And I just HAVE to tell you all how amazing my host mom was during my ordeal. Not only did she bring me every meal on a tray, but she also would literally roll a table into my bedroom so we could all eat as a family, just so that I wouldn't feel left out. And the piece de resistance was on Thursday, when I was bathed like a baby fresh from a mother's womb. No boundaries exist between us anymore.
Not a single one.
Monday, October 11, 2010
The saga OFFICIALLY begins!
I officially arrived in Morocco on September 15, 2010. We took a bus from Philadelphia to JFK, flew from JFK to Casablanca, and then took a two-hour bus ride to the small beach town of Mehdiya, just north of Rabat (the capital), for orientation. Those first 4 days were jam-packed with safety and security measures, a crash course in Darija (Moroccan Arabic), cross-cultural sessions, and indigestible loads of medical information. There was barely time to sleep. Oh, and I learned how to eat couscous with my hands...
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| Step 1: Morph your hand into a claw. |
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| Step 2: Use mushy, overcooked veggies as a bonding agent. |
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| Step 3: Shake couscous in your hand until you've lost a sufficient amount of it on the table and stained your clothes. |
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| Step 4: Display the fruits of your labor...Attempt to eat your ball of couscous without touching your mouth to your hand and without dropping it on the table...I think I'll eat with a spoon. |
On Sunday the 19th we were shipped off to our host families for what is called Pre-Service Training (PST) in our Community Based Training (CBT) sites. I’m now officially a Peace Corps Trainee (PCT)! We will be here for the next ten weeks, where we will learn the skills and techniques that we will employ at our future permanent sites in order to become successful volunteers.
There are 5 other volunteers in my CBT site and we spend pretty much every waking moment together. I am living in an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny town, 8 miles SW of Fes. There is one pharmacy, two coffee shops, two yogurt shops, 3 hanuts (a very rough version of a 7-11), two elementary schools, a Dar Chabeb (DC – youth center), and the local police station. I live on the northern end of town and I walk twenty minutes to the complete opposite end of town for training six days a week, from 8:30am to 6pm.
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| My PCV faves. |
We’ve spent the past few weeks studying Darija and doing a community assessment to figure out what it is that this community wants for its youth. This has included: interviewing members of the community, gathering local youth to map out where they spend their free time (boys vs. girls due to the separation of genders past the age of ten), figuring out time schedules for activities (because there are only two schools in town, the kids are on a rotating schedule), and gaining respect in the community by making ourselves visible and informally chatting up its members.
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| "Studying" in our self-directed learning time. |
Then we all go home to the wonderful craziness of our host families. Four of the six of us live in a compound with 73 extended family members, so it really is non-stop stimulation. ALL. THE. TIME.
Besides the craziness though, I really lucked out. I have a fantastic family. I have a mom, a dad, and 4 younger siblings: a 13-year-old sister, 10-year-old twins (a boy and a girl), and a 7-year-old special-needs sister. They are all incredibly welcoming and nice, and they put up with me, with my numerous cultural faux pas and my lack of language skills and everything.
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| Me and my siblings with a fellow PCV. |
Now onto the ridiculous part of my adventure...
I’ve been in Morocco for just over three weeks, and I’ve already managed to injure myself. On Sunday, October 3rd, my very first day off, my sisters and I went for a leisurely walk. We explored the olive groves, the pomegranate and fig trees, and imitated the cows and sheep grazing around us. On our way back to the house, my 7-year-old sister fell in front of an oncoming car. I lunged to pick her up, and in the process, I managed to pinch my cyatic nerve. Alas, I was on bed rest for 5 days, where I could only get up to go to and from the bayt el-ma (that’s bathroom for all you foreign folk) as per the doc’s instructions.
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| Me and my 7-year-old sister on our way to school. |
After talking to the PC medical officer (PCMO), my biggest struggle was explaining to my host family what had happened. Let me just say that two weeks of studying Darija did not equip me with that kind of vocabulary. To make matters worse, I had yet to receive pain medicine, and it was incredibly difficult to focus on the pain and my family trying to give me advice (even though they weren’t sure what was wrong due to my inability to explain it to them). I’m fairly sure that my face turned ghost-white when my mom brought in a knife and said we could “scare” the nerve with it…
Later that day, the pain increased, and we had to call upon my LCF (Language and Cultural Facilitator – my language and technical trainer). Said is a godsend. That man needs a raise.
Not only did he diffuse the situation by explaining the problem and the protocol, but he also traveled to another town to retrieve pain medicine for me (The pharmacy in a 200-person town isn’t open on weekends – just my luck).
Since Sunday, I’ve had more company than I could ever imagine. In Morocco, the custom is for able-bodied persons to come and visit with “the sick.” Due to this custom, and the fact that there are 73 people in my extended family, I have had non-stop entertainment. The American notion of letting someone rest and get better is non-existent here. It’s all about good company and laughter – even when it hurts to laugh.
On Monday, all of my fellow PCTs descended upon my home for a visit after a long day of training, which turned into teatime and then became dinner. Rachel and Molly, two fellow PCTs, helped me to the hammem (wash room) and washed my hair. It was very “Out of Africa.”
We all like to joke that we’re like babies for a number of reasons. We can’t speak the language well, we struggle to eat with our hands (right hand!), we make numerous faux pas, we’re still learning about how to correctly use the Turkish toilets, figuring out how to do our laundry without a machine, and we just don’t seem to know how to do anything yet in true Moroccan fashion. But now, the new joke is that I actually am the baby.
But seriously, I am.
I was able to make it to Fes on Friday for two days of training (and to see the doctor). Fes is only eight miles away, which may seem quite close, but when jamming 7 people into a “grand” taxi, which is actually the size of a small sedan, and driving on roads that were paved eons ago, it is quite a terrifying process – even when you’re in tip-top shape! Thankfully, I made it in once piece. Now its back to my CBT site to study Darija and to learn how to be a kick-ass teacher.
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