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.
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.
