For professional reasons (like prettier formatting, yay!!!), I've decided to switch blog providers.
This might seem out of the blue, but don't fret - I'll still detail each and every one of my cultural blunders and accidental dates (uh-oh, have I not told that story yet?)... it'll just do so under a new name and address.
http://frommoroccowithlove.wordpress.com
Salaamu alaykum!
04 October 2009
30 September 2009
Ramadhan, with a dh.
Posting to: The Black Keys, Magic Potion and Rubber Factory
Transliterating the ninth month of the Islamic calendar as 'Ramadhan' may look silly (I think it does, but I'm notoriously snooty about my transliterations), but it's the closet that this, the glorious Latin alphabet, can come to ض, or the letter dhad.
The dhad, my friends, is the most unique letter in the Arabic language. Some may credit the 'ain (looks like ع and it's the letter that starts the word Eid - you see some people represent with a 3), and others, the ghain (looks like غ and it's the bane of any Arabic-learning Anglo-speaker's existence), but they're wrong. This little letter - close to the retroflexed D present in many Indian languages - is the most unique and interesting letter in the Arabic language, and even the known linguistic world.
You see, friends, the Arabic language is the only codified language on earth to utilize the dhad. Mm-hmm, that's right.
(It's okay if you don't find that interesting. I love stuff like this, but I'm pretty nerdy.)
I thought that'd be a nice introduction to Ramadan. I've thought a lot about Ramadan since it ended ten (or so) days ago, and there are a few key elements of the season that I'd like to highlight.
It's written.
Fasting during the month of Ramadan is one of the pillars, or key tenants, of Islam. The other four include the proclamation of faith (declaring your belief that God is a single entity and that Muhammad was his messenger), prayer (performing the obligatory five daily prayers), giving alms (technically, 2.5% of your yearly income, though I'm not sure how stricly this is followed), and making the pilgrammage to Mecca (providing you're physically and financially capable).
Blash: going without.
Some people are forced, through circumstance, to go without food or water for more than just sunrise to sunset. It's not fair, but no one ever told you that life was going to be fair. While Islam doesn't provide a plan to solve world hunger (actually, it seems to be quite the opposite: Islam is fatalistic by design), the Ramadan fast is a reminder of how lucky we are to be able to afford food and drink whenever we want it.
Self-discipline.
Fasting is not easy at any time of year. The weather could be a pleasant 72/23 degrees with a slight breeze, and you'd still be hungry by the time l-mghrb (the sunset, fast-breaking prayer) comes around. Ramadan's a time to check yourself and your habits, and to prod you in the direction of the 'straight path.' What's even more of a test of your discipline, friends, is making up the days that you didn't fast, after Ramadan and Eid is over. I've got six more days to go. Oh joy, oh rapture.
Contrast.
The Ramadan season contrasts the cycle of daily life in about every way possible. Virtually everyone becomes an early riser, to partake in one last pre-dawn meal before fasting officially begins for the day. Then, the standard daily trips to the store, to see the neighbors or to romp around town in your newest amelhaf drops off dramatically, and people either grumble about their offices at work or putz around the house (we'll get into just how much putzing took place in my house in a bit) without any extraneous errands, visiting of the neighbors or... well, anything extraneous at all. Even those morally opposed to napping seem to succumb to mid-afternoon slumber during this time of year, and everyone makes it a point to be home in time for the breaking of the fast at sundown. While during other times of the year sundown is the most hopping time of day for socializing and being outside to greet the world, Ramadan puts everyone (and I mean everyone) in a house and out of the street at sundown (which is called tiwooch in my dialect of Berber).
Okay, so that's what Ramadan meant to me, in a nutshell. Very romantic, I know. Now, allow me to share with you my daily Ramadan schedule. This wasn't every single day during the month, but this schedule dominated my Ramadan experience. It was still averaging 110/44+ degrees everyday at the beginning of Ramadan this year, and I didn't want to even put clothes on, let alone exert the energy needed to put on sunscreen and go outside. With that in mind, keep your judging minimal (or at least... keep it to yourself):
3:45a - wake up and eat one more meal, consisting usually a frozen yogurt with cut-up fruit and museli, water and iced tea.
4:45a - chug the last of my water, brush my teeth and then head back to bed after the first call to prayer.
8:00a - wake up again, and do the daily chores: sweeping the house, doing dishes or laundry and generally tidying up. I'd then hop back in bed and read the day's portion of the Qur'an and either reflect on it, or listen to music. I'd then head to my sitting room where I'd boot up my computer, pop in the ol' external hard drive and pick out a movie.
After the first movie - I'd get up (to avoid ponj-sores), wash my face and grab my journal, and then write for a bit. I'd also use this time to decide where I was going to break the fast: in my house, with a home-cooked meal, or at someone else's house, Moroccan-style.
Around 2:00p - time for a second movie. I'd pick one that I'd seen recently or didn't really care about, because I was really just looking for white-noise to lull me into an afternoon nap (as if I'm not already an expert napper).
4:30p - a knock on my door would wake me up from my heat/hunger-induced slumber, and I'd throw on a scarf and grumble to myself in Tashlenglish as I answer the door. The same two little girls, every day, bless their bored, not-fasting little hearts. I'd hand over my tagrtilt (the woven mat that I use for sitting on the roof) to them, tell them that I'd join them once I woke up, and then I'd sit upstairs with them until it was time to run over to someone's house, or to prepare my own break-fast table of fruit juice, Berber coffee, iced tea, water, and assorted treats like dates, hard-boiled eggs, cinammon toast, soup, pasta, fruit, etc.
7:00p - time to break the fast!
Midnight-ish - drink my last sips of water and head to bed, with the alarm set for 3:45a.
Eid l-fitur, or Leid Saghir/Leid Imziy here in Morocco, is fitting for its name, which translates to small celebration. I went to host family's house and sat around for a little while, and then went to another friend's house and sat around for a while there, too. I hear that it's tradition to get up early and go to the houses of the poor families in the community offering them either flour or money as your yearly zakat (giving alms is one of the pillars of Islam, remember), but I didn't partake in that tradition for personal reasons.
(If you must know, everyone already asks me for money. And as I learned in grade school, if I give to one person, I have to give to everyone... for the next nineteen months. Without making that Greg Mortenson reference that would be totally appropriate here, let's just say that I don't get paid enough for that.)
And there you have it, folks. رمضان. Ramadan. I can't wait to see how next year goes!
23 September 2009
Apartment building? Elementary school? It's hard to say.
Post Soundtrack - The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, Lauryn Hill
I had a long, perhaps overly-wordy Ramadan schpeal typed up and ready to post... but I'm choosing to hold off on posting on Ramadan and (L)Eid, as I'd like another week or so to process it. Ramadan was a really interesting time, in that it was the longest, chill-est 'holiday season' I've ever experienced. Being in a Muslim country for a holiday that's also one of the five tenents of the faith was amazing, of course, but it's also interesting to see how the religious blurs with the cultural, and how things come together in a very mechanical-yet-still-fully-incha'Allah kind of way.
I'll explain what that means in the next post, incha'Allah.
Anyhow, onto the show: the after-Ramadan picnic.
I live in a one-bedroom apartment (photos of which I'll post... eventually), which is - believe it or not - the biggest apartment in the building (there is no concept of 'bedroom' in my part of the country, so calling it a one-bedroom when referring to size is arbitrary. It's a five-roomer, how about that?). There are six units in my building, two of which are on the ground level and open into an alleyway, and the remaining four (including my own) are up a half-flight of stairs. Up another flight-and-a-half of stairs is the roof, which is casually-partitioned with walls that are only about
Five of the six units are currently filled, with tenants including a foreigner living alone (which is absurd in this culture), a married couple of school teachers and three families with a combined total of eleven children ranging in age from born-during-Ramadan to approximately thirteen.
The building is part of a larger structure that also houses a youth association that's open daily, and is located across the 'street' from an elementary/middle school. Next to the school is another complex of three units with children bursting from the seams. Needless to say, there's never a dull moment around here (with the exception of the recently-ended summer months).
Anyhow, what started as an afternoon rooftop dance party has turned into a routine banging down of my door at all hours of the day. Anytime the children aren't in school, really, there's banging, begging and pleading for me to come out and play. The children, bless their little Moroccan hearts, don't understand what living alone entails: doing all of the housework yourself.
With that in mind, it should be clear that "I've got work to do," "I'm cooking [insert whatever meal is next]" or "I didn't answer the door because I was showering/napping/etc" are not valid excuses for not coming to the door, and then out to play until it gets too dark to see each other.
The Ramadan fast left me weak (and maybe a little bit brain-dead), and last week I told my Executive Board that I'd be willing to do a picnic with them. They've been begging me for a picnic since I moved in, and to their surprise (and later, my chagrin), when they brought it up on the roof, I agreed. Yesterday was that picnic.
Two nights ago, one of the smaller girls knocked on my door to remind me about the picnic, and we agreed on 6:00p on the roof. I decided that we'd do American-style tea and an almond-sugar cookie recipie from my Peace Corps cookbook, and then I went back to preparing for the next day's trash meeting (I love to talk trash, but that's still a few posts away).
Eid is two days long here in
I have a Peace Corps-mandated metal door, and when someone knocks on it, it's nothing short of jarring.
Before making a move, I knew how this was going to play out. I looked longingly at my plate of pancakes, took a sip of juice and got up.
Ah yes, I thought to myself, just as I expected. It was not one but seven children at my door, wanting to discuss the picnic. I told them that I was eating breakfast, and that I'd come and find them when I was done.
The knock on my door eleven minutes later was disappointing. I kept eating.
The subsequent knock at the 24-minute mark was just annoying. I was sipping tea at this point.
I finally got up after thirty-three minutes, threw on some appropriate clothing (read: my beloved, ugly-as-sin housewife nightgown) and went outside to talk about this picnic.
I told them that I'd contribute tea and cookies.
They told me that they wanted sandwiches.
I asked them if they'd really want sandwiches at six o'clock in the afternoon.
They said that they wanted the picnic right now.
Oh.
Twenty minutes later, we had it all worked out. They'd provide the ingredients (bread and tomatoes), and I'd throw the sandwiches together now. And then, at 6:00p, we'd do tea and cookies.
After thirty minutes of sandwich-assembly, providing blankets, clothespins and other accessories to facilitate rooftop shade, and answering the ten thousand door-knocks that ranged from "we need ten sandwiches, not six" to "I want to see the inside of your house. Do you need help?," the picnic was officially kicked off with a group hand-washing and a resounding bismillah.
The sandwiches - tomatoes, onions and basil-laced Laughing Cow - were a great success.
The incessant knocking on my door of "what are you dooooooing? Aren't you going to come out and plaaaaaaaay?" after lunch was finished and I was back in my house, was a bit much. I had dishes to do, and had a nap planned.
I don't play around when it comes to napping.
So I took an abbreviated nap, did dishes, and then invited the eldest neighbor-girl in to watch me make American-style tea. I boiled water, brewed some strong fruity tea, and threw some sugar and milk into it. It was pretty basic, but she enjoyed the lesson. Unfortunately, when there was a knock on the door and she answered it before I could get to it, things went downhill.
The fact that Eldest Neighbor-Girl got to see my house and the other kids were not permitted entry was, in a word, incendiary.
Confession: it wasn't fair for me to invite one girl in and not the others, I know. But she was the only one who asked, and she came to the door alone. Also, cultural differences make me uneasy about allowing anyone into my house, let alone seven unsupervised children at the same time.
There were threats to boycott my tea, but when I told them that Eldest Neighbor Girl and I would drink all the tea alone in my house and would play all afternoon without a care in the world, they changed their story. They ultimately hated the tea (which I knew would happen, mainly because I thought it was delicious), but it was the fist-fight between the two eldest neighbors that really killed the mood for me. Things ended on a sour note, and I stopped answering the door at 5:45p.
The kids didn't stop knocking until about 7:15p.
I love my job, I love my community and I love this country. I'm comfortable living under a monarchy, and in a culture that's far more repressed in the areas of sex and gender than my own, but I reserve the right to not answer the door should I not be in the mood.
15 September 2009
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.
11 September 2009
I'm ruining my host brother's life.
I've mentioned my host family before, but I've refrained from going into depth about my host brother until this post. My host brother, whom I shall refer to as Host Brother, is the love of my (Moroccan) life. He's my best friend and biggest fan here in my community, and the feelings are mutual. He's always got a smile and a kind word for me when I see him, and has been known to fight tooth-and-nail with other members of the family to be the first to greet me at the door when I visit. He's supportive of my efforts to integrate into the community, patient with my language-learning and occasional cultural faux pas, full of questions about American culture, and now that I'm fasting, is even concerned about my post-lftur caloric intake!
He's saving his centimes to come back to
Oh, he's also five years old.
My side of the story reads like this: this country, community and host family were all picked for me. I specified 'Middle East/North Africa' and '
My new-found inner peace has attracted the inner peace that small children possess, and I have a thriving fan club of kids aged twelve and under in my community. Host Brother has asserted himself as the president of said fan club, and defends his position by being my right-hand man whenever we're together... literally. He demands a seat next to me at meals, insisting that I take the choicest vegetables out of the tagine, putting pitted dates into my harira without me even asking and offering up the chocolate part of his petit pain that is served at the lftur table during Ramadan. He also makes an effort to work on my language skills, constantly grilling me on pronunication skills with his favorite game: "say (this word/syllable/meaningless gutteral sound)." He constantly vies for my attention with cunning linguistic tactics such as smqald gigi [look at me] and wa Nicola [hey Nicole] and shooooooooooooof!!! [loooooooooooook!!!]. He's also very critical of my physical appearance, and is the first to notice if I'm wearing something new or if my scarf is wrapped differently.
He's recently taken it upon himself to monitor my progress in becoming a proper Berber woman, and has become insistent that I never sleep alone when I spend the night at host family's house (sleeping alone with the door closed is a very Western idea, and is misunderstood by many Berbers that I've met). He also has discovered that I am an expert dish-washer, and supports my love of this activity by accompanying me in the kitchen and even trying his hand at washing alongside me. It still takes him approximately four minutes to wash and rinse a tablespoon, but once he's tall enough to reach the sink, I'm sure he'll be more efficient.
Note: The transfer of skills is worked into my sector's project framework, and I'm considering listing this activity on my next quarterly Volunteer Reporting Form. :)
Unfortunately, Host Brother's apprecation of my expertise and blind loyalty to me and my interests has caused him severe ridicule from other family members. In my community, the kitchen is exclusively women's domain. For most men in my area, the kitchen is like a woman's menstrual cycle: they know it's there and (approximately) how it works, but they don't want to hear about the details. Host Brother is challenging his gender role by accompanying me into the kitchen after breakfast, lunch or lftur, and is teased mercilessly by the other members of the family for it. It's actually so blatantly not what he should be doing that I worry that my host mom will ban him from the kitchen in an effort to retain his 'manhood,' or will accuse me of enticing him into this hshuma, or shameful, practice.
Ya Latif, what I thought would be the ultimate act of community service is actually corrupting the life of an innocent, five-year-old Berber boy.
31 August 2009
Un Petit Update
I know that I owe you guys an update about my recent vacation to the glorious (albeit soul-less) city of Agadir, and that will come on Wednesday, incha'Allah. For today, since I'm here in my souq town against my will (I had to come to send in paperwork for an upcoming training session), let me give you a quick life update. The following bullets are in no particular order, so bear with me.
1. It's Ramadan right now, if you didn't read the top of the page, and the Ramadan fast is intense. A month of no food, water, sex, smoking, other miscellaneous naughty vices or bad thoughts from sun-up (that's around 4:30a at this time of year) to sun-down (about 7:15p). When you throw in altitude and the absurd heat of August in
And, just to make things interesting, I've come down with a headcold. You know, because I thought it'd be a fun challenge to take on.
(There's no cold medicine allowed during fasting, friends.)
Other than my nose running constantly and feeling perpetually disgusting, I'm loving Ramadan so far. It's a time of family and community and charity, and those sentiments are palpable wherever you go (except when you're buying produce -- more on that coming up soon).
2. My running water's been regulated to five hours every other day, which is SO EXCITING. It's so nice to be able to budget your water consumption, let me tell you. Before Ramadan started, the water was on haphazardly -- once every four days, during some weeks. I'm thankful to have running water in general, but regular running water is a true luxury, even if it's only a few hours a week.
Also, if you were curious, my water comes from a well with an electric pump (also an amazing luxury), and I treat it with bleach or by boiling it. My mom my water situation interesting, so I thought I'd share with the whole class.
3. My body insists on napping in the afternoons while I'm fasting. While I haven't dreamt much since coming to
4. August is a terrible month for produce in my part of the country. Tomatoes, especially, have suffered greatly. A kilo went from 2 dirhams (henceforth referred to as MAD) to 10 MAD in three weeks! I know that MAD probably doesn't mean anything to those of you back home (1 USD = approximately 8 MAD if you must know), but trust me, it's a price change worth griping about. Everyone around here talks to me about the tomatoes. Wa ifla7n, you should know that the Berber ladies and I down here are not happy about this.
5. Speaking of food, my newest Favorite Summer Treat is Berber Iced Coffee. The recipie is technically challenging and requires a great deal of concentration (I'm ranking it at the intermediate-mid level), but I'll include it for those that feel like they're up to the challenge.
Berber Iced Coffee
note: Don't tell my hostmom about this! Berbers, from what I've seen, do not consume tea or coffee cold and have no idea why anyone would ever think to do so.
Ingredients:
Instant coffee, preferrably Nescafé
Milk (ideally from your own cow, but packaged milk will suffice if you're in a pinch)
Sugar (vanilla sugar if you're feeling sassy)
A few drops of vanilla, almond or hazelnut extract (again, if you're in the mood)
One mug
One spoon or similar mixing instrument
Combine Nescafe, milk and sugar and stir well, until a pleasant froth appears. Mix in extract if you're so inclined, and then pop the mug in the freezer until the mixture's at the desired texture. Consume at will.
6. After a short break, I'm back to the what-am-I-going-to-do-with-my-life-after-this-is-over dilemma. The list has been narrowed down considerably since I last went through this, but this is still a huge decision to make. More on this later.
7. Time is still flying. Literally, I do not know where this summer went. My brother moved back to school yesterday, and tomorrow is September! L3id (or L'Eid, or Eid, however you want to transliterate it), celebrating the end of Ramadan, is right around the corner. Then comes in-service training (IST), like, three hours later, and then before I have time to catch my breath, I'll have COSed, gotten my PhD, married, and my brother will have those blonde Spanish-speaking children!
8. Save the Date: Michigan Football starts 5 September. GO BLUE!
19 August 2009
Wherever you go...
...go Blue!
Now's the time of year when I start to really, really crave Michigan football. The flag's been hung, the hoodie's washed and ready to wear, and I've even got a source for football games should the longing for the Maize and Blue start to interfere with my work. The source is two days' travel away, but for a glimpse of the boys and the band, it'd be worth it.
So, friends, while I'm away at the beach this weekend (and breaking the fast with Pizza Hut's lftur meal), I leave you with this clip and the schedule to help get you as excited as I am about the pending season. If you're jones-ing for more, don't forget about mgoblog. Tbarkallah, he's good at what he does.
Now's the time of year when I start to really, really crave Michigan football. The flag's been hung, the hoodie's washed and ready to wear, and I've even got a source for football games should the longing for the Maize and Blue start to interfere with my work. The source is two days' travel away, but for a glimpse of the boys and the band, it'd be worth it.
So, friends, while I'm away at the beach this weekend (and breaking the fast with Pizza Hut's lftur meal), I leave you with this clip and the schedule to help get you as excited as I am about the pending season. If you're jones-ing for more, don't forget about mgoblog. Tbarkallah, he's good at what he does.
15 August 2009
Moussems and civic holidays and fasting, oh my!
After returning home from training on Monday of last week, life has been a blur of activity.
This week, it turns out, will be no different.
I'll be about 70km down the road working at a health booth for a local festival on Monday and Tuesday, and then for Thursday and Friday's civic holidays, I'll be at the beach for a few days of sun, scarves and getting yelled at for wearing a burquini in the water.
(I don't actually own a hijabi swimsuit, but if I did, I'd wear it proudly in France)
Then, friends, Friday/Saturday starts Ramadan! Posting will be either very limited or much more regular, as I'm limiting myself to once a week at the internet. It's a month of spiritual and self-reflection (and maybe a quick trip up to Rabat), and I plan on doing that from the comfort of my food-free abode. More details of the Moroccan Ramadan experience will come as we get deeper into the month.
Until then... hang on to your hats!
This week, it turns out, will be no different.
I'll be about 70km down the road working at a health booth for a local festival on Monday and Tuesday, and then for Thursday and Friday's civic holidays, I'll be at the beach for a few days of sun, scarves and getting yelled at for wearing a burquini in the water.
(I don't actually own a hijabi swimsuit, but if I did, I'd wear it proudly in France)
Then, friends, Friday/Saturday starts Ramadan! Posting will be either very limited or much more regular, as I'm limiting myself to once a week at the internet. It's a month of spiritual and self-reflection (and maybe a quick trip up to Rabat), and I plan on doing that from the comfort of my food-free abode. More details of the Moroccan Ramadan experience will come as we get deeper into the month.
Until then... hang on to your hats!
11 August 2009
PPST - just another outstanding Peace Corps acronym.
Alright, back to the actual point of this update: my two-week stint up North, for Post Pre-Service Training. Bad name, but a successful training overall.
We were in a city called Azrou, up in the Fez/Meknes area of the country. It's a full two days of travel for me to get there (an 11-hour bus ride and then an 8-hour train ride, if you were curious), but it was totally worth it. The thing that struck me the most about the region, other than the lack of my Berber dialect being spoken up there, is the unbridled carnal longing I felt for trees.
Yes, I said trees. Green, leafy, shade-providing, oxygen-producing climb-able trees. Growing up in
Anyhow, our hotel was zween bzef (that's code for really, really nice), with western toilets, private bathrooms in each room and balconies! I love reading on a balcony, I must admit. Any book I read is always better on a balcony for some reason. But, I digress.
The training was two weeks long and focused on working through our project framework: three objectives, broken down into three parts each, describing the long-term goals of the Rural Community Health program here in
Our daily schedule was pretty full, with two technical sessions and a language session daily. Along with the technical information, however, was the opportunity to really get to know and connect better with the members of our training group. They're the ones that we do everything with (pre-service training, post pre-service training, in-service training, mid-service medical exams... you get the idea), and the volunteers that we know the best outside of our province. While we lost a member of our stage to a medical evacuation (after struggling for months with a parasite, he was found to have a blood clot in his lung), our time together proved productive and relatively drama-free.
Med evacs, by the way, are different than being medically separated. A medical evacuation means being sent back to the States (or the nearest modern medical facility available, in cases of an extreme emergency) to receive treatment. A volunteer is given forty-five days to recover and return to country to continue service. A medical separation, on the other hand, is exactly what it sounds like.
Joe, if you're reading this, I'm still pissed at you for leaving. Quit being a pansy and get back here!
(Seriously though, we all miss you so much. Take care of yourself.)
After training was over, we parted ways toward our respective homes once again. While we're meeting up again in three months' time for IST (in-service training), it was a bittersweet goodbye.
I especially miss the trees.
On an unrelated note, I'm realizing more and more that there's no exaggeration in other volunteers' stories of time flying by here. Especially when compared to things happening in
It also makes me ramble... sorry.
But for now, that's that. I'm safely back home and about to head to the souq, or weekly market, to grab groceries and start cooking my own meals again.
Anything to help get my mind off of those trees... /sniffle
30 July 2009
It took a pair of Kiwis to make me miss America.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2M3LqJwisvE
Training is going well so far, and I promise that I'll update about that soon... early next week, incha'Allah. Until then, please enjoy the provided FOTC. They have nothing to do with my service or Morocco or Islam or anything, really, but they -- along with the email that the link came with -- made me smile. Thank you, Gervis!
As for something of substance, let's talk Ramadan.
Ramadan, the holiest month of the Islamic calendar, is quickly approaching. Here're a few resources to get you excited (or at least educated) about the holiday season, and a quick exchange with my brother regarding Ramadan and the use of the ubiquitous phrase incha'Allah.
http://french.about.com/library/travel/bl-ma-ramadan.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ramadan
http://www.islamicity.com/ramadan/
Envoyé jeudi à 18:41
moi: yeah, im emailing mom and dad about ramadan right now in fact
Matthew: oh? when does it start again?
moi: 22 august, inchaallah
Matthew: is that really an inshallah moment - i mean, it wouldn't like... not start, eh?
Incha'Allah, or 'God willing', is used here in Morocco for anything that's going to happen in the future. In this fatalistic culture, it's used so frequently that it takes on an almost mechanical quality in its usage. The idea of invoking God's name doesn't change ('God phrases' are a big part of Islamic culture), but incha'Allah becomes automatic, like a 'thank you' after a post-sneeze 'bless you.' Nothing is guaranteed in a fatalistic culture, and when you mix fatalism with Islam, you get incha'Allah (which, again, is spelled with a ch here).
To be perfectly honest, it feels awkward when one mentions an event in the future without someone else following up with an incha'Allah. It's like a linguistic cliffhanger, or an unresolved chord progression. Painful to the ears, really.
So, Matthew, to answer your question: yes, that was indeed an incha'Allah moment.
Training is going well so far, and I promise that I'll update about that soon... early next week, incha'Allah. Until then, please enjoy the provided FOTC. They have nothing to do with my service or Morocco or Islam or anything, really, but they -- along with the email that the link came with -- made me smile. Thank you, Gervis!
As for something of substance, let's talk Ramadan.
Ramadan, the holiest month of the Islamic calendar, is quickly approaching. Here're a few resources to get you excited (or at least educated) about the holiday season, and a quick exchange with my brother regarding Ramadan and the use of the ubiquitous phrase incha'Allah.
http://french.about.com/library/travel/bl-ma-ramadan.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ramadan
http://www.islamicity.com/ramadan/
Envoyé jeudi à 18:41
moi: yeah, im emailing mom and dad about ramadan right now in fact
Matthew: oh? when does it start again?
moi: 22 august, inchaallah
Matthew: is that really an inshallah moment - i mean, it wouldn't like... not start, eh?
Incha'Allah, or 'God willing', is used here in Morocco for anything that's going to happen in the future. In this fatalistic culture, it's used so frequently that it takes on an almost mechanical quality in its usage. The idea of invoking God's name doesn't change ('God phrases' are a big part of Islamic culture), but incha'Allah becomes automatic, like a 'thank you' after a post-sneeze 'bless you.' Nothing is guaranteed in a fatalistic culture, and when you mix fatalism with Islam, you get incha'Allah (which, again, is spelled with a ch here).
To be perfectly honest, it feels awkward when one mentions an event in the future without someone else following up with an incha'Allah. It's like a linguistic cliffhanger, or an unresolved chord progression. Painful to the ears, really.
So, Matthew, to answer your question: yes, that was indeed an incha'Allah moment.
24 July 2009
Travels!
Dear friends and loyal readers (I like to think that I have a few),
I've packed, said my bsalamas and received my trek salamas in return. For the next two-ish weeks I'll be away from my tiggmi in the Souss and traveling to and around Northern Morocco for technical training. I'm excited to get out of the intense heat and to see other (cooler) parts of Morocco (where, by the way, they don't speak Tashlheit -- que dommage!), but I have no idea what's planned for this training, so I can't speak on when I'll get around to posting next.
So, just like waaaaay back during my first training: if I fall off the face of the earth for a few weeks, don't worry too much. I'll be fine. I will return home and on the old schedule by... oh, let's say Ramadan (the middle of August), incha'Allah.
Hope you all are staying cool!
P.S. Yes, here we spell incha'Allah with a ch instead of the American sh. When texting, things get a bit weird: chukran, chebab, etc. The white people's language here is French, not English. If it pains you to look, avert your eyes.
P.P.S. I'm in Tiznit right now, at a cybercafé with air conditioning (!!!!!!!) and a Berber-banjo rendition of Oh, Susanna playing in the background. Ghwad ur igi 3di. Manza tamazightinu?!
I've packed, said my bsalamas and received my trek salamas in return. For the next two-ish weeks I'll be away from my tiggmi in the Souss and traveling to and around Northern Morocco for technical training. I'm excited to get out of the intense heat and to see other (cooler) parts of Morocco (where, by the way, they don't speak Tashlheit -- que dommage!), but I have no idea what's planned for this training, so I can't speak on when I'll get around to posting next.
So, just like waaaaay back during my first training: if I fall off the face of the earth for a few weeks, don't worry too much. I'll be fine. I will return home and on the old schedule by... oh, let's say Ramadan (the middle of August), incha'Allah.
Hope you all are staying cool!
P.S. Yes, here we spell incha'Allah with a ch instead of the American sh. When texting, things get a bit weird: chukran, chebab, etc. The white people's language here is French, not English. If it pains you to look, avert your eyes.
P.P.S. I'm in Tiznit right now, at a cybercafé with air conditioning (!!!!!!!) and a Berber-banjo rendition of Oh, Susanna playing in the background. Ghwad ur igi 3di. Manza tamazightinu?!
18 July 2009
A day in the life.
My brother, during his short visit here, expressed multiple times that he loved my life, and wanted it for himself. While this is flattering to hear, it hit me that he didn't really know what to expect before coming here... and I'm assuming that neither do any of you. With that in mind, let me run through today's happenings with you to try and show you a standard Saturday is like on this side of the Atlantic.
I woke up at seven fifteen, and then read, wrote and laid in bed fighting the daytime until about nine. I finally got out of bed, prayed, and had some breakfast in my newly-created breakfast nook: some leftover gazpacho, a frozen wheat-flavored yogurt (which is delicious, if you've never had it before) and an ice-cold glass of water.
I love my new fridge, can you tell?
Then, it was time to consider going to find some internet, courtesy of my souq town. I left the house around ten, and was greeted with shouts of Nicole! and La bas! and How are you!!!! in that great singsong-y way that only eight-year-old Moroccan children can greet you. I stopped, kissed two girls, shook one boy's hand, and then patted him on the head as he wrapped his arms around me. Greetings are far more important here than they are in the States, so a casual wave and 'morning would not do with these kids. After assuring them that I'd only be gone a little while, I then turned back toward the taxi tree and was assaulted by two other small girls shouting How are you!!!!, in English, courtesy of the previous volunteer. I greeted them, and their mother, in a similar fashion, and then walked the half-kilometer or so to my taxi tree with the girls still shouting How are you!!!! until I disappeared from view.
When I hit the top of the hill on my way to the taxi tree, I was greeted by my anti-fan club, who consist of a group of elementary school-aged boys who like to call my name and then hide from view when I try to say hello back. They, again, called out my name and a similar How are you!!!! until I was out of earshot.
I then dropped off my garbage (one cannot let garbage sit around the house for long when it's 40° and above), and finally arrived at the taxi tree. I flagged down three taxis en route to my souq town from the provincial capital, with no luck. These taxis will pick you up if there is an extra spot in the taxi (if someone has gotten out early, for example), but weekend mornings aren't good for that.
I was then greeted by a man who knew my name, but whose face I could not place. Nice guy... though I never figured out where he knew me from (aside from the fact that I'm the local foreigner).
And then, a car drove up to me - a standard car for my American standards, and a gorgeous car for my Moroccan standards - and the driver greeted me in English.
Its been three weeks since you were at my house. Do you remember me? he said in that standard, Moroccan French-laced English.
Unfortunately, I didn't remember him at all. This hasn't been a good morning for this kind of thing.
Three weeks since the election... he tried to prompt me.
Unfortunately, my brain wasn't making the connection with this man with the zween car and the firm handle on my native language. I normally remember people that speak English, as it's an uncommon trait here. But, I drew yet another blank on this man.
You were at my house... in (the name of his neighborhood)... again, with the prompting.
Unfortunately, I went to a lot of houses during homestay. Also, I couldn't shake the feeling that 'three weeks ago' was not truly three calendar weeks ago. My brain was stuck on this point when he told me blatantly:
You were at my party, with (the name of my friend that speaks fabulous English and invited me to the party with the security guards).
Oh!, I replied cunningly. That was your house? Tbarkallah aleek! I didn't realize that you owned that house.
(Yeah, yeah, judge away. I never claimed to not be socially awkward.)
So, there you have it. He and his friends in the beautiful car were headed in the opposite direction, so I was left standing at the taxi tree waiting an empty seat to souq.
Finally, I hear a frenzy of clanks and groans, and an engine turns over unwillingly at the café behind the tree. My favorite taxi driver pulled up alongside me and motioned me inside. We drive off in his (t)rusty old car, bouncing along the road to souq town. This man has always been determined to speak French to me, and today is no different.
Ca va? he asks me.
I respond in Tashlheit.
We sit in silence.
We then get flagged down by a small boy with a cold waterbottle, asking the taxi driver to take it to someone he knows. This is pretty common these days, I've noticed, and I was already in the taxi... so I sat back and let life take me where it would, as I do every other day here. We pass my souqtown to find this friend, who happened to be a portly man without a shirt sitting at the entrance of a campground just outside of town.
I haven't seen that much flesh in a long time, friends. I averted my gaze to retain my modesty (and my breakfast).
Finally, we roll into town (no, literally, we were coasting with the car shut off at this point), I pay the driver and I'm on my way to the internet. I debate buying a phone card, but decide to put it off in lieu of wanting to ask around to make sure that double-recharge doesn't start tomorrow. There's nothing worse than buying credit and then hearing that double-recharge -- which is just what it sounds like, double the credit you paid for -- started the next day.
I decide to stop in a favorite shop of mine for a bottle of water, as it's really hot again today, and I'm offered a glass of tea. I gladly accept, and get tea and some sweets along with my bottle of water. We make small talk for about ten minutes, and then it was across the street to my cybercafé, where I've been camped out for the past, oh, let's say four hours or so, catching up on emails and listening to the music that my brother so badly wanted while he was here: "fun Berber music."
The rest of my day will consist of buying a few necessities, having tea at my tutor's house (although she's out of town, her mother invited me over -- actually, her exact words were where have you been? Come over for tea! I love this woman.) and then sitting downstairs at the association underneath my apartment and working on a recipie for a ginger-garlic green bean sautée over crispy rice that I've been working on.
Summertime in Morocco, friends. Summertime in the Maghrib.
I woke up at seven fifteen, and then read, wrote and laid in bed fighting the daytime until about nine. I finally got out of bed, prayed, and had some breakfast in my newly-created breakfast nook: some leftover gazpacho, a frozen wheat-flavored yogurt (which is delicious, if you've never had it before) and an ice-cold glass of water.
I love my new fridge, can you tell?
Then, it was time to consider going to find some internet, courtesy of my souq town. I left the house around ten, and was greeted with shouts of Nicole! and La bas! and How are you!!!! in that great singsong-y way that only eight-year-old Moroccan children can greet you. I stopped, kissed two girls, shook one boy's hand, and then patted him on the head as he wrapped his arms around me. Greetings are far more important here than they are in the States, so a casual wave and 'morning would not do with these kids. After assuring them that I'd only be gone a little while, I then turned back toward the taxi tree and was assaulted by two other small girls shouting How are you!!!!, in English, courtesy of the previous volunteer. I greeted them, and their mother, in a similar fashion, and then walked the half-kilometer or so to my taxi tree with the girls still shouting How are you!!!! until I disappeared from view.
When I hit the top of the hill on my way to the taxi tree, I was greeted by my anti-fan club, who consist of a group of elementary school-aged boys who like to call my name and then hide from view when I try to say hello back. They, again, called out my name and a similar How are you!!!! until I was out of earshot.
I then dropped off my garbage (one cannot let garbage sit around the house for long when it's 40° and above), and finally arrived at the taxi tree. I flagged down three taxis en route to my souq town from the provincial capital, with no luck. These taxis will pick you up if there is an extra spot in the taxi (if someone has gotten out early, for example), but weekend mornings aren't good for that.
I was then greeted by a man who knew my name, but whose face I could not place. Nice guy... though I never figured out where he knew me from (aside from the fact that I'm the local foreigner).
And then, a car drove up to me - a standard car for my American standards, and a gorgeous car for my Moroccan standards - and the driver greeted me in English.
Its been three weeks since you were at my house. Do you remember me? he said in that standard, Moroccan French-laced English.
Unfortunately, I didn't remember him at all. This hasn't been a good morning for this kind of thing.
Three weeks since the election... he tried to prompt me.
Unfortunately, my brain wasn't making the connection with this man with the zween car and the firm handle on my native language. I normally remember people that speak English, as it's an uncommon trait here. But, I drew yet another blank on this man.
You were at my house... in (the name of his neighborhood)... again, with the prompting.
Unfortunately, I went to a lot of houses during homestay. Also, I couldn't shake the feeling that 'three weeks ago' was not truly three calendar weeks ago. My brain was stuck on this point when he told me blatantly:
You were at my party, with (the name of my friend that speaks fabulous English and invited me to the party with the security guards).
Oh!, I replied cunningly. That was your house? Tbarkallah aleek! I didn't realize that you owned that house.
(Yeah, yeah, judge away. I never claimed to not be socially awkward.)
So, there you have it. He and his friends in the beautiful car were headed in the opposite direction, so I was left standing at the taxi tree waiting an empty seat to souq.
Finally, I hear a frenzy of clanks and groans, and an engine turns over unwillingly at the café behind the tree. My favorite taxi driver pulled up alongside me and motioned me inside. We drive off in his (t)rusty old car, bouncing along the road to souq town. This man has always been determined to speak French to me, and today is no different.
Ca va? he asks me.
I respond in Tashlheit.
We sit in silence.
We then get flagged down by a small boy with a cold waterbottle, asking the taxi driver to take it to someone he knows. This is pretty common these days, I've noticed, and I was already in the taxi... so I sat back and let life take me where it would, as I do every other day here. We pass my souqtown to find this friend, who happened to be a portly man without a shirt sitting at the entrance of a campground just outside of town.
I haven't seen that much flesh in a long time, friends. I averted my gaze to retain my modesty (and my breakfast).
Finally, we roll into town (no, literally, we were coasting with the car shut off at this point), I pay the driver and I'm on my way to the internet. I debate buying a phone card, but decide to put it off in lieu of wanting to ask around to make sure that double-recharge doesn't start tomorrow. There's nothing worse than buying credit and then hearing that double-recharge -- which is just what it sounds like, double the credit you paid for -- started the next day.
I decide to stop in a favorite shop of mine for a bottle of water, as it's really hot again today, and I'm offered a glass of tea. I gladly accept, and get tea and some sweets along with my bottle of water. We make small talk for about ten minutes, and then it was across the street to my cybercafé, where I've been camped out for the past, oh, let's say four hours or so, catching up on emails and listening to the music that my brother so badly wanted while he was here: "fun Berber music."
The rest of my day will consist of buying a few necessities, having tea at my tutor's house (although she's out of town, her mother invited me over -- actually, her exact words were where have you been? Come over for tea! I love this woman.) and then sitting downstairs at the association underneath my apartment and working on a recipie for a ginger-garlic green bean sautée over crispy rice that I've been working on.
Summertime in Morocco, friends. Summertime in the Maghrib.
14 July 2009
Asserting my independence.
Ever since I can remember, I've had a wicked independence streak.
I was that kid that ran around the supermarket, and church, and the neighborhood making friends.
I was that kid that talked to strangers, insisting to my family that they weren't strangers, because I had befriended them before having this conversation.
I was also that kid that ran - not walked, ran - through the doors to my first days of preschool and kindergarten (mom was not happy about that, let me tell you right now).
My whole life, for one reason or another, public declarations of my independence have been important to me. I believe that it was because of this, that the past four months of homestay were so taxing for me. Not being able to independently decide anything for myself, after a lifetime of strugging to do just that, was a shock to my system. Eating, sleeping, bathing, learning, relaxing, socializing and sight-seeing were all neatly planned out for me from the moment I stepped off the plane in Philadelphia to the moment I shut the door of my apartment a fortnight ago.
Even after I moved out of homestay and into my own place, I've still been yearning to spread my wings even farther. The act of finding my groove - buying groceries again, regulating my eat/sleep/bathe schedule, etc - has left me feeling socially awkward and frazzled. But that little voice in the back of my head said that it was time to shake off those feelings and do something to restore my sense of self.
So today, I bought myself a refrigerator.
It was a necessary purchase (as its hard to shop for groceries by the kilo when my kitchen hovers at body temperature for weeks at a time) but I did it all on my own. I went to a few stores, checked prices and features, set up a taxi to help me get it back to my place, and then made the final purchase this morning.
It doesn't sound like much, I know.
And I might've overpaid a bit.
But to restore my sense of adulthood and independence as strongly as this refrigerator has... it was worth it.
P.S. My first items to be refrigerated will be a pot of gazpacho, a melon-cucumber smoothie and iced tea, unsweetened but with lots of lemon.
I was that kid that ran around the supermarket, and church, and the neighborhood making friends.
I was that kid that talked to strangers, insisting to my family that they weren't strangers, because I had befriended them before having this conversation.
I was also that kid that ran - not walked, ran - through the doors to my first days of preschool and kindergarten (mom was not happy about that, let me tell you right now).
My whole life, for one reason or another, public declarations of my independence have been important to me. I believe that it was because of this, that the past four months of homestay were so taxing for me. Not being able to independently decide anything for myself, after a lifetime of strugging to do just that, was a shock to my system. Eating, sleeping, bathing, learning, relaxing, socializing and sight-seeing were all neatly planned out for me from the moment I stepped off the plane in Philadelphia to the moment I shut the door of my apartment a fortnight ago.
Even after I moved out of homestay and into my own place, I've still been yearning to spread my wings even farther. The act of finding my groove - buying groceries again, regulating my eat/sleep/bathe schedule, etc - has left me feeling socially awkward and frazzled. But that little voice in the back of my head said that it was time to shake off those feelings and do something to restore my sense of self.
So today, I bought myself a refrigerator.
It was a necessary purchase (as its hard to shop for groceries by the kilo when my kitchen hovers at body temperature for weeks at a time) but I did it all on my own. I went to a few stores, checked prices and features, set up a taxi to help me get it back to my place, and then made the final purchase this morning.
It doesn't sound like much, I know.
And I might've overpaid a bit.
But to restore my sense of adulthood and independence as strongly as this refrigerator has... it was worth it.
P.S. My first items to be refrigerated will be a pot of gazpacho, a melon-cucumber smoothie and iced tea, unsweetened but with lots of lemon.
06 July 2009
ONE love.
I received my electricity bill two nights ago (no, seriously, the Assistant to the Regional Manager of my landlord came over at 10:30p, shouting up to me through the open kitchen window*), and this morning I ventured over to the cyber where I pay homage to O.N.E., the national office of electricity, each month.
Yes, I did just say that I pay my electricity bill at a cyber café. That's not even the weirdest part of this story.
The bill I was given was for 10.96 MAD, which sounded relatively correct; no one was living in the apartment for the month of June. This morning, however, I noticed that there was a negative sign in front of the amount.
Actually, since the bill is in Frenchabic, the amount looked like this: 10.96-
There was also a message with the word crédit in the middle, which made me even more suspicious. So, when my turn came (a little old man wacked my leg with an olive branch to signal that he was letting me go ahead of him), I asked what that was all about.
Oh, that's a credit, the man behind the counter assured me. We'll apply it next month.
Um, okay, I replied. Well, while I'm here, I'd like to change the bill into my name. I'm new to the apartment.
The man behind the counter looks at the name and laughs. He remembers the old volunteer, and realizes that I look nothing like her. Oh, don't worry about the name. Maybe we'll change it later, or maybe we won't change it at all! Really, it's not a problem.
So I walked out of the office without doing... anything. Hmm.
*I don't want to whine and complain about life here, because it's amazing, but the windows are open because it's hot. Like, hovering around 43°C/110°F all day, every day. With no air conditioning (I get that question a lot). And as the pipes leading to my tap are positioned to receive direct sunlight all day long... I get hot water during the day.
But, c'est mon vie. I still love Morocco. I'm just, uh, sweating excessively while I'm typing this. No biggie.
Addendum to post:
CONVERSATION OF THE WEEK
Introduction:
My brother, who had been wwoofing in Spain, surprised me with a visit early this week, and is here with me for the typing of this post. As I was finishing this up, he leans over the divider between our computers and this week's Conversation of the Week ensues.
Conversation:
Brother: By the way, if you have any pull in this place, do you think you could suggest some better music?
Me: (pauses for a moment, to take in the beauty of the Qur'anic recitations being played over the loud speakers at my favorite cyber café) You want me to ask them to turn the Holy Qur'an off? Do you know where you are? I can't do that!
Brother: I mean, uh... (awkward pause)
Me: Okay, fine, what do you suggest that I recommend?
Brother: You know, some fun Berber music or something.
Next time, brother. Next time.
Yes, I did just say that I pay my electricity bill at a cyber café. That's not even the weirdest part of this story.
The bill I was given was for 10.96 MAD, which sounded relatively correct; no one was living in the apartment for the month of June. This morning, however, I noticed that there was a negative sign in front of the amount.
Actually, since the bill is in Frenchabic, the amount looked like this: 10.96-
There was also a message with the word crédit in the middle, which made me even more suspicious. So, when my turn came (a little old man wacked my leg with an olive branch to signal that he was letting me go ahead of him), I asked what that was all about.
Oh, that's a credit, the man behind the counter assured me. We'll apply it next month.
Um, okay, I replied. Well, while I'm here, I'd like to change the bill into my name. I'm new to the apartment.
The man behind the counter looks at the name and laughs. He remembers the old volunteer, and realizes that I look nothing like her. Oh, don't worry about the name. Maybe we'll change it later, or maybe we won't change it at all! Really, it's not a problem.
So I walked out of the office without doing... anything. Hmm.
*I don't want to whine and complain about life here, because it's amazing, but the windows are open because it's hot. Like, hovering around 43°C/110°F all day, every day. With no air conditioning (I get that question a lot). And as the pipes leading to my tap are positioned to receive direct sunlight all day long... I get hot water during the day.
But, c'est mon vie. I still love Morocco. I'm just, uh, sweating excessively while I'm typing this. No biggie.
Addendum to post:
CONVERSATION OF THE WEEK
Introduction:
My brother, who had been wwoofing in Spain, surprised me with a visit early this week, and is here with me for the typing of this post. As I was finishing this up, he leans over the divider between our computers and this week's Conversation of the Week ensues.
Conversation:
Brother: By the way, if you have any pull in this place, do you think you could suggest some better music?
Me: (pauses for a moment, to take in the beauty of the Qur'anic recitations being played over the loud speakers at my favorite cyber café) You want me to ask them to turn the Holy Qur'an off? Do you know where you are? I can't do that!
Brother: I mean, uh... (awkward pause)
Me: Okay, fine, what do you suggest that I recommend?
Brother: You know, some fun Berber music or something.
Next time, brother. Next time.
03 July 2009
Movin' on up!
I've officially moved, world.
After four months of exclusive homestay, I'm finally living on my own, in a little apartment on the main drag of my town.
I get to eat, sleep and bathe when I want, and I get to wear what I want (I chose to stay covered up when host dads/brothers were around). It's glorious and freeing and overwhelming and scary and has me questioning whether or not I remember how to live on my own.
But, I must admit: I've been walking around the house with a big, dopey grin on my face due to the sheer freedom that I feel.
NOT THAT HOMESTAY WAS BAD.
It was very educational, and I appreciated the warmth and generosity of my families very much.
It's just exciting to get to stretch my wings again. :)
My apartment, of which I will eventually post pictures, is on the second level of my building. There are three other big families that live there with me, and between the three of them, it's essentially like a kindergarten classroom 24/7.
But, it's home!
The front door opens up to a salon, with the bathroom and shower room on the immediate right. There are two doors opening off of the salon: one goes to my sitting room, and the other leads to the second salon.
In the second salon there's a Moroccan-style sink and mirror for hand-washing, and four doors which open up to my closet, my bedroom, the office/workspace, and the kitchen.
The house was painted a variety of pinks and purples by the last volunteer, so it's got a very girl-y, light-hearted feel. Each salon has a skylight, filling the house with the light and warmth that only natural sunlight can provide. This is not necessary when the air in my house is hovering around body-temperature (as it's been since I moved in), but it's better than living in a dark, dank first-story house, as I've seen some PCVs choose to do.
The pride and joy of my house is the monstrous double-sized bed and accompanying wooden frame. I paid a pretty penny for it (though the price I paid was more reasonable than what the previous volunteer paid for it when it was brand new), but it's my baby and I have a hard time getting out of bed in the morning because it's so glorious. I'm smiling right now, just typing about it!
The last volunteer left me (read: I purchased from her) everything I need, save a fridge. All I need to purchase is that big-ticket item, and a few storage units for my bedroom, kitchen and first salon. Otherwise, I'm completely set-up and am ready to hit the ground running.
Unfortunately, while I am hyper-motivated right now, Morocco is not. As the heat has become stifling as of late, the activity in town has slowed considerably. People seem to only go out when they need to, and even that will slow down further as we get farther and farther into July and August, before Ramadan.
So, I'm left with a summer to decorate, organize and study language during the day, and socialize at night. I'll be traveling at the end of July for our post-training training, but other than that, life will be slow until things cool down.
After four months of exclusive homestay, I'm finally living on my own, in a little apartment on the main drag of my town.
I get to eat, sleep and bathe when I want, and I get to wear what I want (I chose to stay covered up when host dads/brothers were around). It's glorious and freeing and overwhelming and scary and has me questioning whether or not I remember how to live on my own.
But, I must admit: I've been walking around the house with a big, dopey grin on my face due to the sheer freedom that I feel.
NOT THAT HOMESTAY WAS BAD.
It was very educational, and I appreciated the warmth and generosity of my families very much.
It's just exciting to get to stretch my wings again. :)
My apartment, of which I will eventually post pictures, is on the second level of my building. There are three other big families that live there with me, and between the three of them, it's essentially like a kindergarten classroom 24/7.
But, it's home!
The front door opens up to a salon, with the bathroom and shower room on the immediate right. There are two doors opening off of the salon: one goes to my sitting room, and the other leads to the second salon.
In the second salon there's a Moroccan-style sink and mirror for hand-washing, and four doors which open up to my closet, my bedroom, the office/workspace, and the kitchen.
The house was painted a variety of pinks and purples by the last volunteer, so it's got a very girl-y, light-hearted feel. Each salon has a skylight, filling the house with the light and warmth that only natural sunlight can provide. This is not necessary when the air in my house is hovering around body-temperature (as it's been since I moved in), but it's better than living in a dark, dank first-story house, as I've seen some PCVs choose to do.
The pride and joy of my house is the monstrous double-sized bed and accompanying wooden frame. I paid a pretty penny for it (though the price I paid was more reasonable than what the previous volunteer paid for it when it was brand new), but it's my baby and I have a hard time getting out of bed in the morning because it's so glorious. I'm smiling right now, just typing about it!
The last volunteer left me (read: I purchased from her) everything I need, save a fridge. All I need to purchase is that big-ticket item, and a few storage units for my bedroom, kitchen and first salon. Otherwise, I'm completely set-up and am ready to hit the ground running.
Unfortunately, while I am hyper-motivated right now, Morocco is not. As the heat has become stifling as of late, the activity in town has slowed considerably. People seem to only go out when they need to, and even that will slow down further as we get farther and farther into July and August, before Ramadan.
So, I'm left with a summer to decorate, organize and study language during the day, and socialize at night. I'll be traveling at the end of July for our post-training training, but other than that, life will be slow until things cool down.
28 June 2009
Party like a... PCV?
I'm so sorry for the delay in part two of my wedding story... I've been busy partying.
No, seriously.
To answer a few questions about the previous post, I do not know why the ceremony didn't start until the wee hours of the morning. I don't even know when the checkered flag dropped -- my sense of time, in regards to that night, is waaaaay off. It was pretty typical, though, so the more weddings I go to, the more I'll be able to tell you about this kind of thing.
I will also discuss Berber dress soon. It's really unique something that excites me, and I feel that that post deserves more time and brain power than I'm willing to spend/able to muster up right now.
Last weekend was only the beginning of my party-like-a-Peace-Corps-Volunteer phase of service. This week I was invited to five (5) parties. In the States, I was usually only invited to about four parties per month... so you can only imagine how surprised I was to realize that coming to Morocco and shunning my extravagant lifestyle had actually bolstered my personal life. Let me run down the invites with you:
Wednesday: Party at the grade school across from my apartment (which I move into in four days!), celebrating the end of the school year. I could not attend due to a Peace Corps Site Visit.
Thursday: Same school, different party. I could not attend as I was busy working on a project with another volunteer.
Friday: Party at the local women's club -- called a nedi -- to celebrate the end of the year (when the school closes down, the nedi closes down too). I attended, but left early for personal reasons.
note: someone who was at the nedi for the party, and saw me leave early, cited the death of Michael Jackson as the reason I left early. She told my mom that I left in tears. Whoever you are, thanks a lot.
Friday, after the party at the nedi: I was invited to a party... at my house. I was told of the party before inserting the key into the door of my apartment by three of my most loyal fans (I have a fan club of eight-year-old girls, by the way. More on that later.). The invitation went a little stomething like this:
Three little girls: Nicole, Nicole! There's going to be a party tomorrow! Do you want to come?
Me: That's great, guys! Of course I do. Who's throwing it?
The girls: We are!!!!!!!
Me: Oh, that's wonderful! Where is it going to be?
The girls: At your house!
Me: Um, where is that? I don't have a house yet.
The girls: Right here! At your apartment! Isn't that great?
Me: Girls, I don't live here yet. I still live with my family on the other side of the river.
The Girls: Oh, that's okay. You can just open the door for us and we'll do the rest. Okay? Is that okay? Oh please, Nicole, it'll be great!
Needless to say, I declined.
Bottom line: my house is not a playground.
Saturday: My host dad received a call at 11:30p, as the family and I were sitting down to dinner. He passed the phone along to me (which was super weird) and on the other end was a friend of mine, who started our conversation with "Nicole, do you know where I am right now?" It turns out that he was in front of my house. He invited me to a party a few neighborhoods away, and I was out until 4:00a. If that doesn't get your attention, maybe the fact that this party had security guards will.
Security guards.
Aside from bouncers, I've never been to a party with security guards before.
Weeeeekwakin!
That's all the news that's fit to print right now. This week will bring a bit of traveling, a visit to another host family and a move into my very own apartment (!!!!), so there'll be another post coming at the end of the week, inshaAllah.
No, seriously.
To answer a few questions about the previous post, I do not know why the ceremony didn't start until the wee hours of the morning. I don't even know when the checkered flag dropped -- my sense of time, in regards to that night, is waaaaay off. It was pretty typical, though, so the more weddings I go to, the more I'll be able to tell you about this kind of thing.
I will also discuss Berber dress soon. It's really unique something that excites me, and I feel that that post deserves more time and brain power than I'm willing to spend/able to muster up right now.
Last weekend was only the beginning of my party-like-a-Peace-Corps-Volunteer phase of service. This week I was invited to five (5) parties. In the States, I was usually only invited to about four parties per month... so you can only imagine how surprised I was to realize that coming to Morocco and shunning my extravagant lifestyle had actually bolstered my personal life. Let me run down the invites with you:
Wednesday: Party at the grade school across from my apartment (which I move into in four days!), celebrating the end of the school year. I could not attend due to a Peace Corps Site Visit.
Thursday: Same school, different party. I could not attend as I was busy working on a project with another volunteer.
Friday: Party at the local women's club -- called a nedi -- to celebrate the end of the year (when the school closes down, the nedi closes down too). I attended, but left early for personal reasons.
note: someone who was at the nedi for the party, and saw me leave early, cited the death of Michael Jackson as the reason I left early. She told my mom that I left in tears. Whoever you are, thanks a lot.
Friday, after the party at the nedi: I was invited to a party... at my house. I was told of the party before inserting the key into the door of my apartment by three of my most loyal fans (I have a fan club of eight-year-old girls, by the way. More on that later.). The invitation went a little stomething like this:
Three little girls: Nicole, Nicole! There's going to be a party tomorrow! Do you want to come?
Me: That's great, guys! Of course I do. Who's throwing it?
The girls: We are!!!!!!!
Me: Oh, that's wonderful! Where is it going to be?
The girls: At your house!
Me: Um, where is that? I don't have a house yet.
The girls: Right here! At your apartment! Isn't that great?
Me: Girls, I don't live here yet. I still live with my family on the other side of the river.
The Girls: Oh, that's okay. You can just open the door for us and we'll do the rest. Okay? Is that okay? Oh please, Nicole, it'll be great!
Needless to say, I declined.
Bottom line: my house is not a playground.
Saturday: My host dad received a call at 11:30p, as the family and I were sitting down to dinner. He passed the phone along to me (which was super weird) and on the other end was a friend of mine, who started our conversation with "Nicole, do you know where I am right now?" It turns out that he was in front of my house. He invited me to a party a few neighborhoods away, and I was out until 4:00a. If that doesn't get your attention, maybe the fact that this party had security guards will.
Security guards.
Aside from bouncers, I've never been to a party with security guards before.
Weeeeekwakin!
That's all the news that's fit to print right now. This week will bring a bit of traveling, a visit to another host family and a move into my very own apartment (!!!!), so there'll be another post coming at the end of the week, inshaAllah.
21 June 2009
My First Moroccan All-Nighter, part I.
Yesterday and today, was my first Berber wedding here in the south of Morocco (which is actually the middle of the country when you include the Western Sahara, but you get the idea). I am a creature that thrives on sleep and food, and as a result of last night's party-hard-with-the-Berber-women attitude and exclusively-meat tagines, I am pretty brain-dead (and hungry, as I don't eat meat). I will try to break up the activities into periods of time, so you and I can both account for where the last 36 hours of my life went. Typos and poor choices of grammatical items might be prevalent.
Friday
1a: Bedtime, due to a late dinner and the kids getting douches (that's Moroccan for bucket-bath). In my previous life, I used to go to bed at 10p. I miss that life sometimes.
Saturday
6:30a: Good morning! Breakfast, getting dressed in outfit number one (a kaftan and amlhof), getting the kids ready to get out the door.
9a: catch the bus to the site of the wedding, maybe 25k down the road. Moroccans in my area don't typically own their own vehicles, so they're not accustomed to riding in a bus or car. What I'm trying to say is that vomiting is a common occurence on public transportation here, and the five Moroccans that I accompanied to the wedding ended up losing their breakfast. As they were all sitting next to me, it created this eerie stereo-effect, and had me (needlessly) questioning the strength of my own viscera.
I'm tough as nails, ladies and gentlemen.
Luckily, motion sickness passes quickly, and they were ready for a snack as soon as we got off the bus. We ate, bought some sugar to bring to the house per local custom, got in a taxi, and got to the wedding around 11a.
11a-7:30p: Breakfast, lunch, and tea were all served. Those early to arrive, like us, got henna-ed. There was a costume change (we all had two outfits for this wedding. Mine was a djellaba and amlhof), lots of sitting, eating and mingling, and a bunch of ahwash-ing (women singing, clapping and turning anything they can find into a percussion instrument). There was intermittent napping, but as I was a commodity (an American that looks like a Berber? That can't be possible!), I only got about 20 minutes in before I had to get up and explain again that I am not Berber-American, and that my family is from America, and that I speak English. I was also re-named Aicha, bringing the tally to five Moroccan names given to me in four months.
7:30-10ish: My first time seeing the bride was at 7:35p (I actually checked my watch), when the party migrated to the room with the bride and groom's decorated love-throne (love-seat just doesn't do that piece of furniture justice). More enthusiastic ahwash-ing, the passing out of dates and milk and a photo session with the bride and groom were the main focuses of this portion of the ceremony.
This is also when I got a phone call from my parents that there had been more fraud on my credit card, and that the credit card company needs to talk to me and not my Power of Attorney, even though the point of appointing a Power of Attorney is so I don't have to do the talking while I'm here. They gave my mom an in-country phone number to pass along to me, so I could call them.
The number doesn't work.
Do they even know where Morocco is?
10ish p-2a: Sitting and chatting, dinner, tea, more sitting and chatting and ahwash. I'm starting to lose it at this point. I want some vegetables and a nap!
2a-4a: The official ahwash celebrating the bride and groom. Held outside and in mixed company, this was the most vibrant part of the celebration for me, and everyone loved it. I went to bed at 4, though the celebration went on until about 5a, I was told.
6:30a: Wake up, breakfast, change back into outfit number one, out the door.
8a: We watch the bus that we woke up early to catch, pass us by as we're walking out the door. We're sad.
8-9:30: Waiting for a taxi home. I also learn that motion sickness is not only limited to buses.
10:15a: Home! Change clothes, freshen up and head out to souq for tutoring and a tea date.
I'll get on to describing the Berber fashions that I saw at this wedding, including the amlhof I was wearing, when I get some sleep. Look for an update on Wednesday, insha'Allah.
P.S. Happy Father's Day, dad! I love you.
Friday
1a: Bedtime, due to a late dinner and the kids getting douches (that's Moroccan for bucket-bath). In my previous life, I used to go to bed at 10p. I miss that life sometimes.
Saturday
6:30a: Good morning! Breakfast, getting dressed in outfit number one (a kaftan and amlhof), getting the kids ready to get out the door.
9a: catch the bus to the site of the wedding, maybe 25k down the road. Moroccans in my area don't typically own their own vehicles, so they're not accustomed to riding in a bus or car. What I'm trying to say is that vomiting is a common occurence on public transportation here, and the five Moroccans that I accompanied to the wedding ended up losing their breakfast. As they were all sitting next to me, it created this eerie stereo-effect, and had me (needlessly) questioning the strength of my own viscera.
I'm tough as nails, ladies and gentlemen.
Luckily, motion sickness passes quickly, and they were ready for a snack as soon as we got off the bus. We ate, bought some sugar to bring to the house per local custom, got in a taxi, and got to the wedding around 11a.
11a-7:30p: Breakfast, lunch, and tea were all served. Those early to arrive, like us, got henna-ed. There was a costume change (we all had two outfits for this wedding. Mine was a djellaba and amlhof), lots of sitting, eating and mingling, and a bunch of ahwash-ing (women singing, clapping and turning anything they can find into a percussion instrument). There was intermittent napping, but as I was a commodity (an American that looks like a Berber? That can't be possible!), I only got about 20 minutes in before I had to get up and explain again that I am not Berber-American, and that my family is from America, and that I speak English. I was also re-named Aicha, bringing the tally to five Moroccan names given to me in four months.
7:30-10ish: My first time seeing the bride was at 7:35p (I actually checked my watch), when the party migrated to the room with the bride and groom's decorated love-throne (love-seat just doesn't do that piece of furniture justice). More enthusiastic ahwash-ing, the passing out of dates and milk and a photo session with the bride and groom were the main focuses of this portion of the ceremony.
This is also when I got a phone call from my parents that there had been more fraud on my credit card, and that the credit card company needs to talk to me and not my Power of Attorney, even though the point of appointing a Power of Attorney is so I don't have to do the talking while I'm here. They gave my mom an in-country phone number to pass along to me, so I could call them.
The number doesn't work.
Do they even know where Morocco is?
10ish p-2a: Sitting and chatting, dinner, tea, more sitting and chatting and ahwash. I'm starting to lose it at this point. I want some vegetables and a nap!
2a-4a: The official ahwash celebrating the bride and groom. Held outside and in mixed company, this was the most vibrant part of the celebration for me, and everyone loved it. I went to bed at 4, though the celebration went on until about 5a, I was told.
6:30a: Wake up, breakfast, change back into outfit number one, out the door.
8a: We watch the bus that we woke up early to catch, pass us by as we're walking out the door. We're sad.
8-9:30: Waiting for a taxi home. I also learn that motion sickness is not only limited to buses.
10:15a: Home! Change clothes, freshen up and head out to souq for tutoring and a tea date.
I'll get on to describing the Berber fashions that I saw at this wedding, including the amlhof I was wearing, when I get some sleep. Look for an update on Wednesday, insha'Allah.
P.S. Happy Father's Day, dad! I love you.
13 June 2009
Keeping you in the loop.
The updated counts:
Scorpions: 2
The most recent one was chilling on the rug in my bedroom last night. My little brother found it and shouted, saving me the effort. Things weren't nearly as dramatic as they were last time, save the fact that this scorpion was a mere foot from where I sleep.
Camel spiders: 1
The first one was also in my bedroom, but was small and willing to die. I appreciated that.
Kisses on the mouth from my 5-year-old hostbrother: 4.5
He's really, really cute, so I feel bad shoo-ing him away. The half-kiss that I accounted for was one awarded to me with a set of plastic lips.
The unrelated akhbar:
-A good friend of mine is now on examiner.com! Please check her out: http://www.examiner.com/x-8519-Detroit-Muslim-Examiner
-My schedule is changing, now that I've started formal tutoring. Tuesday is still my favorite souq day, but Sundays will probably be best for Skype-ing. I'll give official word when I, uh... make up my mind. Please keep in mind that I'm on GMT+1.
Scorpions: 2
The most recent one was chilling on the rug in my bedroom last night. My little brother found it and shouted, saving me the effort. Things weren't nearly as dramatic as they were last time, save the fact that this scorpion was a mere foot from where I sleep.
Camel spiders: 1
The first one was also in my bedroom, but was small and willing to die. I appreciated that.
Kisses on the mouth from my 5-year-old hostbrother: 4.5
He's really, really cute, so I feel bad shoo-ing him away. The half-kiss that I accounted for was one awarded to me with a set of plastic lips.
The unrelated akhbar:
-A good friend of mine is now on examiner.com! Please check her out: http://www.examiner.com/x-8519-Detroit-Muslim-Examiner
-My schedule is changing, now that I've started formal tutoring. Tuesday is still my favorite souq day, but Sundays will probably be best for Skype-ing. I'll give official word when I, uh... make up my mind. Please keep in mind that I'm on GMT+1.
09 June 2009
Is your motherland having an election today?
The title of this post is actually part of a text that I received a few days ago. And while the text was referring to the elections held in The Old Country -- Lebanon -- there also happened to be a parade going on in the street below my apartment, in honor of the upcoming Moroccan elections on Friday. It was my first Moroccan parade, and while it was small and contained no marching band, it was still quite an experience.
I've been handed many a flyer in the past few days, but my repulsion for politics, coupled with the fact that I am not a citizen of Morocco, means that this week I'll have to wallflower. The schools, neddi, and other associaton- and commune-run activites have been slowed down or stopped completely for the week, as all energies and resources are going toward the inti7abat. I'm interested in the issues (which include a topic near and dear to my heart: transportation), but I'm advised by PC to remain politically-unaffiliated, both domestically and, uh... internationally.
It's been interesting to experience, so far, as the buzz of the election is tangible wherever you go. This morning, my taxi driver had flyers (or is it fliers?) for a candidate on the dashboard. Last night, my brother and sister entertained themselves for hours with the 40-something flyers they had collected earlier that day. While these kids are five and eight, they can sense that this is an exciting time for the community. It'll be exciting to see what happens after Friday!
On a much less exciting note, I paid rent on my apartment for the first time yesterday, and will pay my electric bill after finishing this post. Nothing to write home about, but it does make me feel a bit more like I am indeed a member of the community, and not just an extended houseguest who insists on trying to speak Berber.
I've been handed many a flyer in the past few days, but my repulsion for politics, coupled with the fact that I am not a citizen of Morocco, means that this week I'll have to wallflower. The schools, neddi, and other associaton- and commune-run activites have been slowed down or stopped completely for the week, as all energies and resources are going toward the inti7abat. I'm interested in the issues (which include a topic near and dear to my heart: transportation), but I'm advised by PC to remain politically-unaffiliated, both domestically and, uh... internationally.
It's been interesting to experience, so far, as the buzz of the election is tangible wherever you go. This morning, my taxi driver had flyers (or is it fliers?) for a candidate on the dashboard. Last night, my brother and sister entertained themselves for hours with the 40-something flyers they had collected earlier that day. While these kids are five and eight, they can sense that this is an exciting time for the community. It'll be exciting to see what happens after Friday!
On a much less exciting note, I paid rent on my apartment for the first time yesterday, and will pay my electric bill after finishing this post. Nothing to write home about, but it does make me feel a bit more like I am indeed a member of the community, and not just an extended houseguest who insists on trying to speak Berber.
06 June 2009
Beeping: A Moroccan Mystery
I like to consider myself to be pretty with-it when it comes to techy stuff, but I must admit that I cannot wrap my mind around the idea of beeping.
Beeping, for those that don't know, is pretty much the Moroccan equivalent to the text message. Texting is popular here, as well as in the States, but beeping is free. And in the pre-pay world, free is good.
Wait -- sorry, let me back up farther.
The large majority of cell phones in Morocco are pre-paid, meaning that both calls and texts cost money. Incoming anything is free, but outgoing is not. There are no minutes included, or free nights and weekends, or any of that jazz. There is also no unlimited texting, which breaks my heart (and occasionally, my bank). However, when you make a phone call and the other person doesn't pick up, that phone call is free (as there was no connection).
This -- calling somone and hanging up before the other party picks up -- is called beeping. It's quite popular here in both the Moroccan and PCV community, but I cannot get the hang of it. A beep can mean a number of things, I'm told, like the following:
-"I'm thinking of you and wanted to say hello."
-"Call me, I have to talk to you but I can't afford it."
-"I'm here/there/where we agreed to meet."
-"Are you coming?"
-"I'm waiting for you."
While I am a fan of options, I am a bigger fan of clear styles of communication. And for me, the beep isn't sufficient. I will now provide you two examples, along with my thoughts on the situation, to show you how your phone ringing once and hanging up can actually mean a number of things.
1. I was standing by my taxi tree this morning, waiting for a taxi into my souq town (what else would one be waiting for, next to the taxi tree?) where I was going to meet Hinde and Fadma, from way back in CBT, for a weekend of fun in my site. I was then beeped by Hinde.
Does this beep mean that they've arrived in my souqtown?
Or that they're just leaving their souq town?
Or that Hinde wants me to call her back because she can't come out this weekend but is low on minutes?
Maybe I have an overactive imagination? Let me give another example:
2. Approximately five days ago, I had a short text conversation with a Moroccan friend of mine. We volleyed back and forth about three times each, and very obviously ended the conversation. Then, this friend beeps me.
Have a good night?
I'm still thinking about you, even though we just said good night five minutes ago?
I have something more to say but it to be a surprise?!
I confessed my ignorance of the beep to a fellow PCV after situation number 2 happened, and to my relief, I found another confused party.
That makes two of us.
Beeping, for those that don't know, is pretty much the Moroccan equivalent to the text message. Texting is popular here, as well as in the States, but beeping is free. And in the pre-pay world, free is good.
Wait -- sorry, let me back up farther.
The large majority of cell phones in Morocco are pre-paid, meaning that both calls and texts cost money. Incoming anything is free, but outgoing is not. There are no minutes included, or free nights and weekends, or any of that jazz. There is also no unlimited texting, which breaks my heart (and occasionally, my bank). However, when you make a phone call and the other person doesn't pick up, that phone call is free (as there was no connection).
This -- calling somone and hanging up before the other party picks up -- is called beeping. It's quite popular here in both the Moroccan and PCV community, but I cannot get the hang of it. A beep can mean a number of things, I'm told, like the following:
-"I'm thinking of you and wanted to say hello."
-"Call me, I have to talk to you but I can't afford it."
-"I'm here/there/where we agreed to meet."
-"Are you coming?"
-"I'm waiting for you."
While I am a fan of options, I am a bigger fan of clear styles of communication. And for me, the beep isn't sufficient. I will now provide you two examples, along with my thoughts on the situation, to show you how your phone ringing once and hanging up can actually mean a number of things.
1. I was standing by my taxi tree this morning, waiting for a taxi into my souq town (what else would one be waiting for, next to the taxi tree?) where I was going to meet Hinde and Fadma, from way back in CBT, for a weekend of fun in my site. I was then beeped by Hinde.
Does this beep mean that they've arrived in my souqtown?
Or that they're just leaving their souq town?
Or that Hinde wants me to call her back because she can't come out this weekend but is low on minutes?
Maybe I have an overactive imagination? Let me give another example:
2. Approximately five days ago, I had a short text conversation with a Moroccan friend of mine. We volleyed back and forth about three times each, and very obviously ended the conversation. Then, this friend beeps me.
Have a good night?
I'm still thinking about you, even though we just said good night five minutes ago?
I have something more to say but it to be a surprise?!
I confessed my ignorance of the beep to a fellow PCV after situation number 2 happened, and to my relief, I found another confused party.
That makes two of us.
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