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).