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 4 feet high.

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 Morocco, and my trash meeting was therefore bumped forward a day -- so I slept in and treated myself to a pancake brunch. I popped in a movie, sat down with my pancakes, and heard a knock at the door.

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.

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.

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 America with me when my service ends, which is sweet but obtusely non-committal -- he's an intelligent and capable individual, but he hasn't much income to speak of.

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 'Latin America' on my Peace Corps application, and the rest was let up to the powers that be; namely, God and The Placement Officers. This entire experience, from the moment I submitted my application in February 2007 until today, has been an arduous exercise in letting go of control of every aspect of my life. As a former card-carrying Control Freak, I'm proud to say that I've emerged more patient, calm and easy-going than I ever imagined possible. My priorities are basic, my day planner is (mostly) blank and my soul is at peace.

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.

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 Morocco, it's even more of a challenge.

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 Morocco, my mid-fast naps have provided some interesting dreams. I've dreamt twice that my brother came back to visit, once with his children (which do not exist right now, to my knowledge) (they were also blonde and spoke only Spanish. Matt, tienes algo que contarme?). I also dreamt that I was picking up a pizza from a restaurant that my family frequents back home, and I spoke Tashlheit with the guy behind the counter. He responded in Tash, no problem. And then, when he turned to another customer and spoke flawless American English, I was shocked that he spoke English so well! In the dream, even though I was in America, I didn't think that English would get me very far. This leads me to believe that I'm going to be spectacularly awkward when I come home.

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!

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.

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!

PPST - just another outstanding Peace Corps acronym.

First things first: I will be getting wireless modem for my house (and anywhere else I choose to drag my computer) in three months or less. A COSing volunteer (COS stands for 'close of service') is selling hers when she leaves in November, so if my search for a new laptop doesn't pan out before then, I will still have the internet by the middle of November. I look forward to Skyping you all from the privacy of my apartment.

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 Michigan, I took them for granted. Now that I'm surrounded only by harsh-looking argan trees and Moroccan tumbleweed, I've come to appreciate them even more. Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder. I even considered writing a haiku for this post.

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 Morocco. The first objective focuses on education of issues surrounding maternal and child health, HIV/AIDS and basic personal hygiene (washing hands, brushing teeth, etc). The second revolves around the training of Moroccans in leadership positions, whether they be presidents of associations, nurses, teachers or qablas (traditional birth attendants). The third goal is what I'll be focusing on for my main project, which is sanitation, solid and liquid waste managment and water treatment. It's a dirty job, but I wasn't expecting the fabulous life anyway. Having a cell phone still blows me away sometimes, let alone having the option of getting satellite TV and wireless internet in my house.

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 America, my head spins with how fast time is moving around me. For example, I bought some postcards before training, and wanted to send one to Wolverine Summer Camps, which was my summer home for the three summers previous to my service. I sat down to write it and realized that with their last camp finishing up at the beginning of August, anything I sent wouldn't arrive before they closed up shop. How did I miss an entire Camps season without sending a postcard? That really stopped me in my tracks. Also, thinking of Ramadan starting in two weeks, and the school year / college football season starting up next month really makes me feel like I'm falling behind... in life.

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

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.

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?!

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.