An Update in Three Acts

Soundtrack to today's post: Janis Joplin, "[Her] Greatest Hits"

Act I: Dance Class
The school year has started here in my part of the world, and that means that the other families in my apartment building - all of which have small children - are back from vacationing in other provinces. I must admit that the quiet that this break provided me was a nice break, but I was beginning to feel a bit... bored. Out of the loop. Detached from the community.

Ramadan is that slow, I tell you. As there is no tea or lunch served, the socializing drops off sharply during this month.

So anyhow, the kids are back, and they're knocking at my door every afternoon just like when I first moved in, in July. I got a knock at my door two days ago, and instead of the two girls that were around through all of Ramadan, it was six girls (the executive board of my 12-and-under fan club) wanting to bring my tagrtilt [tag-ur-teelt] (it's like a mid-sized woven mat that is used in place of carpet in houses here) up to the roof and sit for a while, to "study." I knew that there'd be no studying involved, but I accompanied the girls upstairs anyway.

What ensued once we sat down was something I had never seen before. Six small girls had put together a song-and-dance routine, but the song that only had one word as the lyrics - my name. I was serenaded by these girls and their, ahem, interesting combination of traditional ashlhee (that's code for 'Berber'), ballet and French euro-pop dancing styles. This was enjoyable to watch and giggle at, don't get me wrong, but the fact that they pretty much announced to the entire province that I was upstairs with them was... embarrassing. I had gotten used to my seclusion, I suppose.

After the performance was over, the girls launched into solos and duets of singing, dancing and acting. The sun was shining but the breeze was cool, and I was looking forward to breaking the fast with a quasi-Lebanese meal that I had cooked earlier that afternoon; in those moments, all was right with the world.

And then the girls all sat down and insisted that it was my turn.

I was pulled, poked and prodded up on "stage" under the afternoon Moroccan sun and my laundry lines, to "sing and dance like you do in America."

Oh, yeah, I did used to do that. Hmmm.

Since I frequently suffer from I-can't-think-of-how-any-song-I've-ever-heard-before-goes syndrome, I chose to make up a song about how I was on the the roof, singing in front of these six little girls. I had to do a little dance to placate them, the details of which I will not get into, and everyone loved it. Then, it was time to teach them how to "dance like Americans" -- slow-dancing, they meant. It baffles them that men and women dance together, touching each other. They asked me if I danced like that, and who I danced with, and if my brother danced like that too.

Note: in my site, if the company is mixed, the women dance with a beautiful piece of fabric covering them from the top of the head to the waist.

The girls still didn't quite grasp it... to them, this style of dancing is something they see television. They asked me about it again the next day just to make sure I was telling the truth!

Act II: H-brother Update
So I broke the fast over at my host family's house the day before the rooftop dance class, and when I got up to do the dishes, Host Brother was hot on my heels. We have a routine now - I set him up with a small sponge, some Tide (we use Tide as dishwashing detergent here) and small stuff that isn't very dirty: tea glasses, silverware, soup bowls. He washes one, and then when he's done, he gives me the soapy dish that I rinse off dry and put away. We're a pretty efficient team, even if I could do the dishes in a quarter of the time if I were alone.

Host mom started making dinner whilst we were still doing the dishes on this fateful night, and per our usual routine, brought up Host Brother's newfound passion for chores. The conversation went as follows:

Host Mom: [Host brother], are you doing dishes again? That's a woman's work, you know. Are you a woman?

Host Brother: Yes, I'm a woman -- now give me more Tide!

I'm afraid that text doesn't do this story justice. I nearly dropped and shattered the bowl I was rinsing when Host Brother said this, I was laughing so hard.

This kid is so cute. A little confused, perhaps... but so. darn. cute.

Act III: I'm in with the president, but not like Monica Lewinsky.
I had a training session about a week ago in the province of Essaouira, and I returned from that training refreshed and enthusiastic about my cultural integration, but a bit concerned that I had to wait until after Ramadan to start looking for "work."

Little did I know, my number was up -- as soon as I got out of the taxi at my site, a member of the local association's Waste Management Committee approached me with news that The Commune - the city hall of rural communities - wanted to meet with me.

I love this country.

I ended up catching a ride back from my souq town with the newly-elected president of the Commune over the weekend, and while he's got a presidental air to him, he's a down-to-earth guy. We talked about fasting, and why our trash man ran off with the donkey (that's not a Clerks II reference; our trash man and the donkey that pulled the trash cart are both gone) and he called the horrifying trash problem we have mamnu3a -- the Arabic word for 'prohibited by law'. It was an interesting choice of words to use, as I would've defaulted to hshuma, or shameful, but it got me thinking about how else to look at this situation, other than the initial reaction of "zomg, there's trash everywhere."

The actual meeting happened yesterday, and while there's a Commune member that speaks impeccable English, he didn't show up; I was left to my own devices. The meeting went well though, and while we still have a lot to talk through, I'm excited that they're excited to get the ball rolling. More on my work as it develops, of course.