Return to the Roc

My apologies for my four (ahem, five) month lapse in writing.  I’ll give you the main key points of the last five months:

1. I worked at a PCV-organized women’s health event (aptly named the Women’s Wellness Workshop), where we, the PCVs, brought women and girls from our communities to sit in on women’s health-focused sessions, led by Moroccan doctors and nurses, as well as leadership and empowerment sessions and daily exercise routines.

Does that sound a bit heavy?  We thought so as well, so a fellow PCV, my besty Crisi, and I led a “Beauty Products from Home” session, where we taught the women how to make beauty products in their kitchens, such as parsley-cucumber-yogurt facemasks for acne and sugar-lavender-pomade foot scrubs for dry, rough feet.  Oh, that sounds too easy, you say? Well, do it in Arabic and Berber, and then we’ll talk.

Crisi applies a facemask in front of eager onlookers.

2. In April, we had our annual spring camp in Taroudannt, the capital (and name) of my province.  This is technically an English camp, and by “technically,” I mean “not.”  100 kids turned into 160 kids, which meant 40 kids in my English class, and not enough counselors to tame the wild beasts.  I taught the beginners, which means that I taught English in Arabic.  It was quite a hoot, though.  

This is what 1/3 of 160 campers looks like.

My aforementioned besty and I led a cooking club, where we taught our kiddies how to make snickerdoodles (I can’t think of a more quintessentially American cookie than this that doesn’t require brown sugar, an item unavailable in this entire country).  Through snickerdoodle-ing, we taught the kids about different foods in America and turned it into a lesson about immigration and the melting pot (or the salad bowl for all you nay sayers).

On the last day, we held an English scavenger hunt.  My fellow PCVs and I hid around campus as our kids hunted us down and interrogated us for answers.  The majority of the commands were to complete certain tasks, such as “Build a tower of rocks. Take a picture (they all have camera phones).”  However, I have to say the best command was “Find the orange striped cat with white spots.”  It was the infamous cat at camp.  It was everywhere and anywhere, and let me tell you, those kids found that sneaky cat, regardless of the fact that the campus was multiple acres large...  And then we pegged the winners with water balloons, which was followed by my kids singing Justin Bieber’s “One Time” for the talent show.  Ya, we’re just that cool.

The winners of the scavenger hunt.

Besides these larger events, I’ve been teaching English as usual, helping to prepare students for their final exams, teaching yoga and aerobics and leading occasional events at the girls’ dormitory.  For example, I screened a fantastic PCV-made film, “You Can Dream: Stories of Moroccan Women Who Do,” which showcases Moroccan women throughout the country doing amazing things, like starting their own co-ops, teaching literacy classes, and creating new products.  Following the film, a fellow counterpart and I led a discussion about the girls’ hopes and aspirations for the future.  It went swimmingly.

…

Fast forward to, well, now, and I've just arrived back in site after a splendid vacation in the grand ol’ US of A. 

This morning I trekked to the post office for oh, say, the 4^th or 5^th time on a Saturday, expecting it to be open.  You know it wasn’t.  Shouldn’t posting hours on an official government building mean that it’s true?  Stupid me.  Afterwards, I decided to fill my miserably empty fridge with some fresh produce.  On my way back, I was gladly accosted by one of my favorite 13-year-old students who saw me from her third story window and came running after me.  I accompanied her home, where I was fed the most delicious fish tajine I have ever consumed in my entire life, along with watermelon, honeydew, plums, dates, grapes and prickly pears.  After consuming about 5 kilos of food, and proclaiming “Ch3bat, hamdullah” (“I’m full, thanks be to God”), her mom gave me the answer every mom gives me: “Mekliti walu”…”You ate nothing!”  I proceeded to push my fruit rinds and pits towards her to make my point, but alas, this was not a battle I was going to win.

Afterwards, my student accompanied me on my walk home, as she always does.  I had been complaining about how dirty my house was after having been gone for two months and how badly I needed to clean it – that was my excuse for leaving her house.  She kept saying that she would help me clean, but I just thought she was being nice, and quite frankly, I was embarrassed at how filthy it had become, having experienced a number of dust storms in my absence.  Inside, it was hazy and dusty, like in those old Western movies where the two gun-slinging jokers are dueling, in the exact moment when they spin around and draw their guns, kicking up dirt and dust.  Oh, and the number of dead cockroaches that I counted went into the double digits.  The high double-digits. 

Let me tell you though, not only did this girl help me clean my house, but she critiqued what I thought were already-anal cleaning habits.  I’ve got nothing on this kid.  Now I’m sitting on my ponj (sofa-esque seating, without a back to it), breathing in the clean air.  Me: 1.  Dust storms and cockroaches: 0. Victory tastes so sweet.

P.S. As an added bonus, I've included the before and after pictures of me coming in 2nd place at a watermelon-eating contest.  For those of you that don't know, I consume excessive quantities of watermelon on a daily basis.  I  thought that I had a real chance at the blue ribbon, having prepared my stomach for months on end.

 

Before: clean and happy.
 

After: sticky and dejected.

Year 2961

Let me set the scene…

500 people.  Men on one side, women on the other.  The announcer is speaking in a language, which, quite frankly, sounds like gibberish to me at this point in my service.  I hear my name and applause welcome my every step towards the podium.  There the crowd is waiting, with breath bated.  I stifle my nerves and let the prose flow forth…

“Azul…”

The rest of my speech is temporarily halted, as I am overwhelmed with roars of approval from the audience.  All I said was “hello” in Tashelhit (one of the three Berber dialects here in Morocco).  I feel like Obama at Cairo University, when his “salam ale-kum” was received with resounding approval.  A smile is plastered across my face for the rest of my speech.

Now you may be wondering where I get the audacity to give a speech in front of 500 people after only living in my permanent site for six weeks.  Well, let’s be honest: I was tricked.  I was “taken” (read: abducted) to a Berber New Year party (yes folks, we are finally in year 2961, l’hamdullilah). 

Some of the performers at the Berber New Year party.  These men performed a traditional dance called, "aHwaj"

A friend appeared at my place of work decked out in traditional Moroccan wear: a key-lime pie colored jelaba with sequins and all.  She immediately chastised me for not having my “party” clothes on.  (Disclosure: Peace Corps volunteers don’t really pack party dresses for this sort of occasion; what does one wear to a Berber New Year party anyways?).  I head off into the darkness with her, deciding to trust that she has my best interests at heart.  We arrive at a quite monstrous, circus-like tent, whereupon I am greeted by her fellow association members.  The Tazerzite Association – the local Berber pride association – is putting on this fête.  Two of them pull me aside and basically guilt-trip me into making a speech.  I should have known.  I’m such a sucker.

That was mid-January.  Since then, I’ve dived right into my work.  I’ve been working at the Dar Chabab every day.  I teach way too many English classes, but I really do love my kids. 

An English lesson.  On the left, the kids wrote in Arabic, "Devil, Boogy-man."  Isn't she a beauty?

We recently had a basketball hoop erected, which has led to endless games of 2v2 action.  On weekends, I’ve begun playing Ultimate Frisbee with my kids.  At first they were quite skeptical of this weird looking “flying plate” – that’s the literal translation.  But after they realized that it could be quite competitive, they took to it like a fish in water…or I guess like a Moroccan to tajine.  Besides that, we draw all the time – I have quite a few aspiring artists in the class.  I even attempted making bracelets with the little girls.  That ended with a few hundred beads on the floor.  We play lots of games – Monopoly is, by far, the most loved board game.  Let me tell you, these kids are excellent bargainers; when the game is at a standstill, their genetic predisposition (my theory) to trade you Illinois Ave for Park Place and Boardwalk makes it seem like it was your idea to lose the game.

Otherwise, I’ve been on an epic journey for the past month. I went to Ourzazate for a Peace Corps training in early February.  Ourzazate is where they filmed Star Wars; just imagine the Mars-like landscape.  The roads to get there were treacherous.  We had a projectile-vomiting casualty in the front seat of our taxi. 

Two fellow PCVs and myself in Ourzazate, along with Francisco, the dog we adopted for the day.

Then I was on to Rabat for five days, and then to Azrou for another weeklong meeting.  This meeting was full of endless power-point presentations like the one below.  Can you follow all those arrows?

I have no idea what's going on here.

In Azrou, we slept as snug as bugs in a rug.  Oh ya, and there are two more beds hiding in the opposite corner.

We made the most amazing project write-up ever.  That's me in the pleated skirt.

This meeting included a Project Runway style fashion show, where we got to show off our best imitation of Moroccan fashions.  I entered with my fellow PCV, another Hannah, and we entered as “The Hanans” – our Moroccan names – and began the show with a choreographed dance to Britney Spears’ “Toxic.”  I know, you all wish you were there.  We won for best choreography.

"The Hanans" in style.  Pending our agent's permission, we will be making a reappearance at our next meeting in Marrakesh.

After Azrou, seven of us, including the driver, packed into a taxi for our journey to visit our first host families, just outside of Fes.  We decided to pay the taxi driver to drive us all the way to our tiny, two hundred person town, instead of having to get out and stuff our luggage into yet another taxi.  Upon arrival, it turned out that our taxi driver knew every single one of our host families.  He had attended Rachel’s sister’s baby ceremony thirteen years ago.  The world is really just that small.  After twenty-four hours straight of non-stop eating with our host families, we parted ways.  Three of us headed back to our sites, and the other three of us decided to take a visit to the old Medina in Fes for some hard-earned shopping.   

The beautiful leather shoes in the Medina in Fes.  I couldn't help myself!

Fes is known for its blue-glazed pottery.

Two pairs of leather shoes, four scarves, and some nougat later, I hopped back on the train to Rabat, where I have been recuperating for the past week, probably from some sort of bug and/or the kind of thing you get from non-stop traveling all over the country for a month.

And I did it all in a weekend-sized duffle bag.  Who says you can’t wear the same outfit for seven days in a row?  Builds character.

 

The Wonders of Plastic

As I have recently moved into my new home, everything has begun to fall apart. Is that some sort of steadfast rule for home ownership?  The drain is clogged, there are cockroaches (though 2 weeks ago I began a somewhat futile extermination campaign), a light is burned out, we found out that some of the lights are wired incorrectly, there is dirt everywhere, and I won't go on, because it will just make me think about all the work that needs to be done!  But alas, I am finally living on my own, and the ability to not eat bread every day has changed my life; I haven't even eaten a bite in the 5 days since I moved out.  Is it possible to reverse the course of Diabetes that ensues from drinking 10 glasses of sugary tea a day and eating mounds of bread with every meal?

Even getting to my new home was a challenge.  I was supposed to move out on January 1st, but I was held captive by my amazingly awesome host mom  and 5-year-old brother until the afternoon of January 4th.  I won't lie, it was fun being abducted to my host dad's citrus farm.  Normally attending any kind of function is incredibly boring, b/c once the ladies get together, they talk at lightening speed in Darija and I have no idea what's going on and just sit there with a glazed look across my face. Karma?  God help me if there are some old Berber ladies with no teeth, and have their mouths covered in their izars (traditional, brightly-patterned sheets that Berber women swaddle themselves in).  When this happens its impossible to understand what's going on.

However on this occasion, I was pleasantly surprised, and the guests were quite lovely, and entertained my lack of speaking abilities for some time.  In order to give them a break from my pathetic speaking attempts, and also to politely skirt the attempts of one Berber grandma to fatten me up and make me swear to stay in Morocco forever and to marry a Moroccan, I went for a walk with my brother Youssef.  But let's be honest.  It was more of an epic journey, than a walk.  We were gone for three hours, lost in the orange groves, in the heat of the day.  Obviously, sun burn ensued.  The icing on the cake was when my mom told us, just before departing, to watch out for the wild boars.  So off we went, Youssef with a stick, and I with a rock, hand-in-hand, for an afternoon of gallivanting through the trees. 

It really is surprising how much a 5-year-old can understand you.  I generally have no idea what he's saying, because he speaks with the halting Darija that 5-year-olds tend to speak with.  We understand a few words here and there, but speaking isn't really necessary for us to communicate.  He's quite the chatterbox, and he talked almost continuously for those three hours.  He doesn't judge me.  He doesn't care that my Darija is terrible or that I'm not married or that I dress funny or that I don't know how to cook well.  When I scratch myself on some tree branches, he kisses my "boo-boo."  Since I moved out a few days ago, I've already been back to my family's house for lunch twice.  Both times he ran up and attacked me with giant hugs and kisses and almost knocked me to the ground.  He really is my best friend here. 

Now onto more pressing matters: the wonders of plastic!  In my home, I have: 3 buckets, 5 basins of different sizes, 2  tables, a stool, 2 chairs, and uncountable amounts of Tupperware.  The stuff really is amazing.  Oh, and I also have plastic shelving in the kitchen and bathroom, hooks, dish drains, and so much more.  I live in a little plastic heaven. I don't know why, but when I told Moroccans that I was in the market for some glass jars for dried split peas, chick peas, and rice, they all looked at me like I was crazy. They then took me to the most amazing place in the world: a store completely composed of plastic wares.  Did you know that you could buy bureaus, desks, wash boards, and just about everything in plastic?!  The ease of cleaning it has changed my life, especially in a town where dust and sand storms are frequent, and the amount of mud from the winter rains necessitates rubber boots.

All I have been doing in the past week and a half is buying things for my new home.  Just this past week, I ventured out to buy a mattress.  Having no idea how to accomplish this (and having no car with which to transport such a purchase), I went to my usual shop to ask the owner if he could offer any advice.  He got very serious, grabbed a man from the cafe next door, and told him to take me to buy exactly what I wanted and to get me a good price.  It was wonderful.  It took two days, involving measuring my bed frame, taking it to the wood shop to be extended, and deciding on the right mattress, but later that day, there were two men, pushing my mattress to my home in a man-powered chariot.  Not awkward at all strolling across the four-lane highway with that baby.  Now its me, and my mummy sleeping bag on my beautiful new mattress, waiting for a trip outside town to buy sheets!  The best part was the next day when an acquaintance told me about the exact mattress that I had bought and about the man who had helped me.  When I asked him how he knew, he said that everyone knew, because everyone saw me running around town all day.  Ah, the joys of a small town.  Creepily, later this week, when returning home after a meeting in Taroudant, a nearby town 16km away, the taxi driver there (again, not in my town) said, "Oh ya, you live with Aissa (my host dad)."  I said yes, but didn't tell him that I had, that very day, moved into my new house. Upon arrival in my town, with all my purchases in tow from the souk, the driver offered to drive me home and I, of course, said yes, instead of getting out at the taxi stand and walking the rest of the way at night.  Before I even had a chance to tell him that I moved to a new home, he just drove right there.  He already knew that I had moved, and I had moved less than 24 hours previous to that moment.  Weird.