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.
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.
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