First Impressions

Last night, I had flashbacks of my home stay experience in Rosso, Mauritania. As I lay in my stuffy, hot room, I watched a cockroach fly on top of my mosquito net and crawl around. Immediately, I remembered all the lizard-cockroach battles that took place on the same net back in 2008, memories I tried to suppress since then. At least this time around, I have electricity…so I slept with the light on because I was too afraid to get out of my mosquito net and turn off the light.

PC really pushes me to define what I’m capable of. Not just in terms of work projects or ability to culturally integrate. I’ve learned what I cannot stand, and cockroaches are right on that border. I’ll never forget the +20 cockroach killing/screaming spree in Morocco and the sense of deflated accomplishment, but apparently I am still queasy over one or two cockroaches.

When I signed up for this PC Response position in a capital city, I didn’t expect to have to relive those cockroach days in Rosso. I also thought I’d have a different job assignment. My initial impressions of the city, its joie de vivre, the food, and my work make me grateful for my times in RIM, ROC, and USA. This experience just builds off of those, and I’m lucky to take advantage of it all.

The one thing about BF that surpasses any other country I’ve visited on this continent is the people. From Ouaga’s laidback baggage claim to market experiences to biking here to the office today, I am so thankful at how kind/non-judgmental/non-pushy/non-touchy people have been to me. When my bike chain broke on my first bike ride, a little girl (yes, girl) jumped off her bike, fixed my chain, and jumped back on her bike before I could even say thank you. No means no to the sellers and hawkers at the grand marche, supposedly the place of the most pushiest Burkinabe. People say hello; no rocks are thrown. That being said, theft is huge here. Another PCV got her bag literally torn off of her a few days ago in the neighborhood with the PC bureau and PCV transit house.

I’m still new here, so I don’t want to jump to any conclusions. Promise to self: keep an open mind, stay alert, and stick it* out. I’m not an expat; I’m a PCV. PC training ends tomorrow; my first work day (aka PC will no longer baby me) is on Wednesday. Life will really get interesting then.

*it=learning to bike ride, making do with my house’s other critters, figuring out how to get vegetables to my house, living without a fridge/sink, long-distance relationships, spotty internet/electricity…

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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!

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.

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?

Women's Empowerment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Moroccans I came across today,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sincerely,
Zenab

The Hardest Thing in PC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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).