street signs and people don't know what day they are born on, but everyone knows their way around and how old everyone is.

I think what I miss most about the states is all the diversity. With food, people, ideas. Tradition is pretty big here. You don't question why things are done a certain way (which of course frustrates me cos I'm a huge WHY person). Yet at the same time, I think I'm slowly accepting everything and trying to fit in. Mark called me the other day, and I cried at the end of the call. There's no such thing as privacy here: during the call, the 5 yr. old was on me, the baby was crying a few feet away, and my sister was trying to listen in on an English conversation. She asked me why I was crying, and I told her that I really missed my family and friends back in the states. She started crying with me and we bonded. She said that she cried because her mom's in Nouakchott for a couple days (a 6 hour taxi ride I think? away). It was funny because we had a business lecture today, where the man said American and Mauritanian women can bond over emotional attachments, and here I was, bonding.

Two funny stories before I sign off. Yes, random haphazard email, I know.
1. There's a soda called Hawai here. I tell people I'm from there, and sometimes that my family owns the soda. It's great.
2. Last night, if I can't create any positive change in Mauritania, at least I know that I've been able to educate another family about my culture and life in general. I was visiting a friend, and her host brother asked if I knew Jet Li. I said he's my brother, and they got sooo excited. So I said I was just kidding, and explained that the difference between Chinois/Chinese and Japonais/Japanese people (the family thought they were the same). I also was able to explain that so many different kinds of people immigrated to the States, so that is how I'm Japanese and also American, and how there are so many kinds of people in the USA. My family doesn't speak French as well as this family, so I'm sure they still think I'm weird. But this family at least knows. I also told them I ate frogs and snails in the states, and they do not, so they still think I'm weird. It's a good weird though.

Tea is a huge custom here, and I had tea at their house. The more foam in your shot glass, the more esteemed you are, and I had 75% foam. It's the most foam I've ever been served. Me and my weird eating habits, someone who doesn't eat fish and rice for lunch every day, someone who wanted rice for dinner instead of lunch (very shocking and unacceptable here), got 75% foam. So all in all, despite the diarrhea, wild animals and crap everywhere, lack of material comforts, and extreme heat, life is pretty good here.

In a couple of days, all the volunteers regroup from their stage families and come back to the center. We'll head out on a week long site visit to wherever we will be for the next two years. Word on the street is I may end up in Atar. Google it, and I'll confirm the next time I have internet access...

All the best from RIM! Please keep in touch and let me know what's new with you. Sorry if it takes me awhile to reply back (even though other volunteers have updated blogs with pictures). I've been hanging out with local families and other volunteers instead of going to the cyber cafes. Also, my family's kind of poor, and I don't want to flash my American wealth yet. But I appreciate America more than ever and can't wait to come back!

Kathryn

PS my cell phone may be broken? Not sure, but I'll try to be late to class one day (stores, like the post office, are only open during the same hours we have class) to visit the phone store and find out.

Jellaba Bead

Despite growing up in the technological age, I'm still a novice with my video camera. I'd like to blame 3 years of usage on this continent as the problem, but that would be a lie. Either way, here's my first video on how to make a jellaba button. Fatima, the woman whose hands are shown here, is one of the ladies who makes buttons for the Marche Maroc jewelry. She had a welder grind up a nail, which she used to hold the plastic inner tube.

In this culture, one learns by watching. It took me at least 4 demonstrations before I was kind of able to make my first bead. Thank Allah Fatima was so patient. However, I am an excellent shopper. So, mom, look forward to arts and crafts projects with +5,000 beads to choose from!

Soooo....my internet is too slow to load a video. Here are some photos instead:

(Fatima teaching her daughter how to make a button)

(Osama, Fatima's son, and our adorable distraction during the whole process)

(After observing, I finally had a hands-on opportunity)

My Nokia Torch

In 2008, I purchased this cell phone in Mauritania.

It's been with me ever since.

I dedicate this entry to this phone, which accompanied me to many toilets, to 7 countries, and inside my mosquito net. It's guided me through blackouts, sandstorms, camping adventures, and empty streets. It was the only light source (after my rechargeable flashlight broke) for my first host family. Many meals were prepared and a baby named after me was even given birth by this light. It has probably been the closest thing to me these past three years (is that sad?). Here are some stats:

Messages sent on it=4905
Messages received=9998
Duration of all calls sent=6 hours, 50 minutes, 45 seconds
Duration of all calls received=90 hours, 11 minutes, 43 seconds
(*This counter actually reached 99:59:59 in 2009 and reset itself to 0, so I really received +190 hours of phone calls)

And, I'd like to thank all my loved ones and fellow PCVs for making these stats possible. May Allah reward your parents.

Milliar-nare Scandel

(Maybe I will complete 100 blog entries...quantity not quality!)

Continuing with this milliar/money thing...

So two milliar-naires got into a fight last weekend, and everyone in town knows about it. Based on my limited Darija/Fusha, here's the town gossip (and what was written in the newspapers):

The man who owns the big gas station in town lent over 1,000,000DH over 5 years ago to another man involved in real estate. Both men are from B-town, and both partook in an elaborate lunch during the moussem at a Minister's house. All three men are milliar-naires.

After the lunch, the gas station man, his son, and his driver beat up the man who borrowed money because the man apparently had not repaid it.

Although this happened on a Saturday, the real estate man called on friends in the justice department to open the office so he could file a complaint. Now, the gas station man and the two others are in jail.

How long will the men be in jail? What's jail like for a milliar-naire? Was there a contract for the loan repayment? And if so, what were the details? Surely there were witnesses to the fight, and perhaps they could have stopped the attack? How hurt is the real estate man? Would this be news all over town if the men weren't famous/wealthy? How much influence must one have to open the office on a weekend? Who has more influence? What will happen? Those are some of my unanswered questions. But of course, mashi shguli ("not my business").

Mul Bazaar, Part II

So my faithful readers (aka just my mom) will remember my entry about trying to exchange dirhams for euros before my trip to Italy. Since that incident, everything with the mul bazaar has been uneventful at the money exchange hanut.

While sorting through my things today, I found 2,000DH that I must have hidden for emergencies ages ago. This week, I just balanced my Moroccan checking account and budgeted for the rest of my service here (still don't have a countdown), so I debated between treating myself to another shopping spree, investing the money into Fatiha's project, or converting the money into dollars.

PC is giving me $83 to check in my second bag twice and buy food at the Casablanca, Frankfurt, San Francisco, and Honolulu airports (on flights where meals are for purchase), so I decided to chance my luck and return to the mul bazaar.

The men there remembered me and, surprisingly, warmly welcomed me. I was told that the official exchange rate was around 8.58 dirhams to the dollar, but the men would be happy to give me the black market rate of 8.3 dirhams to the dollar if I just waited until the afternoon. I asked if I could get my passport stamped this time, and the mul bazaar said only if I take the official rate. Because I hoped to fill my passport with stamps (only have a few pages left!) and felt really bad about my amazing discount the last time, I requested the official rate. He told me to come back in the afternoon. ...um...ok.

So, I returned later to find out that the men still didn't have the key to the safe. I waited for a bit until the old man (see first mul bazaar story) returned with the key. Once the safe was open, the men had only a $100 bill and five one dollar bills.

God was sending me a sign to go shopping instead! I asked how many dirhams was the $100 bill worth. The mul bazaar said, "800." We traded. Sadly, no passport was stamped. He then told me the bill was town in two and taped together. I didn't even notice nor did I think that would be a problem, so he gave me a dollar for free. Then another dollar, then another, and so on until I had $5 extra.

I told the mul bazaar that this $5 was equivalent to more than 40DH and started to list off how many things I could buy with that amount. He laughed and said, "No problem." I asked to buy the $5 from him, but my offer was refused. The men told me that they won't restock dollars because everyone in town trades in euros. While waiting for the key to arrive, I witnessed many women trade dirhams for euros and vice versa. One woman had 20,000DH to trade; another had 300euros to trade. I felt pretty miskina.

So, I went to my friend's hanut to buy a rug that I've been eying my whole service. I have never come across another rug like it in all of the many souks and medinas I've visited. Unfortunately, she already sold that rug.

Moral of the story: sometimes you snooze you lose (ie with the rug), and sometimes you snooze you win (ie with the leftover dollars). I will pass on my 5 dollar bills to other people in town. Easy come, easy go (moral #2).

In other "financial" news, I finally got a straight answer on how much money exactly is a "milliar." It's one billion ryals, or 50,000,000 dirhams, or about 5 million euros. According to town gossip, there are about 9 people who are milliar-ers in Btown. Perhaps the woman with the 20,000DH was one?

In "Kat" news, I realize that I type my blogs in simple language, as if I wanted to translate this story into Darija. I hope my advanced high school vocabulary comes back to me once I'm in America LATER THIS MONTH!


Disclaimer: THIS IS NOT MY MONEY! I am still miskina. It's the grant money I withdrew from my account for one of the Marche Maroc craft fairs.

B-town Pick Up Lines

Top 3 Ways to Get Men and Women to Talk to You Without Saying a Word to Them:
1. Ride a fancy, new bike (with a helmet) around town.
2. Carry a large tagine from one end of town to the other.
3. Pass out American candy with a big smile on your face.

From Wllfti to Wllfna

When I arrived in my site, strangers and acquaintances greeted me with the question, "Wesh wllfti?" Even after two months of intensive language training, I never recognized this verb before. It means something along the lines of, "Have you adjusted to life here?". Once I started hearing this question, I kept hearing it all through my almost 2 years of service. Just last week, a friend of a friend asked me this when I visited her site.

Now that I'm back in Btown, everyone seems anxious about my departure date. Instead of asking if I've gotten accustomed to life in Btown, people are telling me that they've gotten accustomed to me. The first time I heard my wedding planner friend tell me, "wllfnak," I was confused by the new verb conjugation. Hearing people tell me this gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. While I'm looking forward to finally coming home and spending some time in America (ok, eating in America), I tear up thinking about saying "see you later, inshallah" to my community. Just today, three girls kissed me on the mouth (...) and two kids starting crying when we talked about me leaving Morocco next month. I wish time would slow down a bit.

That being said, I'm proud of my two years here. This afternoon, my "students" begged for an English test today that was scheduled for next week. While weaving a blanket together, a mom and I talked in depth about the pros and cons of the possibility of her daughter working in Italy/America. Fatiha, my leading lady artisan, wanted to discuss project planning/grant applications and the "big picture" with her work. Two years ago, I wouldn't have imagined she'd develop into such a budding entrepreneur. I tip my hat off to her and people like her for expanding my mind's potential.

Better keep this short and log off. There's internet in America, but Btown is only here.

(I lied. Semi-related, semi-unrelated, I'm proud to have gotten to know these 16 business development volunteers as well. There won't be another BD program, as PC is focusing only on youth development volunteers. Cheers to us.)

Beanu Beanik

One of my favorite-sounding phrases in Darija is pronounced “bean-u-bean-ik.” It means “between him and you,” or if you want to get technical, “between him/it and between you.”

I often hear this phrase when people in my community choose not to get involved in someone else's affairs. Having gotten to know every neighborhood in my 50,000-person town, I have to walk quite a bit. One hour of daily walking, check! So, I keep myself entertained by having conversations in my head with myself. One recurring debate is whether or not this beanu beanik mentality is for the better or worse.

Stereotypes aside, my Morocco is much more passive than my America. People tend to watch more than they act: whether it’s regarding a father beating on his misbehaved toddler, a foreigner yelling at the man who just grabbed her butt, or witnessing a thief exit his/her own crime scene. This country’s candid camera tv shows are extra-entertaining because the pranksters can pull off even more than I'd expect on the unsuspecting passerby-er. *That being said, people here (more so than Americans) in general believe Allah has a greater influence in this world.

The lack of a third party involvement leads to less town gossip/meddling and more direct communication. This can be a good thing for me (the me not getting my butt touched). If another Moroccan were to get involved in my affairs with someone else, I suppose we would say “beani beanu beanik” (between me, him, and you). However, this phrase sounds too much like a magician’s incantation for my ears’ liking.

Suppress your excitement and stay tuned for my upcoming post on favorite-sounding phrases in Tashelheit…inshallah.

بوسفر (Bousfer)

According to googletranslate's Arabic, bousfer means "bousfer," aka not a real Arabic word. بصفر is "with zero" and بسفير is "with ambassador." In Darija, the dialect of Arabic that Moroccans speak, بوسفر (bousfer) means something entirely different, and perhaps it doesn't exist in Modern Standard Arabic. I didn't even know this word existed in Darija until tonight. Perhaps I have the spelling of the word wrong, but the neighborhood confirmed بوسفر to me.

So what is bousfer? I'm still not quite sure. My friend, Karima, has bousfer. So she went to see a lady who does bousfer. Having bousfer is not something one is ashamed of because it's quite common. When we broke fast together, Karima took western medicine that seemed to target her stomach.

The very country-looking lady who does bousfer learned her trade from her grandma. Not everyone can do bousfer; it takes a special person to be qualified. A bousfer is kind of like a doctor.

Bousfer entails Karima to see this lady three days in a row. Yesterday, Karima bought a razor blade, which the lady keeps in her small coin purse. The lady sucks on what looks like a flat, plastic, mini-donut. Karima removes her head scarf, and the lady hisses/spits on her arms, neck, and legs. Then, she pokes Karima's legs and hands with the razor blade. Karima's face shows pain during this process.

If Karima bleeds, her bousfer has left her. Last night, she bled a lot, and she showed me her tiny scars. Before knowing what I'd witness, I thought, Oh, perhaps this is some sort of traditional acupuncture. She didn't bleed tonight. She will return to the lady's modest home on the outskirts of town tomorrow.

The lady offered to do bousfer on me, but I politely declined. After this session, Karima assured me that the razor is just for her, and it will be discarded tomorrow night (check, mini-health lesson completed). Apparently, I'm not able to learn how to do bousfer.

So, that's bousfer. The neighborhood wants to know what we call bousfer in English. Any suggestions on what to tell them?

T Minus 3 Months

Three months left, and time here continues to surprise me. Despite temperatures in the high 30s (C), I “fasted” and spent the afternoon in Haymr. On my way there, I walked through a few dust storms, which turned into hail. Yes, hail. First time I've seen hail or any icy product from the sky in Btown, in both the winter and summer. Cheers to global warming.

In February, I revised my "Action Plan," projects and goals I hoped to accomplish before I COS and their timelines. This meant consolidating and cutting many projects out. This week with Ramadan going on, I re-adjusted my plan (aka cut more things out). Am I a slacker? Or less idealistic? Daily harassment from strangers aside, I am enjoying my time here and plan on doing so until I leave. Relationships mean more than a stellar-looking resume. So here's the new plan:
1. New product development training with the Nasim girls.
2. Computer and internet training with the Nasim girls. One goal is to get the girls set up with facebook (their request).
3. Grant writing workshops and 2 applications with the Nasim girls.
4. Translate the Marketing Mix game into Darija/French for 3 associations to "play."
5. Correspond with my 4th WWS class, aka my cheerleaders.

Personal tasks include:
1. Souvenir shop: Prob spent over 10,000dh already! It's only strange to me when I compare RIM to ROC and what "souvenirs" I could pick up there.
2. Finish reading the Koran in English, "Islam in Morocco," and "Do it Herself."
3. Complete 2 more LSAT practice tests.
4. Update the resume and send it out to BD fields.
5. Lose 5 pounds: NOT happening with Ramadan. Instead of eating 3 meals during the day, I have 2 or 3 meals at night and maybe 1 meal during the day. Fried fat with onions in oil, with warm homemade bread to soak up the sauce, is absolutely delicious!

Perhaps I'm sharing these goals on my blog to hold myself to a higher standard of accountability (not much of it goes on in PC, but that is another blog entry). We'll see how I do come November!


(My food baby and I pretending to be a statue in Italy. Used up the last of my vacation days on this trip, and it was definitely worth it!)

Shebakia and an Ethical Dilemma

These fried treats immersed in honey and sprinkled with sesame seeds are a Ramadan staple in Btown.

I went to Fatima's house to ask a simple question; instead, I sat for 4 hours making hundreds of these little cookies. Now that I know how much time, energy, and oil is involved in each cookie, I won't gobble them down as quickly.

*Family, we used a pasta maker to roll out the dough, but I have a "cookie cutter" as well. It only takes a couple hours of practice to form the perfect shebakia.

Yesterday, I visited 7 banks that had electronic exchange rate placards. None had euros for my dirhams. Today, I visited the place Fatima recommended, and here's where the ethical dilemma portion of my blog starts. Usually, when dirhams are converted into euros, the foreigner's passport gets stamped to record the transaction because King Mhd put a cap on the amount of dirhams each person can convert each year. My mul bazaar tells me that only his son can stamp my passport, and he's not here, so forget about the stamp. Mashi mushkil. We can still do the transaction. Because I head to Italy soon, I needed euros, and 7 other banks in Btown didn't have euros, the transaction must go on.

Word Problem:
I have 1700 dirhams.
11.627 dirhams = 1 euro.
Mul bazaar gave me a 11.25dh/euro rate.

How many euros should I receive?

Answer: 300 euros, plus 12.5dh in change.

Incorrect, right? I tried telling the mul bazaar it was way too much money at least 5 times. I told him I was a thief if I took the money. He kept punching numbers into his calculator and talked to me like I was just learning math. We counted the money out over and over. Each time, I counted out 150 euros, and he kept adding more bills to the stack. I'm sure he thought this silly foreigner knew nothing about math. He offered to go over the calculations again, so I left the shop. Then, I returned. A few more times, I tried to show him how I'm actually ripping him off. As (most/some/a few) Moroccan men in positions of power are to me, he didn't listen and kept reiterating his side. FINE! I left.

Would you keep the money? Would you go back to the shop for a 3rd time? Would you check to make sure the money wasn't counterfeit (thanks, Carl)? I'm wondering if the man will hunt me down next month when/if he realizes his mistake. Or am I mistaken? There were no receipts or documentation of this transaction. Half of me is so gleeful; the other half is ashamed. What to do?

Congratulations Week

Wherever I went today in Btown, a warm "congratulations aura" surrounded me. Kids and women ululated in the streets, the scent of cookies filled homes, and people exchanged mabrouks when greeting each other. Moreover, I only got harassed by two men today, and they just called me "beautiful."

Why the good vibe? Two ex-members of the girls' development association I worked with are getting married this week. Yes, I was very indignant last year when these girls (aka my neighbors/teachers/students/chefs/friends) told me they no longer could participate in the association because they were getting married instead. WHY NOT DO BOTH?! I wished were possible.

This week, their families are bustling around, busy with wedding preparations: house visits galore to personally invite each guest, renting equipment (from a tent to pillows to music speakers), baking hundreds of cookies, henna, hair removal and styling, outfit tailoring/renting, and entertaining out-of-town guests.

Unfortunately, I won't be able to attend either wedding because Marche Maroc Essaouira happens at the same time. My artisan (also an ex-association member) and I plan on calling each girl on her wedding day, Friday and Saturday respectively, to congratulate her on such a momentous moment in her life. Both girls (age 19 and 18) will leave their families, virginity, and familiar Btown to move into their future husbands' homes in other towns.

I can't help but recall how I felt leaving HI for DC to attend college and be saddened that these girls won't be part of my routine Btown life anymore. One advantage I have though is the freedom to travel and visit them in their new homes, and both girls made me promise many times that I will. We jokingly wondered how many babies each young woman will have when I return to Morocco in say, 5, 10, or 20 years. They may be grandmothers before I'm even a mother...

The rest of town celebrated the posting of exam results in schools. Each student returned to school to see whether his/her name was assigned to the "passed" or "failed" side of the bulletin board. The Moroccan equivalent of high school seniors also found out whether or not they passed the college-entrance exams. This test affects the future of every child who hopes to continue studying in a university. Everyone I knew in town passed!!! One "high school senior" even texted me to let me know he njah-ted. I'm so happy to see these kids' studying (and cheating?) paid off. Families celebrated with soda and more freshly-baked cookies.

As I'm typing this, kids and families are still outside in the streets at 10PM (or 9PM Old Time). I hear frequent "Congratulations!" and "Ul-lu-ul-lu-ul-lu-ul-luuleee!" Wedding music plays in the background.

One more Moroccan man has my felicitations: my neighbor, Abdelghani. I helped him apply for his US visa, and he flew to America yesterday for the first time. It's also his first trip outside of Morocco, and he will be volunteering with a trail construction project in Vermont.

Yeah Btown!

Oh, and in honor of all the celebrations and American independence, I introduced chocolate pudding, a one-cup measuring cup, and rainbow sprinkles to a neighborhood. Boheja made the pudding by herself, but all the women and girls repeatedly dipped their fingers in the bowl. They participated in the (not-my-fault, honestly) ensuing pudding fight and dance party. I definitely did not expect that, but we had a delicious blast.

PS No photos will accompany this blog because the police gave my camera a virus, and I'm unable to see my photos. Congrats to my mom and her amazing tech skills--she'll tell me how to ameliorate this situation!

PC in Morocco and Harassment

Someone kind of high up in PC Morocco may have told me that the reason PC still exists here is because Morocco is a Muslim country. If you want my point of view on that statement, let's chat in person.

This year, PC has also redesigned its program: discontinuing the small business development, health education, and environmental education programs to focus just on youth development.

This means that the training groups in the near future will consist mostly of fresh-out-of-college (FOOC) kids--worldwide 80% of all PCVs--who are assigned to work in the Dar Shebab (youth center). Reminiscing to my FOOC days, I find it unwise for a FOOC-me to be developing the youth of Morocco. Happy hours which turn into sloppy late nights? Learning to live on my own? A salary for shopping sprees? Yes, please. Useful here? Not really. Decades of life experiences definitely translate into skills that FOOC people don't have yet. Yes, I'm generalizing and digressing...

So...even though I know some PCVs spend much of their time watching movies, cooking feasts, and traveling around (allowing a couple hours a day for "community integration"), I was bummed to hear that the SBD sector would be no more. The mudir (director) of the artisanat center, the local artisans (weavers/carpenters/entrepreneurs/couscous makers/metalworkers/jewelry makers/crocheters), my budding artisans (the girls who make products and attend PC-planned national craft fairs), my friends, and my hanai ohana seemed more bummed by the news. On one hand, some cried and said I needed to stay in Morocco; on the other, some just wanted another American to associate with (especially if that American was just like me). Others are just friendly with me on the surface and could care less about the future of PC.

Awwwww, right? Even if it takes two years to really understand the language and culture, humble myself and my expectations, and feel integrated--

Oh wait; I'm still getting harassed daily for being "Chinese" or for my body. Now that the school year is over, herds (yes, herds) of boys are free to roam around town calling out Arabic/French/English obscenities to my face and mostly to my back.

So today, I realized I agreed that YES, PC should invest resources in YD PCVs (ones that actually care to learn, plan activities, and participate in their communities). Perhaps if more Americans collaborated with more Moroccan youth and made each Dar Shebab a bustling center of fun and personal advancement, youth wouldn't care as much about harassing me for their own ignorant entertainment. Be-my-girlfriend proposals from boys over a decade younger than me may or may not stop, but Asian PCVs like me may get less harassment. And yes, everything comes back to me.

Seriously though, there have been soooo many days of school strikes this past year, kids who don't even attend school, and neglectful parents who are too busy sleeping through the day or working 10-hour days to provide for whole families. There also are many qualified, unemployed Moroccans (and PCVs) who could teach school subjects, computers, music, sports, dance, and theatre (all activities kids in general have expressed interest in) to those who say they're bored in Btown. What about promoting unexpressed interests in business training, safe sex classes, debate teams, chess teams, reading rooms, etc.? Besides the Dar Shebab, Btown has a cultural house, meeting spaces, and artisanat center that are underutilized. Any extra-curricular activities paired with a dedicated teacher/coach/counselor in a safe (perhaps I mean gender-divided/drug-free/open-minded?) environment to occupy kids' free time and develop their creativity and interpersonal relationships = PRETTY AWESOME.

Bottom-line, volunteerism doesn't really happen in Btown when one must first take care of himself and his family, and appearing to keep up with the Jones' is uber important here. Who would fund or contribute resources to any youth-development activities? Especially when these kids aren't part of the same family or tribe? How would such activities actually develop the youths' character, view on life, and amount of harassment to Chinese-looking people? Are those even the point of having extra-curricular activities?

I'm completely satisfied (sometimes exhausted) with my work projects; very, very close relationships with certain Btowners, and many superficial friendships with everyone I know in this town. The policeman: townspeople ratio is 1:714; American, townspeople, 1:50,000 (to be updated to 1:25,000 next month!). With 4 months left in country, I am not willing and able to tackle this extracurricular activities proposal (or wherever I'm going with this blog entry...dinner calls soon).

Personal experience has shown me though that a frisbee and motivated instructor (ie me) can mean more than a game of ultimate frisbee to a group of kids. That being said, sidewalk art and a motivated instructor (ie me) can only be fun for 15 minutes when the sun shines too brightly at the same time. To end on a positive note, those kids did say they enjoyed the project (liars?), wanted to take photos with me (in the shade) afterward, and no "chinouiya" was yelled.

I'm a Whore

Last week, PC invited me to assist with a training event for the 1st year PCVs. There, I got a million compliments/pick up attempts from Americans/staff/randoms on my Moroccan butterfly dress. It was a nice little-pick-me-up. Even though most of my wardrobe consists of pieces I'd never wear in America, I am not too shabby.

Summer started early this year, meaning today was a relatively cool 97 degrees. My friend invited me to her evening wedding on the other side of town. In order to not sweat into my "party clothes," I wore the outfit pictured above. My plans were to change into a jellaba after I walked across town, since my jellaba is much too hot for the day time.

While wearing that green sheath (with white pants and a sleeved pink shirt underneath), I got harassed soooo much more than usual. Boys, men, and workers all stopped to oogle me, invite me to their homes or to "tea," call out how pretty I was, and, of course, remind me that I'm Chinese.

When I got to my friends' houses, they all asked me if I wore my outfit outside. Duh? Apparently, my butterfly dress (ok to wear outside if you're a young girl) is considered pajamas here in B-town. So basically, I dressed like a Victoria's Secret model (pictured above) and thus deserve my harassment.

I really wish Moroccans at the PC training told me that my pajamas were inappropriate to wear outside (or at a PC event), instead of chatting with me about the dress' Moroccan price or how great the color looked on me. Of course, city Moroccans dress more liberally than brousse Moroccans. But then again, with other female PCVs in shorts and tank tops, a lot of us were "inappropriate." To sum up: here's another case of a well-intentioned foreigner making a fool of herself in another country. *Slaps forehead with hand.

MaM #5

Although I've been interviewing and chatting with many Moroccans, I haven't written a MaM in ages. Why? My language has improved, and I've been able to have much deeper conversations with people. As a result, I feel uncomfortable asking them if I can post their photo and mini-bio on my blog. Before, I think strangers found me and my questions endearing and didn't mind anything I did with the information. Now that we better understand each other, they ask me more questions. From "What is a blog?" to "Can you put this on facebook?" "Will you get money for this information?" or "If you share this, can you find me a husband?"

So instead, I'm making up a fictitious character, Fatima, whose viewpoint represents honest answers I've received from many girls like her in my community. *Shout out to my mom for this idea.

Name: Fatima

Age: 16

Plans for the near future: Get married or work. How can one do both? It's not possible.

Ideal qualities in a husband, in order of preference: Wealthy, Good-looking, Nice, Has a house and car, Strong, Isn't too old

How to find work: Move to a large Moroccan city to work in a garment factory, Move to the countryside as a farm laborer, Use connections to get an office job, Apply online for jobs abroad, Learn a technical skill first (like how to use computers, business training, tourism training), Hope Allah provides you with a job

Importance of formal education: Not very. It does not help you find a job. How many people have their diploma or college degree and don't have work? [On that note, only 4 out of over 50 teenage girls I've talked to have finished high school and continued with university. One girl finally took the college-entrance exam at the age of 26 and is a 1st year at a neighboring university.]

Hobbies: Baking sweets, Watching soap operas, Shopping for clothes (if she has money; critiquing fashion if not), Listening to music videos and dancing Berber-style, Gossiping, Texting/Talking to a boyfriend

How to meet a boyfriend: Go to souk, Answer a phone call from an unknown number, Travel to another city, Meet a friend or family member of a friend, Go to school

Favorite season: Spring because it's not too hot or too cold. Also, because it's the time to go on picnics in the countryside, see the river outside of town, and pick wildflowers.

Thoughts on Morocco: It is good. People are nice and generous, even if some people are rude or crazy. The beaches Nador and El Jadida are great in the summer (even if she's never been). Beni Mellal has a waterfall and garden that you have to see. Morocco is not like America, where people have money and work all the time. You also have everything there. Here, we only have some things, but we have lots of agriculture. You can wear short dresses and shorts and have real boyfriends, but not here. It gets very hot here, hotter than America. We have Islam.

Mixed Plate

Btown updates:

-After a couple weeks of travel out of site, I came home to unwanted guests. Thank Allah they weren't cockroaches (aka "oil stealers" in Darija). Instead, wasps have built two nests on my rooftop stairway, and I got my first bite two days ago. Town remedy: hit the nests in the middle of the night then run away. Will I listen? Stay tuned...

-According to a recent television movie, Chinese people eat frogs. An influx of rude kids in town have come up to me just to ask if I eat frogs. Despite being colonized by the French, Morocco has yet to welcome cuisses de grenouilles on restaurant menus.

-My Chinese American PCV friend came to visit this weekend on her way to Fes. The morning she left, the local police called me multiple times and visited me to confirm that I was indeed in Btown. They even called me a liar when I said that I'm not in Fes, but in site. It's great that they care about my whereabouts so much. Too bad all Asians look alike.

-PC has asked us PCVs not to share our opinions about what's been going on in the news with our community or online. So instead, I'd like to share some summarized reactions from Btown community members that I found interesting. These quotations in no way reflect the general view of Moroccans or Btownians. They are just a random sampling from conversations with a few community members.
o"The 'war' in Marrakesh was not started by a Moroccan, but by a foreigner trying to scare tourists. The bombing is bad because tourists will be afraid to visit Morocco and buy rugs. Rug sellers are crying because they are afraid about their work future."
o"Don't be afraid. The bombing won't happen again and you are safe in Btown. Don't travel to the big cities; just stay here in Btown, and we will take care of you."
o"Who is Osama bin Laden? What is Al-Qaeda?"
o"America is happy Osama is dead, but we Moroccans are crying because Osama was a good Muslim. He cared about his fellow Muslims and was a descendant of the prophet."
o"America and Morocco are friends. We can't be mad at America because we [cooperate with]/[are helped by]* each other."
o"Americans are happy killing Muslims. Are you happy Osama is dead?"
o"Osama is dead. Gaddafi's son is dead. If God wills it, Gaddafi will be dead too. Libyans are bad."
o"Oh really? Osama died? Your brother died?"

*Interesting note, the verb "to cooperate with" is the same as the verb "to be helped by."

-My artisan girls' Rabat craft fair collection and account-keeping are progressing very nicely! I'm very proud of their ambition, innovation, and dedication to business planning. A local painter will also be attending this fair: his first event with PC. Inshallah, tout sera bien.

Couscous

*I definitely was in a funk when I wrote my last post. Rumors about the business development program I’m in getting canceled, unrest in the MENA region, and overwhelming stress from work/harassment got to me. After a successful Fes fair, crazy spring camp, visits to other PCVs' sites, and warm welcome back to Btown, I'm recharged and ready for more rollercoaster adventures as I tackle my "to do" list.

One being: sharing my neighbor Fatima's recipe for the best couscous I've ever eaten in Morocco. Today being Thank Goodness It's Couscous Friday (TGICF) inspired this post. Although I had lunch at Mediha's and the photo is of Turia's couscous, Fatima really makes the best couscous. We're just so into eating it that I forget to photograph it.

How to Make Fatima's Couscous in 10 Steps:
1. In a large pot, heat olive oil. Generously add in salt, pepper, saffron, powdered ginger, dried hot pepper, chopped cilantro, meat of choice, diced onions, and grated tomatoes.
2. After the piece of meat browns all over in the oil, add water to cover. Bring to a boil (see step 5).
3. Add veggies (and more water to cover). First, in goes the peeled carrots and turnips (hot, red, and white varieties). Fatima's rule of exclusivity states that only if you do not add hot turnips than can you add a wedge of cabbage later. After the veggies cook down, add in zucchini and pumpkin (and cabbage).
4. Add in cooked, peeled garbanzo beans that were soaked overnight and cooked the day before.
5. Meanwhile, toss dried couscous with a teacup of olive oil then a teacup of water. Make sure the grains do not stick together.
6. Steam the couscous on top of the pot of meat and veggies. Make sure no steam escapes inbetween the steamer and pot. Fatima ties a strip of plastic bag around the joint.
7. Once the couscous has steamed for about 20 minutes, transfer it back to a large bowl.
8. Remove the cooked meat and veggies from the sauce. Toss the slightly cooled couscous with more water, salt, and rancid butter.
8. Boil the sauce down and re-steam the couscous. Some families triple steam the couscous, but Fatima does not.
9. Toss the veggies and meat back in the boiling sauce for a quick re-heat right before serving.
10. To serve, toss the couscous with some sauce in a large, circular dish. Put the meat in the center of the couscous and arrange the cooked veggies around and over it. Ladle the sauce all over. Fatima brings an extra bowl of sauce to the table.

Yes, there are a lack of measurements, garlic, and a hot pepper. However, multiple Fridays prove to me that Fatima's couscous is the best in Btown, the Moroccan restaurant scene, and the other towns I've eaten in. Of course, good meals always involve good company, and Fatima's doesn't let down.

Serve seasonal fruit for dessert.

Let Me Tell You a Fictitious Story

There once was a small, affluent neighborhood, respected throughout America for its hospitality, patriotism, and tradition. Grandmas and grandpas who grew up as neighbors kindly greeted each other while children safely played together in the streets. Families knew each other, prayed together, and always had an extra baking sheet to lend to a neighbor in need.

One day, a strange, little girl rented a house next to the Church, and sure enough, everyone in town soon heard of her. Who was she? What was she doing all alone? How could she afford that house? Why did she come here? She dressed in pajamas and KKK robes, and she never appeared quite together. While her hair and skin were beautiful, she gave off a fetid smell; and although she was always courteous, she barely spoke English. She didn't seem to really care about her neighbors and never spent more than five minutes talking to anyone. No one in town could understand her, but they tried to be warm and amiable toward her anyway.

This girl, named Khrgrthja or Shfvtiqla (no one could pronounce her foreign name), refused the neighbors' invitations to tea or dinner. Every so often, she accepted an invite, but she never returned the favor. Sometimes, she would just disappear from town for a week or two. No one knew where she went or if she'd be back.

There were a few homes that the girl actually visited routinely, like the one Hispanic family in this WASP town or the widowed old lady, Mary, who lived alone. Although amused by her endearing company, these neighbors still could not fully understand her. They gathered that she could comprehend their English, but she had a harder time speaking it. Even after a year in town, the girl's language improvements were small. She seemed harmless, well-intentioned, and perhaps a bit retarded; and they told all the neighbors that. Once, the girl told Mary she was going to visit Russia (of all places!), and Mary jokingly asked her to bring back some caviar. A month later, the girl gave her some cucumbers.

Little by little, the girl started acting weirdly. She started keeping her door open, releasing foul kitchen smells. She played her loud, strange music during neighborhood block parties and funeral wakes. She threw rubbish and old bathroom water out on the street. Sometimes, she actually aimed to splash the innocent children playing near her.

Drug addicts and mentally unstable people living on society's fringe started passing through town more. They seemed enthralled by the new girl. Some mornings, neighbors noticed that the girl left beer bottles and scraps of food on her doorstep. Fortunately, a good Samaritan neighbor would discretely discard the rubbish in hopes that the children didn't notice it. If anything, the community prided itself on how well the children were raised, and the community would not allow this girl to demoralize them.

Yet, she started yelling at the children, as if the children were to blame for the beer bottles. These poor kids would run home crying. She even approached parents to accuse them of raising liars and imbeciles.

One mother had enough of the crazy girl's disrespectful behavior and reprimanded her. She yelled that the girl was actually the liar and idiot, and she should leave the neighborhood in peace. Neighbors restrained the woman from rebuking the girl further, reminding her of the town's good values and God's graces. The menfolk actually apologized to the girl for the woman's behavior, to the outrage of all the women. Regardless, all neighbors sensed that the once-close-knit community was no longer the same after the weird girl arrived.

Let's Make a Deal

Last year, a pretty boisterous woman I just met rattled off a list of things she wanted from me: "Give me your skirt!...Give me your bag!...Give me your nose ring!...Give me your hair!...How do you keep your skin white and smooth? Tell me!...Give me your sandals!" PCVs know very well this scenario. I joked with the woman that if I gave her everything that I had, I would be naked and mskina. She told me that she would give me the polka-dot jellaba she was wearing. I told her that I had no boobs and that my gut was much smaller than hers. She replied that we needed to try on each other's clothes first, and she laughed--thinking this was the end of this conversation.

She didn't expect me to take her up on her offer. A fan of polka dots, I would have happily traded my old Gap top and Ross skirt for her jellaba. The hostess, Fatima, made the men leave the salon as we exchanged outfits. Of course, since nakedness is not interesting, all the women stayed in the room as we swapped clothes. Even though the jellaba fit me and my skirt had an elastic waist, the woman whose jellaba I was wearing said it was shameful for me to give her my American (therefore, new and expensive) clothes. I called her bluff, but I was really hoping she was sincere.

Apparently, this woman (Kbira) is friends with my friend's mom's sister, and we met up again by chance every day this week. Kbira started asking again for my clothes, earrings, etc., and I sighed over this all-too-familiar-dialogue. I didn't recognize her until she asked if I still had my black and pink skirt. REDEMPTION! I put my poker face on and nonchalantly, we started chatting about other topics.

Every female PCV reaches a point in her service when local women feel comfortable enough to talk about...sex. Yeah, baby. It's always interesting to me how the women/girls first make sure they are in a confidential area (aka no men and children around) and then breach the topic. Most girls (virgins) I know get giggly over the thought of kissing a boy on the mouth and roll over in nervous laughter when they talk about sex: but their ears are wide open. Some unmarried women have confessed to me that they *(they motion putting their index finger into the other hand's fist)* and how it made them feel. I've heard how some married women lost their virginity to their husbands. Some women think sex is pleasurable, while other women think it's only to please the man and make babies.

For such a hshuma topic, I'm always amazed at how witty women can be as they include laughter into the conversation. One of my favorite things about Morocco is the culture's encouragement and ability to joke around. Depending on my relationship with the women, I may reply in different ways when asked personal questions. With Kbira, I made outlandish statements (ie, I actually have a penis, prostitution is my work, etc.) and we concocted elongated scenarios from them (ie with the penis: hence me not going to the hammam, hence me leaving my family to come to Morocco, hence me never wearing short tops...). Kbira also told me she had a penis, so we were like sisters. At the same time, I could clarify her notions about Americans (like most of us have sex by the age of 13), without singling me out.

Kbira then surprised me by apologizing for her earlier actions. Not knowing what she was referring to, she told me that she brought her polka dot jellaba and wanted me to have it for free. Wow. I remembered she had a jellaba that I liked, but I forgot what it looked like. As I'm typing, my black and pink skirt is ready for her to pick up on my table. I'm excited for summer to come so I can wear the lightweight jellaba.
(Our friend, Rebha, and Kbira wearing jellaba button earrings my ladies made for the upcoming craft fairs.)

I actually opened blogger to tell you a story about my door: it has a mind of its own. Twice, it locked me inside my house for no reason. Passerbyers had to call a locksmith for me. This evening, it only opened after the 4th person tried my key. I've been told to feed my lock olive oil to appease it...If it's a Moroccan door, that should work.

In other news, Fatiha and I found vintage Chanel bags at souk yesterday for less than a dollar each. More awww-worthy, Fatiha's mom took our photo at the marketplace: her first time ever taking a photograph!

Happy 50th Birthday!

(Swag from PC to commemorate the 50 years)

When I applied for PC in 2007, I expected two years of living in a small, isolated village: immersing myself in local culture, understanding myself better, and forsaking electronics and booze. PCVs now live much more comfortably compared to the pioneers in the 60s, and rightly so, as the developing world's standard of living has increased. Today, PC celebrates its 50th birthday: does this mean our work is less challenging?

Leaving my house this morning, one of my stalkers bumped into me. She's a sweet, clever high school student who loves practicing her English and is already engaged to an American Muslim. After we parted, she called my cell from her house phone to remind me that she already misses me.

I headed over to Mediha's house to drop off a photo of a beautiful crochet bracelet that she wants to copy and sell at a national, PC-planned craft fair next month. Yesterday, one of the local photo studios printed out that photo from my USB stick in less than 20 minutes. Mediha also sign-languaged to me that someone in her family passed away last week (while I was in Rabat) from drinking too much paint thinner. He was mourning a fight with his wife and overdid it. We agreed that too much drinking is terrible.

My next stop was Omar the metalworker's shop. Last summer, I loaned him one of the PC library's jewelry books, and--after photocopying all the pages--he wanted to return it to me. The month before, the Tatoua girls and I discussed how we could incorporate Omar's jewelry into their bag creations. I picked up some silver khamisas (Moroccan symbols of protection) that they ordered a couple weeks ago. After analyzing the facebook feedback about their product ideas, the girls are busy completing their handicrafts for the aforementioned craft fair.

My supervisor, the chief of the Artisanat Center, recently received a new fax and printer from the Ministry of Artisanat. Perhaps the one thing he knows I'm absolutely perfect at is English, and he gave me the installation booklets (written in English) a couple weeks ago. We already went over "what is a fax machine?" which I installed--inshallah--correctly.

We spent a couple hours figuring out how to remotely install the new printer to another office's computer. I already looked up French guidelines online for how to do this, but unfortunately, they didn't help. Thankfully, my supervisor was understanding. He'd rather save face and wait for me to figure the connections out, rather than ask for help from a local computer assistance business or from his boss. I hope another techy PCV comes to visit soon. Since he already has two printers in his office, this task isn't so pressing.

Instead of eating lunch at a hanai family's house, as I usually do, I headed home. Even though the sun shone brightly in the blue sky, I felt chilled. Craving curry, I also wanted to finish reading the last couple of chapters in my latest book. After a ...months-long reading hiatus, I'm getting back into books. Isn't that how PCVs are supposed to pass their time? Another PCV shared news that Shakira is coming to Maroc, so us PCVs also pass our time going to free concerts.

In the afternoon, I headed to the post office to pay my rent electronically to my landlord living in Casablanca. I was mildly surprised to see that I received no mail since my last visit. My house is pretty cluttered now with letters/drawings/gifts from the past 3 years...perhaps it's a good thing my mail is slowing down. Besides, unlike in RIM, I get to chat online with my friends and family every night. For some reason, Maroc Telecom allowed me two extra hours of international phone calling this Sunday. Talking so long to two of my fave people was a weekend highlight.

I can't imagine business development work in Maroc without access to technology (and booze). Even for today, a relatively slow day for me. Compared to RIM, ROC provides PCVs with an environment more conducive to development work. It's up to each PCV to take advantage of it. One thing I won't miss from either PC experience is having to hand wash my clothes. Some PCVs and most of my local friends have washing machines, and in the winter time (aka tonight), I'm very jealous of them.

If you readers (aka my mom) haven't noticed, my latest entries were a bit on the down side. I haven't been feeling as energetic as usual, and along with intermittent stabbing chest pain, I gave into the doctor's orders to come to Rabat for an xray and exam. So glad I did: I feel much better now, and I scored new jeans, new books, new fbook friends, and supplies/feedback for my Tatoua girls. BTW, they just finished constructing this bag.

What do you think of the traditional, handmade beads for accent? We need to add value and "something Moroccan" to the simple bag. Do you have any color suggestions or designs? (More photos on facebook). Thanks!

One of my closest friend's cousin, 36-year old Rachid, died last night in his bathroom. How? According to the local expression, he was "swimming" in leaked gas from his buta (a metal canister of gas that all households use to cook and heat water with). Post-shower, as he was putting on his clothes, he passed out and never woke up. He has left behind a young wife, a little boy, and a little girl. Ajarakumallah.

My friend, of course, went to his house to console the family. In fact, everyone from her household--except the little 6-year old--went with her. When I knocked on their door this morning, I felt like something eerie happened. The usually bustling house was dead silent. The neighbors told me about Rachid, and the little boy eventually greeted me at the door. Instead of going to Rachid's house with the neighbors, I said I would wait at my friend's house for the sister to return.

Today wasn't the first time I found the 6-year old home alone, but I still feel uncomfortable with it. To keep himself occupied, he finds snacks in the kitchen, throws the rooftop chicken around, pretends to be Jackie Chan, rummages through Fatiha's sewing work, and puts everything in his mouth. I remember living with a host family in RIM, and my house felt like Never Never Land: adults were a rarity.

I wonder about the concept of role models here. For a culture where family is so tight, how can adults leave children unattended? At least this boy was in a house and told not to open the door (although he did open it for me). Do children act out more to get more attention?

So many random thoughts. I'd like to end this post with an excerpt from a gchat conversation with another PCV:
Peggy: i kind of enjoy making useless things
me: i enjoy searching for useless things
Peggy: if we could find ppl who enjoy collecting useless things we'd have a business

Any takers? :)

Things that Didn't Make Me Happy Today

-My neighbor's 5am banging on the door to be let in (he does it every night).

-2am drunk guy (?) trying to open my roof door.

-Little boys (who I actually adore) found a dead bird (neck broken) and asked if us Chinese people like to eat dead birds. Then, they started singing that Chinese people eat dirty things.

-Local high school teacher told me he was surprised a lot of high school girls and boys drink, have sex, and smoke (things society condones and brushes under the table) in B-town. B-town's not a big city (like Casa or Rabat) where most kids do experiment. Although, he said it's okay for boys to do those things, it is unforgivable for the girls. The girls in the head scarves who participate in class also may be the ones "hanging out" like the boys.

-I enjoyed learning "bad words" from a six-year old, ten-year old, and nineteen-year old. Then I realized those kids probably shouldn't know the things they were teaching me.

-Multiple men and boys who followed me, whispering indecent words, until I yelled at them.

-Having to yell at people to leave me alone.

-The little boy who sat on my doorstep, told me this was his house, and refused to leave. I grabbed his arm and asked where his mom was. Once the kid started crying, my neighbor actually intervened and said the kid doesn't know any better. So many kids lie then cry to get their way.

-Group of men who decided to hold a meeting on my doorstep at 9:15pm.

-Today is day 3 of small town protests.

-Not being in perfect health. Having to walk slower than a snail otherwise I couldn't breathe.

-Almost everyone I talked to in town also is sick.

-Boys on bicycles who like to play chicken with me.

Thank Allah for vino, brownies, chats with friendly PC staff/friends/hanut owners, and taco seasoning.

Things that Made Me Happy Today

-Weekend phone calls with mom

-Fennel mac & cheese with Aunty M's dill

-Kids (in the artisan families I'm close to) running up to give me the biggest hugs and kisses, and 6 year old boys not afraid to hold my hand in public

-Confiscating the playing cards belonging to the brats in the neighborhood and them apologizing instead of retaliating

-Finishing 'Tis, by Frank McCourt

-Knowing my hot chocolate provides me with as much calcium as in milk

-Creating a goals/action plan poster that should last until COS (I come home in November!)

-Walking by a peaceful protest (inspired by North African/Middle East events, unemployed men and women gathered together "downtown") without any harm done to me

-Not hearing "chinouiya" once

-Pink fingerless gloves

-Sunny day and warmer weather

-Having a R&R day (doctor's orders) for the first time in awhile

-Chatting with my best high school and college friends on gmail

-Knowing I'll fulfill my pizza craving in Rabat next week, no inshallahs added!

Egypt

As you may or may not have known, I left Morocco in January for the first time since September 2009 to visit my friend in Egypt and travel all around the country. Or so I thought. Great timing, if you enjoy being in the midst of protests and a government upheaval. Now that I'm back in B-town, I'm amazed how spectacular, emotional, and intense my travel experiences seemed at the time. This blog entry and my +500 photos on Snapfish can't do justice to the amazing things I saw and experienced in Egypt and Istanbul (yeah, the Istanbul trip was a surprise to me too). Now, warm welcomes, overdue reports, and mandatory visits/guests are making me trivialize everything I felt from the moment I checked in at Casablanca airport. Regardless, I owe everyone who cared about me during this time some form of news...so please read on.

I felt a lot of ups and downs during the three weeks. I cried at the Casablanca airport when I bumped into Mauritanians heading to Nouakchott and tried to talk to them in Hassaniya. What started as a friendly conversation turned into let's-get-away-from-the-unstable-girl-who-started-bawling-as-conversation-went-on. Transportation problems and scams plagued my whole trip. My canceled flights to and from Cairo, paying bribes to taxi/train workers and tour guides, and fending off offers for camel/horse/feluca rides were more than annoying at the time. One night in Suez, I teared up thinking that this would be the end of me, even if I gave away my gold ring and finger it was on. Everyone in town was riled up and furious with the American-backed president, high food prices, and gang street violence. Yet, I made it out safely (post-bribing drivers, post-many roadblocks, and post-sleeping next to a tank) and got to spend time with an old PC friend and see some pretty amazing sites before the protests and curfew started. Thankfully, even while waiting at the airport for my evacuation flight (God bless being an American), we were able to joke around and have fun. Now that Mubarak stepped down, I wonder if the country will regain stability and I'll be able to return this year. I definitely want to.

In less than a week, I saw the remains of pyramids and temples over 4000 years old, toured parts of Islamic Cairo and Khan, walked over ancient sites in Luxor, feluca-ed in Aswan, joined a tour group to Abu Simbel, ate my heart out in Hurghada, almost spent a night on the streets of Suez, experienced house arrest/forced chill-out time in Zagazig, and perhaps walked a thousand miles (slight exaggeration). Seeing my first mummy made my heart race, hieroglyphics in color made my heart skip a beat, and trying to climb the mountain at the Valley of the Kings literally took my breath away. I had to sit and wait for my friends to scale to the top and come back. I hated my once-athletic body for being out of shape, I hated being branded as a rich/privileged foreigner, I hated that my Darija and vagina made me nonsensical, and I hated recognizing that these things were true in Egypt. Not to sound like a self-centered, corny downer, I want these realizations to force me to change things I don't like about myself and, at the same time, just enjoy whatever path life throws me.

On a submarine ride in the Red Sea, I unexpectedly saw a sunken seahorse across the aisle. In hindsight, I liken noticing that site to this trip to Egypt and my stopover in Istanbul. Most things didn't turn out as I expected, but I enjoyed myself tremendously and expanded my mind. Yah, I glossed over the trip details....If you're interested in hearing more, we can go over my photos and stories in person in AMERICA this winter. Just treat this poor volunteer to a pizza and red wine first :)

Happy 50th Anniversary!

I learned how to embed a video into my blog!

Yes, I recommend PC to anyone with an open mind. However, hope I have other things to talk about (like food!) when I return to the states this year...

Suprises du Jour

Perhaps these blurbs from my day today are only surprises to foreigners like me living in Btown:

-After living here for more than a year, one of the post office workers kindly told me my address is INCORRECT: "11" Janvier, not "En" Janvier. Will have to update the blog and fbook. According to the other PO employee though, the wrong address is not a problem. Regardless, still haven't received Jen's and Carl's packages...

-Picked up my carte du sejour! Am I the first in my stage with one??? So what if my profession and address are wrong (despite photocopying each of my attestation, ID card, and telephone bill 15 times...and this adds up to a lot of money!)? According to the head policeman (and despite my 2nd round of complaining), the wrong information is not a problem.

-One of the bag-maker's and I were going over new bag designs for the next craft fair. We playfully argued over who gets to share her ideas first, and I started. She's told me before I have the best darija out of all the PCVs she met at the December craft fair, but apparently, we still can't communicate. After I said and gave a visual example of one bag idea, she grabbed the same fabrics and repeated what I said. Um hello, I just said that! She laughed and said we have the same brain.

-Two women I know in town greeted me and told everyone around us that I knew darija better than them. I told them they were liars, which caused the small crowd to laugh and exclaim that this girl really did know darija. Too bad not everyone can be so easily fooled.

-Fatiha and I went to the thread store to check out colors for an earrings order. The neighboring mul hanut said we weren't allowed into the store until the owner came back. When the mul returned, I asked him if I could photograph colors to email to my friend and--once I knew which colors she preferred--would buy some of the colors later. He told me to take the whole bag of threads (worth +50dh=one night in a hotel in Marrakesh) with me and pay him back later. I joked with him that I won't come back, which startled him. But then he laughed and said, "no problem."

-Fatiha and I also went to the zipper store. She saw silver fabric she really liked and asked the mul hanut to show it to her. This large piece of fabric was someone else's leftovers, so he gave it to us for free!

-My friend's very masculine older brother tells me his absolute favorite musical group is...The Cra-bur-es. What? He played girly, alternative music on his cell phone. Oh, the Cranberries!

-My neighbor invited me into her house to see her son's new baby boy. I swear to Allah she said, "wuld wuldi." When I asked how old is he, she said "he's" 40 days old. So imagine my surprise when the baby's parents are calling it a girl's name and referring to her as a girl!

Oh Morocco, how I love thee...

Speaking of, do you love these bag ideas and colors?