MaM #5

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

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

Name: Fatima

Age: 16

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mixed Plate

Btown updates:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Couscous

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

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

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

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

Serve seasonal fruit for dessert.

Let Me Tell You a Fictitious Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let's Make a Deal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy 50th Birthday!

(Swag from PC to commemorate the 50 years)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Any takers? :)