New Business

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

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

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

Thinking Too Much & Getting Nowhere

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

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

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

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

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

FOOD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Annual family luncheon for the ladies.)

(DC friends during Restaurant Week.)

(Hawaii reunion in Boston.)

(Hanai family in Morocco.)

(On-campus picnics in Melbourne.)

(Lydia's in Pittsburgh.)

(Hanai family in Mauritania.)

Dear Moroccans I came across today,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sincerely,
Zenab

MaM #4

Name: Habib

Profession: Potter

Place of Work: Qalala

Number of Years Working: +50

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hardest Thing in PC

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

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

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

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

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

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

26 Observations

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

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

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