tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78818084134078374652024-03-06T01:13:19.530-08:00Steal a CamelHannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07002419743917074661noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881808413407837465.post-62324423847157028532012-02-19T13:45:00.002-08:002012-02-20T00:04:25.772-08:00Morocco: The Cold Country With The Hot Sun<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I just realized that my last email was sent just before Ramadan began last year (about 6 months ago). You may have been concerned. Most of you know that the heat and I are mortal enemies. Add in no food or drink from about 4am until 7pm in 120F heat, and you've got a recipe for disaster. So, I'm writing this email to allay your fears: I survived Ramadan! I attempted to fast for the first two days, and I thought I was going to die (no exaggeration). But seriously, its not so much the lack of food, but the lack of water in the dry heat. </span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scorpions thrive in the heat. This one decided to come to English class one day.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;">I'll be the first to admit that if I ever get stranded in the desert Ali Baba style, I wouldn't make it one day. In the sweltering heat, I frequently ask myself why my studies have repeatedly brought me to the Middle East/North Africa region. My biology (read: my porcelain skin and heat intolerance) is much more suited for Siberia.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><div style="text-align: left;">Speaking of Siberia, that is what my house feels like right now. Morocco is know as "the cold country with the hot sun." I really didn't understand what this meant until I spent a winter here. During the daytime, the temperature reaches high 70s/low 80s. No coat necessary. However, the second the sun begins to set, an arctic chill sets in. I'm talking two to three pairs of long johns, wool socks, hat and gloves, nuzzled inside a 0-degree sleeping bag under three wool blankets. Don't even think about poking your head out for circulation; breathing is overrated in the wintertime. And that's inside the house! Due to the lack of insulation, homes here are like refrigerators in the winter - it's actually colder inside. We've been having a bit of a cold spell these past few weeks, and the crops have been freezing over night. I checked the weather at 8am this past week and it was 37F. There was no way I was getting out of bed. I will never again complain that the thermostat is set too low in the winter!</div></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><div style="text-align: left;">I'll quickly update you on these past few months:</div></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><div style="text-align: left;"><b>August</b>: Ramadan (aka, trying to not fall into a coma all day in the stifling heat and then breaking the fast by consuming copious amounts of dates, cakes, soup, milk and water)</div></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><div style="text-align: left;"><b>September-October</b>: School <i>theoretically</i> started the first week of September, but because Aid el-Fitr (the holiday celebrating the end of Ramadan) fell on the first day of September, about 90% of the families in my community decided to extend their celebrations. No biggie, I mean, c'mon, school isn't <i>that</i> important, right? Basically, students didn't start showing up for school until the end of September, and their mothers and sisters (the ladies I work with at the Women's Association) decided to extend their vacations as well. Hence, September was a gloriously lazy month of planning future activities, as my youth and women were off enjoying their holiday.</div></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><b>October-November</b>: I got pretty sick in October and ended up going home for the month of November to recuperate. No worries, America has amazing healing properties (I think it has something to do with the matzoh ball soup, bacon, and, did I mention, bacon?...just a theory).</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><b>December-January</b>: I returned to Morocco at the beginning of December and three weeks later, Mom and Pops came for a visit. We had a BLAST. I took them to my site for the "authentic" part of the tour.</div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The wonderful feast prepared for my family by my host mom, Fatima.</td></tr>
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</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;">This was followed by a thankfully touristy stint in Essaouira, Marrakesh, Fes and Rabat. One of my very good friends traveled with us, and upon dropping off my parents in Rabat for their flight home, we continued our tour of Morocco northwards to Tangier and Chefchouen (the famous blue and white-washed mountain village).<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Chefchouen, a beautiful village built into the mountainside.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The winding, blue and white-washed alleys of Chefchouen.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4AlRBbHGkaEXu-J46Bmdtmhx6Z5d3QfXUeEOs4O6aUONn-znGDyhsrGusX_gkN5cwzRCvMRRQ42m7ogIXkdI2UdNsYmbVeu698XeGbYoIv48eToTbBG2n5KKjKGCifYLyncwncpHvoW0/s1600/IMG_1597.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4AlRBbHGkaEXu-J46Bmdtmhx6Z5d3QfXUeEOs4O6aUONn-znGDyhsrGusX_gkN5cwzRCvMRRQ42m7ogIXkdI2UdNsYmbVeu698XeGbYoIv48eToTbBG2n5KKjKGCifYLyncwncpHvoW0/s320/IMG_1597.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I want to live here!</td></tr>
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</div><div><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Fun fact: Did you know that Tangerines got their name when Morocco started exporting those small, clementine-y oranges from Tangier to Spain? Also, the only National Historic Landmark outside of the US is in Tangier: the American Legation Museum. We were led on a wonderfully informative tour by its current curator. Besides this, though, Tangier was kind of a bust. I was so excited to visit Tangier, intrigued by its history during the French Occupation. Wait, let me be a little more specific: its history of spies and espionage. The OSS (Office of Special Services), the precursor to the CIA, had its first mission in Tangier. Apparently, just in case the Nazis ever made it to Tangier, we developed an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) that was to be hidden in donkey droppings on the train tracks, so that we could stop the Nazis by blowing up their trains. </span></div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuBkGHLK5qLyqpK9snlXp6Z_IOkK07aVBNVMYGQbiKnImQ-nfDP-Ni9sYTWsc19n1Qr5xjQ13T1Rt3p2vlLyltGFnn2l6ee4jcbSY81-0ZZKL7STZAVZlNZcecHwDLYrVI49nStZNNH_o/s1600/IMG_1547.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuBkGHLK5qLyqpK9snlXp6Z_IOkK07aVBNVMYGQbiKnImQ-nfDP-Ni9sYTWsc19n1Qr5xjQ13T1Rt3p2vlLyltGFnn2l6ee4jcbSY81-0ZZKL7STZAVZlNZcecHwDLYrVI49nStZNNH_o/s320/IMG_1547.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view of the Bay of Tangier from our hotel window, the famous Hotel el-Minzah. In its heyday, it was frequented by Hollywood stars, princes, presidents, and prime ministers (notably, Sir Winston Churchill). Rick's Cafe in <i>Casablanca</i> is modeled after this hotel. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;">After this history lesson, I couldn't wait to hunt down Cafe de Paris. This cafe was notoriously frequented by spies during WWII. I was beyond ecstatic when I found it, only to have my hopes dashed when, upon entering, it was JUST like every other cafe found in Morocco, full of men, chain-smoking. Suffice it to say, we opened the door, looked around, and quickly exited. It was between the mid 1940s and early 1950s that Tangier gained much of its mystique; freedom reigned during this period. However, Morocco gained its independence in 1956, and it seems that since then, its just another conservative Moroccan town. oh well...</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Back to reality. Since being back in site, I've been quite busy. I lead aerobics and walking/jogging club four times a week with the Women's Literacy class and women from my local neighborhood. I teach copious amounts of English at the Youth Center and Women's Association, and I craft (ya, its a verb for me) with the kiddies on Saturday afternoons. Yesterday, I held an English competition for my middle-school girls, and they made me so proud. "Competition" may just be another word for "test with prizes," but, hey, I'm not above bribery. We gave out medals and English-Arabic dictionaries to the winners. It was a success!</div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8jWJDq003vpVKU1TeD70aGI4zgCp7AlofNYcNQ4NY8VG8oVdiF0NEwPOfA4uBxB0b-D2Z2HPtv1N2R9JatLsGndz_noad_5nokp4amQOwG1yp_QV2quGIFS5I66snlHuZLFkwzlZtOTo/s1600/IMG_1665.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8jWJDq003vpVKU1TeD70aGI4zgCp7AlofNYcNQ4NY8VG8oVdiF0NEwPOfA4uBxB0b-D2Z2HPtv1N2R9JatLsGndz_noad_5nokp4amQOwG1yp_QV2quGIFS5I66snlHuZLFkwzlZtOTo/s320/IMG_1665.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The winners of the English Competition!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Otherwise, I've just been enjoying my time here in Morocco. Here's a fun little doozy that happened the other day when my very good friend was bartering for a rug. She had settled on an appropriate price, but the vendor was pushing an additional, smaller rug for an extra 400 dirhams. She wanted it, but honestly didn't have the money; she took out exact change from the ATM that she needed for the larger rug. The vendor asked if we had anything from America that he would like. I offered him a few things from my bag: an old Vogue and a hotel pen. The vendor could not have been more ecstatic. We shook on it, and the deal was done. Best. Price. Ever.</span></div></div>Hannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07002419743917074661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881808413407837465.post-60212406647248766482011-07-23T17:48:00.000-07:002011-07-24T13:07:45.269-07:00Return to the Roc<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">My apologies for my four (ahem, five) month lapse in writing. I’ll give you the main key points of the last five months:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">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.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj64STQiAUQsHABjyjSfDSynjCLm6txZ19saffPBkwTMQep2zWwdJU675QTzmfXsIK701dLjOjuPEK1tsaBxNrHogDCc8fhHl9M94Nw_7llapITF0Rl-ITXRGEBjfV3NgCY_cBuk6rRE4c/s1600/030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj64STQiAUQsHABjyjSfDSynjCLm6txZ19saffPBkwTMQep2zWwdJU675QTzmfXsIK701dLjOjuPEK1tsaBxNrHogDCc8fhHl9M94Nw_7llapITF0Rl-ITXRGEBjfV3NgCY_cBuk6rRE4c/s320/030.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crisi applies a facemask in front of eager onlookers.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxM2jBEax08Qc-yvGF1XFq-iaZiGMIITYaf7LJ5Jkm0bwpCl4P3DaHFJ39_xAsVpX6ppCHweyok5cjaz9PeK27ToYCphD_qQDZz9787uufR0rq1yk3_RlOB0E1RUlQQYt6b7m99e9D1Cg/s1600/IMG_0364.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxM2jBEax08Qc-yvGF1XFq-iaZiGMIITYaf7LJ5Jkm0bwpCl4P3DaHFJ39_xAsVpX6ppCHweyok5cjaz9PeK27ToYCphD_qQDZz9787uufR0rq1yk3_RlOB0E1RUlQQYt6b7m99e9D1Cg/s320/IMG_0364.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what 1/3 of 160 campers looks like<span style="font-size: small;">.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">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).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPPlqhJ5xDnnCb6gBTYMtSOp6SyL2VNfEpL_44ECvsnuy7qshsg47Y-Wk_6CxGl0cQ8CCBRH5eTGOZ2JQgXcp3ZaDn5LZs9cGQrQuf1IH7gBzp9dsTpzaOqyNMsMz-xorjNfxT82F5pU/s1600/IMG_0329.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPPlqhJ5xDnnCb6gBTYMtSOp6SyL2VNfEpL_44ECvsnuy7qshsg47Y-Wk_6CxGl0cQ8CCBRH5eTGOZ2JQgXcp3ZaDn5LZs9cGQrQuf1IH7gBzp9dsTpzaOqyNMsMz-xorjNfxT82F5pU/s320/IMG_0329.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The winners of the scavenger hunt.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
Fast forward to, well, now, and I've just arrived back in site after a splendid vacation in the grand ol’ US of A. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">This morning I trekked to the post office for oh, say, the 4<sup>th</sup> or 5<sup>th</sup> 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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt1661_xdXEYhUolPt2orZTizpqnsOy_ZO7q65UAYb29WgWzzzt4RfSbQqkpAx7WKi5S-QzF-rCkb8GH8nPh4jtQSD0gGfqyEmVZAFSWWeYNhouwgSPcg0Fo7qGCvYBJpxDM91zZOrrRc/s1600/IMG_5887.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt1661_xdXEYhUolPt2orZTizpqnsOy_ZO7q65UAYb29WgWzzzt4RfSbQqkpAx7WKi5S-QzF-rCkb8GH8nPh4jtQSD0gGfqyEmVZAFSWWeYNhouwgSPcg0Fo7qGCvYBJpxDM91zZOrrRc/s320/IMG_5887.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before: clean and happy.<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6rekqO0HDL69ZeqqeBK55ehg6bkKXdPZ0b3-eKl9pMgXs_o_dTTLWZQ6Lxpk3g-1i04MHjSq4rtKuaNd5WDY0PPLEAaKasVk9dynHhL0VPOKqX13HTZ7HB7wwuz_D1m-SYo3isrPM8iI/s1600/IMG_5932.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6rekqO0HDL69ZeqqeBK55ehg6bkKXdPZ0b3-eKl9pMgXs_o_dTTLWZQ6Lxpk3g-1i04MHjSq4rtKuaNd5WDY0PPLEAaKasVk9dynHhL0VPOKqX13HTZ7HB7wwuz_D1m-SYo3isrPM8iI/s320/IMG_5932.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After: sticky and dejected.</td></tr>
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</div></div>Hannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07002419743917074661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881808413407837465.post-20831652416639984632011-03-05T05:02:00.001-08:002011-03-05T05:02:15.028-08:00Year 2961<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj06qYew4Srv7ioTWYjDt1RgmUB_2jV6Tzg3RwRMJ7A3Iv4B5yLBy9yyu9W7DPdCO0Ekn8U7nMaAhBidEUiU6kLTJp6dwA9zFTaNIo_A73slY4fD9eO-6u3qs57WlVE7Z0el9OOYzcUtHg/s1600/IMG_0152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>698</o:Words> <o:Characters>3982</o:Characters> <o:Lines>33</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>7</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>4890</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1287</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style>
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</style> <!--StartFragment-->Let me set the scene…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">500 people.<span> </span>Men on one side, women on the other.<span> </span>The announcer is speaking in a language, which, quite frankly, sounds like gibberish to me at this point in my service.<span> </span>I hear my name and applause welcome my every step towards the podium.<span> </span>There the crowd is waiting, with breath bated.<span> </span>I stifle my nerves and let the prose flow forth…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Azul…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The rest of my speech is temporarily halted, as I am overwhelmed with roars of approval from the audience.<span> </span>All I said was “hello” in Tashelhit (one of the three Berber dialects here in Morocco).<span> </span>I feel like Obama at Cairo University, when his “salam ale-kum” was received with resounding approval.<span> </span>A smile is plastered across my face for the rest of my speech. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.<span> </span>Well, let’s be honest: I was tricked.<span> </span>I was “taken” (read: abducted) to a Berber New Year party (yes folks, we are finally in year 2961, l’hamdullilah).<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinmUknD-rTRoYsBgZkP9zCZcDgiKAupPWwgDqLM3anYEwV9OhQBLLTOrQ4Y1mMkVU5FHLPW7F4B2sei-XVHqxDn06SwqAwXCRI7aQ4GqdEuvqfxHaDSCSAk600YOPBldyUoi0nQQQ-occ/s1600/169043_1423065397131_1847612105_809089_490088_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinmUknD-rTRoYsBgZkP9zCZcDgiKAupPWwgDqLM3anYEwV9OhQBLLTOrQ4Y1mMkVU5FHLPW7F4B2sei-XVHqxDn06SwqAwXCRI7aQ4GqdEuvqfxHaDSCSAk600YOPBldyUoi0nQQQ-occ/s320/169043_1423065397131_1847612105_809089_490088_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the performers at the Berber New Year party. These men performed a traditional dance called, "aHwaj"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A friend appeared at my place of work decked out in traditional Moroccan wear: a key-lime pie colored jelaba with sequins and all.<span> </span>She immediately chastised me for not having my “party” clothes on.<span> </span>(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?).<span> </span>I head off into the darkness with her, deciding to trust that she has my best interests at heart.<span> </span>We arrive at a quite monstrous, circus-like tent, whereupon I am greeted by her fellow association members.<span> </span>The Tazerzite Association – the local Berber pride association – is putting on this fête.<span> </span>Two of them pull me aside and basically guilt-trip me into making a speech.<span> </span>I should have known.<span> </span>I’m such a sucker.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That was mid-January.<span> </span>Since then, I’ve dived right into my work.<span> </span>I’ve been working at the Dar Chabab every day.<span> </span>I teach way too many English classes, but I really do love my kids. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWoUuJp0T0K8YZTr9Mp0PQhdW82hgm3p9ugkoZkUkv7wbaNZ9OZLuI0ThIDYwos8a80n2JaqQ1TaO4VxXFXg75q1F9J0EhEFspJqLsbYvd8EgMBg_7PvXRS40gqwpS34neT-c671jEDUM/s1600/IMG_0105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWoUuJp0T0K8YZTr9Mp0PQhdW82hgm3p9ugkoZkUkv7wbaNZ9OZLuI0ThIDYwos8a80n2JaqQ1TaO4VxXFXg75q1F9J0EhEFspJqLsbYvd8EgMBg_7PvXRS40gqwpS34neT-c671jEDUM/s320/IMG_0105.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An English lesson. On the left, the kids wrote in Arabic, "Devil, Boogy-man." Isn't she a beauty?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We recently had a basketball hoop erected, which has led to endless games of 2v2 action.<span> </span>On weekends, I’ve begun playing Ultimate Frisbee with my kids.<span> </span>At first they were quite skeptical of this weird looking “flying plate” – that’s the literal translation.<span> </span>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.<span> </span>Besides that, we draw all the time – I have quite a few aspiring artists in the class.<span> </span>I even attempted making bracelets with the little girls.<span> </span>That ended with a few hundred beads on the floor.<span> </span>We play lots of games – Monopoly is, by far, the most loved board game.<span> </span>Let me tell you, these kids are excellent bargainers; when the game is at a standstill, their genetic predisposition (my theory) to trade you <span style="color: red;">Illinois Ave</span> for <span style="color: blue;">Park Place</span> and <span style="color: blue;">Boardwalk</span> makes it seem like it was your idea to lose the game.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Otherwise, I’ve been on an epic journey for the past month. I went to Ourzazate for a Peace Corps training in early February.<span> </span>Ourzazate is where they filmed Star Wars; just imagine the Mars-like landscape.<span> </span>The roads to get there were treacherous.<span> </span>We had a projectile-vomiting casualty in the front seat of our taxi.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLFQqRhKgyzdUgjRhp_hUkLved3Jc8ybcZ5PtU7qF40Y0ne7DgccdOJJ78cFcAjLdf4r8woNnmTN9YeDOK0TROUbIWhHofio-QsLG5t9uYnq-7MuttjAd9eofJgRuoln9OF18XpRz-DKs/s1600/182202_10100189901093532_5110253_55607149_5619674_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLFQqRhKgyzdUgjRhp_hUkLved3Jc8ybcZ5PtU7qF40Y0ne7DgccdOJJ78cFcAjLdf4r8woNnmTN9YeDOK0TROUbIWhHofio-QsLG5t9uYnq-7MuttjAd9eofJgRuoln9OF18XpRz-DKs/s320/182202_10100189901093532_5110253_55607149_5619674_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two fellow PCVs and myself in Ourzazate, along with Francisco, the dog we adopted for the day.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span></span>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?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNwQ4_WbiiBi4_0ABne9dSj3Ci9Vjw3piVf3-dGpsbPEcpgJZ27NzJmB3sbN6EXSoOj3pQKz_MF0z-s6gCxSR2W7SwnkpjU8IvayyhmQvKB5Yeudc_oMi599MRPj2m29xy1HVZ1ieDPiQ/s1600/DSC_3096.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNwQ4_WbiiBi4_0ABne9dSj3Ci9Vjw3piVf3-dGpsbPEcpgJZ27NzJmB3sbN6EXSoOj3pQKz_MF0z-s6gCxSR2W7SwnkpjU8IvayyhmQvKB5Yeudc_oMi599MRPj2m29xy1HVZ1ieDPiQ/s320/DSC_3096.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have no idea what's going on here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj06qYew4Srv7ioTWYjDt1RgmUB_2jV6Tzg3RwRMJ7A3Iv4B5yLBy9yyu9W7DPdCO0Ekn8U7nMaAhBidEUiU6kLTJp6dwA9zFTaNIo_A73slY4fD9eO-6u3qs57WlVE7Z0el9OOYzcUtHg/s1600/IMG_0152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj06qYew4Srv7ioTWYjDt1RgmUB_2jV6Tzg3RwRMJ7A3Iv4B5yLBy9yyu9W7DPdCO0Ekn8U7nMaAhBidEUiU6kLTJp6dwA9zFTaNIo_A73slY4fD9eO-6u3qs57WlVE7Z0el9OOYzcUtHg/s320/IMG_0152.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Azrou, we slept as snug as bugs in a rug. Oh ya, and there are two more beds hiding in the opposite corner.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmtiyjuTY8AW_-zCZ8URABwM22CzyRzbM-WohPStZ9c7frZDonB69SJU5hl656HGpxubYrJTFaRsPgq5De7-dwgQKW8GEFxD3MisqKLf7nu7ou9M0ZkJA6ghaGcI1F87SZn1WFo3cRkow/s1600/IMG_0193.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmtiyjuTY8AW_-zCZ8URABwM22CzyRzbM-WohPStZ9c7frZDonB69SJU5hl656HGpxubYrJTFaRsPgq5De7-dwgQKW8GEFxD3MisqKLf7nu7ou9M0ZkJA6ghaGcI1F87SZn1WFo3cRkow/s320/IMG_0193.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We made the most amazing project write-up ever. That's me in the pleated skirt.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This meeting included a Project Runway style fashion show, where we got to show off our best imitation of Moroccan fashions.<span> </span>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.”<span> </span>I know, you all wish you were there.<span> </span>We won for best choreography.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLxuyf0fqdBcEceQHVc7yXWCwcLq34MZnnssxYw4VyvOfInEup0YPTk61oKrWnGoO6DMLKoQzx69PK9FAzbeY93P4jKiO9eDZafZIxXBc2gmLZXXmo6KSpCD110PzEvp5MqaLEagw6OH4/s1600/DSC_3239.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLxuyf0fqdBcEceQHVc7yXWCwcLq34MZnnssxYw4VyvOfInEup0YPTk61oKrWnGoO6DMLKoQzx69PK9FAzbeY93P4jKiO9eDZafZIxXBc2gmLZXXmo6KSpCD110PzEvp5MqaLEagw6OH4/s320/DSC_3239.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The Hanans" in style. Pending our agent's permission, we will be making a reappearance at our next meeting in Marrakesh.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.<span> </span>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.<span> </span>Upon arrival, it turned out that our taxi driver knew every single one of our host families.<span> </span>He had attended Rachel’s sister’s baby ceremony thirteen years ago.<span> </span>The world is really just that small.<span> </span>After twenty-four hours straight of non-stop eating with our host families, we parted ways.<span> </span>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.<span> </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWJ6E-qMYUT2WfthZE7ofIufET6oe2HK_sLC62Uk8J_XnVIukVyaESt8ZgcgPuwD5mbf0j3AtAASNvqumTv8ZL4ArpgbgjXo7uh4-XEZ7w7AL41IJU4DdBocMghlWgoZIbzNYjMdAjBJI/s1600/IMG_0231.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWJ6E-qMYUT2WfthZE7ofIufET6oe2HK_sLC62Uk8J_XnVIukVyaESt8ZgcgPuwD5mbf0j3AtAASNvqumTv8ZL4ArpgbgjXo7uh4-XEZ7w7AL41IJU4DdBocMghlWgoZIbzNYjMdAjBJI/s320/IMG_0231.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beautiful leather shoes in the Medina in Fes. I couldn't help myself!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdHGdlMU6aWJmDtNWUl-oqBEAccbBTTKJwhBU9dX_mtepMIOJcFuGvwHc2PdjdEqpmCb97QIDMhLmYEo7zJ8cgu_f4oQ5deJdheA6f_emfMtD33r_xeRf3samlWn0MHtEqM6vXBFQ7_k/s1600/IMG_0237.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdHGdlMU6aWJmDtNWUl-oqBEAccbBTTKJwhBU9dX_mtepMIOJcFuGvwHc2PdjdEqpmCb97QIDMhLmYEo7zJ8cgu_f4oQ5deJdheA6f_emfMtD33r_xeRf3samlWn0MHtEqM6vXBFQ7_k/s320/IMG_0237.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fes is known for its blue-glazed pottery.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I did it all in a weekend-sized duffle bag.<span> </span>Who says you can’t wear the same outfit for seven days in a row?<span> </span>Builds character.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment--> </div>Hannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07002419743917074661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881808413407837465.post-79875527903560613172011-01-08T03:05:00.000-08:002011-01-20T14:54:55.930-08:00The Wonders of Plastic<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">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?<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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, <i>not</i> 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.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="mailto:hannah.e.beswick@gmail.com" target="_blank"></a></span></div>Hannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07002419743917074661noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881808413407837465.post-27245516845479279102010-12-03T15:29:00.000-08:002010-12-03T15:29:19.573-08:00The Desert is Sopping Wet. Oxymoron?<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">And now for the <b>big</b></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"> news...</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">I am no longer a PCT (trainee), but have officially been sworn in as a PCV (volunteer). Please, no applause necessary... </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwJ_EU4f53_3Dq626uO5ofulbZSi4QkyH6dEYxXIYv3xdIaQre6j7oG7l6WvgPCdeWpL9-CBkhJPvsguyogZBBz1ifBx6N0WHwU4s6kUrh7AnAsOd3i6Pwvj8TToChWe8klXaMhPl9Rpw/s1600/76693_530278261693_74200303_30914790_5170820_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwJ_EU4f53_3Dq626uO5ofulbZSi4QkyH6dEYxXIYv3xdIaQre6j7oG7l6WvgPCdeWpL9-CBkhJPvsguyogZBBz1ifBx6N0WHwU4s6kUrh7AnAsOd3i6Pwvj8TToChWe8klXaMhPl9Rpw/s320/76693_530278261693_74200303_30914790_5170820_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and my fellow YD PCVs after our swearing-in ceremony.</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">I arrived at my final site late last Friday night, after two long, hot and sweaty days of travel by train, taxi, bus, pick-up truck and foot. I some how misunderstood my host dad's instructions to "wait at the bus station" and ended up being graciously kidnapped by a Berber speaking family, with all of my stuff in tow - lugging around two years worth of stuff is no small feat. Suddenly, my "Intermediate-High" Darija language skills plummeted to zilch. Thankfully, I was eventually able to figure out that this family was going to babysit me and force-feed me immeasurable amounts of couscous and sweets until my dad got off work - 8 hours later. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">I'm now living in Taroudant Province, 1 1/2 hours south east of Agadir. This is where I'll be for the next two years. There is one main road that goes through town - so far its the only paved road I've seen. Otherwise, there's about 3,000 people in the town and an unknown number of surrounding villages. It's uber-conservative here. Most women in my town wear a loose outer garment and cover their hair Arab-style with a <i>fulwar</i></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"> (veil, <i>hijab</i></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">), and the Berber women swaddle themselves in these beautifully dyed and printed <i>lizars</i></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"> (sheets). To be fair, school-age girls generally wear non-fitted jeans and tunic to knee-length tops and cover their hair. Some men wear <i>jelabas</i></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"> (long robes with hoods dangling in the back), but most of them wear jeans and t-shirts/button-ups, Western-style.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">In other news, it's been pouring buckets non-stop for a week now. I have to say, I was quite taken aback when the rain would not relent; I naively assumed that it didn't rain much, if at all, in the desert. Little did I know... However, the sun decided to peek its head out today, but that doesn't make the muddy roads any more fun to trudge through. I'm also apparently the only one in town who wasn't in on the joke, and thus do not own rain boots.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">Things move at quite a slow pace here, which is definitely going to take some getting used to. My first full day here I decided to venture out into the big, bad world to make photocopies. It took me an hour to make twenty. That was the only activity I accomplished that day. I have spent this first week getting <i>wlft</i></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">, or accustomed, to my site. I visited my gendarmes, khalifa, and basha (local government officials), and I was somehow able to communicate to them why I was there (At least I think I did. There's a large chance that they took pity on my broken Darija and just "smiled and nodded" for my benefit). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">Otherwise, I've spent some time at my <i>Dar Chabeb</i></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"> (<i>DC</i></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">) and <i>Nedi Neswi</i></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"> (<i>NN</i></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">). There are zero-to-five kids yet so far at the <i>DC</i></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">, but I'm hoping that's due to the torrential downpours and flooding of the past week. Today, I spent three hours at the <i>DC</i></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"> and a few <i>lycee</i></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"> (high school) students showed up so I was able to talk to them about possible classes/activities. We had an impromptu English session, and we finished the day with a healthy dose of ping pong. I also met some of the ladies at the <i>NN</i></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">, and they have been lovely. They have graciously attempted to teach me how to crochet, all the while making fun of my lack of ability in anything that has to do with yarn or thread.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">As they say here, l'awn (good day). </span></div><!--EndFragment-->Hannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07002419743917074661noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881808413407837465.post-59759394190526008402010-12-03T15:21:00.000-08:002010-12-06T01:12:57.505-08:00Must. Eat. More. Howli....I mean sheep...First things first, I survived <i>Aed el-Kbir</i>, the biggest holiday in Islam. This holiday commemorates the story of Ibrahim and Ismael in the Quran; the same story is told in the the Torah and the Bible with Abraham and Issac. Basically, Ibrahim was about to sacrifice his only son to demonstrate his faith and submission to God when a goat/sheep appeared "in the thicket." God told Ibrahim to sacrifice the goat/sheep instead. Alas, we have <i>Aed el-Kbir</i>. <br />
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Now, you may be wondering why I chose the term "survived." Well, let's just say there was a lot of animal sacrifice going on. My family slaughtered nine sheep - one for every married male member of the household.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These are the first few sheep that arrived...if only they knew what was coming.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This one knew all too well...</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The open sewer full of blood must have alerted this one to his impending doom.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> We ate every single part of that sheep for five days. I ate kidney, intestine fat, liver, heart, stomach, head, eye sockets, legs, etc. Every morning for breakfast we ate liver kabobs swathed in intestine liver. Mmmm, scrumptious.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These cutie-pies are my twin 10-year-old host siblings, Simo and Mouniya. Those legs were our lunch the next day.<i><br />
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<i>L'Aed</i> is also a time when everyone gets dressed-up and receives presents - usually presents of clothes, but I thought I'd do it American style and give "stuff." The day was quite exciting, what with all the slaughtering going on and the hoo-ing and haw-ing over all the meat and how <i>zwinin</i> (beautiful) we all looked in our l'Aed outfits. Just to clarify though, our family only made us, the foreigners, wear traditional, Moroccan clothing. Everyone else was wearing suits and dresses.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> I must thank my dear cousins for this beautiful bubble-gum look. Note the red sequined headband.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3tAY2OApt01o-Dk8R5ZC4N2DQaBIjih_aUU4pueZWDZ0fFX0_erF_yevbvHGBfm6Ai4Mb_KKB_eAa6uZC-vxK4ProlQf27LxUamTDH7WJ9IhzgqjWjWWQIQJYDXENqcopMo8raTPoTOU/s1600/IMG_1152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3tAY2OApt01o-Dk8R5ZC4N2DQaBIjih_aUU4pueZWDZ0fFX0_erF_yevbvHGBfm6Ai4Mb_KKB_eAa6uZC-vxK4ProlQf27LxUamTDH7WJ9IhzgqjWjWWQIQJYDXENqcopMo8raTPoTOU/s320/IMG_1152.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The haze in this picture is due to the common practice of grilling inside the home. Don't ask why. Never, ever ask why</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">. </span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Five days of eating meat, and only meat, three meals a day, does not help with digestive issues. This was definitely a great holiday to experience, but if I miss it in the future, my stomach will thank me. <i>L'Aed</i> concluded our first home stay experience, so now I'm off to my new and exciting adventure in the South. Wish me luck.</span><o:p></o:p>Hannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07002419743917074661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881808413407837465.post-9257734367738983832010-11-12T11:27:00.000-08:002010-11-15T01:44:05.166-08:00I have a permanent site!!!<span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
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</style><span style="font-size: small;"> T<span style="font-size: small;">wo weeks ago, on a late Friday night, we all found out where we will be spending the next two years.</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"> After a blitz orientation to our new sites thanks to our stellar program managers, we were promptly set free to figure out how to get there on our own the very next morning. </span><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">I’ll be serving in a small town in southern Morocco.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> If you look at a map of Morocco, look for Agadir near the southern coast, and then I’m about an hour and a half SE of that via taxi.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> It takes two days of traveling overland to get there from Fes.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> It’s hot, super-conservative, and there’s a large chance that if I end up working in certain places, I’ll be learning Tashelhit (Tash for short), one of the three Berber dialects spoken in Morocco.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and my new site in the deep South.</td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Interestingly, I’m already learning what’s considered the hardest Peace Corps language, Darija, and then I might be learning another crazy-difficult one, Tash.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Did I also mention that my site is now experiencing “winter,” meaning that during the days, its about 85/90 F. IN NOVEMBER.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">On the plus side, laundry takes about an hour to dry, and I won’t be racking up a high electricity bill because it’s too hot to take a hot shower. Score!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">All ranting aside, my new host family is wonderful.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> My mom and dad are lovely and we already joke around quite a bit…at least I think we do.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> My Darija is still a work-in-progress, and I’m never quite sure if I fully understand what’s going on. Ever.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Otherwise, I have one younger brother, Youssef, and he is a ninja.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Seriously, he is the craziest 5-year-old I’ve ever met, but also the sweetest.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Otherwise, during my weeklong visit to my new site, I toured the central area quite a bit.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> There are about 3,000 people in my town, and a main road goes through the middle of town.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> This is wonderful because the closest taxi hub is about an hour due West, and you can only get to there from that hub if you hop in a cab going towards Taroudant, (a pretty, touristy place 20km East of me) and if you suck up and they are gracious enough to drop you off on their way.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> It’s a bit complicated, to say the least.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">I visited the Nedi Neswi (Women’s Club) and the Dar Chabeb (Youth Center), two places that I’ll most likely be spending a lot of my time.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> As I previously mentioned, Sebt is very conservative.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> You rarely see women unaccompanied outside, except for packs of girls going to and from school.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Only men hang out at the cafes, and in public in general, so I’ll have to figure out how to deal with not having a place to spend my free time besides my house, while still being “culturally appropriate.”</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Thankfully, Taroudant is only 20km away and I can go to any café I want there, woohoo!</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All the tajines you could ever want at our self-described "Pottery Barn" in Taroudant's souk.</td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Otherwise, I’m almost finished with my 2½ months of training. We only have a little over a week to go. We just spent the last 6 hours with over 100 kids having a belated Halloween party at the Dar Chabeb. We made masks and origami, played pin-the-nose on the pumpkin, and bobbed for apples. My fingers are basically bleeding from cutting out 200 eye holes in those masks. Thankfully no one got hypothermia from bobbing for apples in the freezing weather! </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of my kids at the Dar Chabeb. This is what happens when you attempt an activity with shaving cream.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1NojrYTpPBbDKlfJcqbJUfyDPf71sA4VQ8fMEg-bnM7Nihyphenhyphenxjmi0_odIjQuCPpg_DSPkh52DZnGgX1O1V92iwn19bOUCZXQ5mGD6hHdUIwaPu2YU9gDdhBcVArGAtCLHq-pWKBAHV11c/s1600/IMG_0517.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> Next week is our last week of studying Darija intensively with our CBT groups, and then we have our language proficiency exam (LPI) the following week. If we don’t at least get the “Novice High” ranking on our LPI, we get sent home. No pressure or anything. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Love and hugs from Ras el-Ma, i.e. “Head of the Water,” where the water shut off today.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> How ironic.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Hannah</span></div>Hannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07002419743917074661noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881808413407837465.post-3123198558240165732010-10-11T10:42:00.000-07:002010-10-11T10:42:30.704-07:00One more thing...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. <br />
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Not a single one.Hannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07002419743917074661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881808413407837465.post-64843205787910660452010-10-11T10:21:00.000-07:002010-11-15T02:59:20.082-08:00The saga OFFICIALLY begins!<a href="http://www.mazikaboc.com/"></a><o:p></o:p> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">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...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMszhhkOFxmFTc_YVAnmqdRzp1LhV3MJRABOwUQZVCJ3zDeC4PsfwMgpCFVFmLSL4Um8ru0NthKJRw_DtcXddxx2RcNxSbbTiC_1ADHXcjBdWa-uyeAsrgOmT8fom7vJCdZlYC3pF7R0I/s1600/IMG_0554.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMszhhkOFxmFTc_YVAnmqdRzp1LhV3MJRABOwUQZVCJ3zDeC4PsfwMgpCFVFmLSL4Um8ru0NthKJRw_DtcXddxx2RcNxSbbTiC_1ADHXcjBdWa-uyeAsrgOmT8fom7vJCdZlYC3pF7R0I/s320/IMG_0554.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Step 1: Morph your hand into a claw.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSsoPWjLrcvfhuZBi1f7c1Hw4R9qP-ZaHFMkKhgDJC4LRLXJUO5ImDbTRx3DSIAuDiVTIggFnfIENHsFvd6mUxov1APZadSHm37kzDVp5yiWLuiRLdWL3JzUt0d5AnZCEqZ4TiwRLV-BU/s1600/IMG_0562.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSsoPWjLrcvfhuZBi1f7c1Hw4R9qP-ZaHFMkKhgDJC4LRLXJUO5ImDbTRx3DSIAuDiVTIggFnfIENHsFvd6mUxov1APZadSHm37kzDVp5yiWLuiRLdWL3JzUt0d5AnZCEqZ4TiwRLV-BU/s320/IMG_0562.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Step 2: Use mushy, overcooked veggies as a bonding agent.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhatH6OvJSoUxDkOmbV6-8imHLWDnm2Q2lD84BBODKb7qx1_tN8dHrjYqrW3d11ZZqmBFf_s5veZ8lLzsHse57Mz7D_LreOBv1-QGlAijenisHodkvjzioE1eyOR2kYWBf48C5nEIpXnlk/s1600/IMG_0563.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhatH6OvJSoUxDkOmbV6-8imHLWDnm2Q2lD84BBODKb7qx1_tN8dHrjYqrW3d11ZZqmBFf_s5veZ8lLzsHse57Mz7D_LreOBv1-QGlAijenisHodkvjzioE1eyOR2kYWBf48C5nEIpXnlk/s320/IMG_0563.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Step 3: Shake couscous in your hand until you've lost a sufficient amount of it on the table and stained your clothes.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiehuKcsficVLcl4P-2AITb7ZMRt2S94THaV_mI0kqdyBpWev0OfFuNHI9SCUmNuFtH5grd80J7gZ8QRMV_FH-452MAbyCrHTltRT1gC5ZP7Ff3_jhS3lGMNNgnridlBYHCyXANNbphdho/s1600/IMG_0559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiehuKcsficVLcl4P-2AITb7ZMRt2S94THaV_mI0kqdyBpWev0OfFuNHI9SCUmNuFtH5grd80J7gZ8QRMV_FH-452MAbyCrHTltRT1gC5ZP7Ff3_jhS3lGMNNgnridlBYHCyXANNbphdho/s320/IMG_0559.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">On Sunday the 19<sup>th</sup> 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.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p>Darn French schooling system.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKybL1TZ-dJsYkC_J2P9EJZwFIbmiSxlAmT0ygRNA9P00rPXmpDuJv-kxATd2ULlL_fSlfKnNo2Fdfj4JAiYfgcP6sAvvxHWqS9svCRxyc-CzpHzgw6BDtXg98VgEJ7FquM7wVEf613jk/s1600/IMG_0596.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKybL1TZ-dJsYkC_J2P9EJZwFIbmiSxlAmT0ygRNA9P00rPXmpDuJv-kxATd2ULlL_fSlfKnNo2Fdfj4JAiYfgcP6sAvvxHWqS9svCRxyc-CzpHzgw6BDtXg98VgEJ7FquM7wVEf613jk/s320/IMG_0596.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My PCV faves.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">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.<o:p></o:p> It’s exhausting.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ3K6t8aRwaIr_lA87X3Y0dLtNaWAKJnoMUO24eE3FNYULgQWkhp22MZsBDMGKTmLM2SgvvLCQATU9ZhZPfN3L2faA1coyVs3HeX1kAQTbMSpG31LY8fr3MP-W3C_tvKhRRSI9ntVI5aM/s1600/IMG_0075.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ3K6t8aRwaIr_lA87X3Y0dLtNaWAKJnoMUO24eE3FNYULgQWkhp22MZsBDMGKTmLM2SgvvLCQATU9ZhZPfN3L2faA1coyVs3HeX1kAQTbMSpG31LY8fr3MP-W3C_tvKhRRSI9ntVI5aM/s320/IMG_0075.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Studying" in our self-directed learning time.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">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.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuKDQKD7LTpA-HWlqJaFKe8qIdrS1WSxepU__0swBZVHEGTe7imHwORx_lTNdWf5kLbeRR4jN-kJsZAO7aXEef4rM_vScSixDFmxDC1OJRfTsj22iYdUO5q2RyxmbqKgmAqODnK33RqK8/s1600/65938_461104417408_558557408_5529738_8364858_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuKDQKD7LTpA-HWlqJaFKe8qIdrS1WSxepU__0swBZVHEGTe7imHwORx_lTNdWf5kLbeRR4jN-kJsZAO7aXEef4rM_vScSixDFmxDC1OJRfTsj22iYdUO5q2RyxmbqKgmAqODnK33RqK8/s320/65938_461104417408_558557408_5529738_8364858_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and my siblings with a fellow PCV.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Now onto the ridiculous part of my adventure...<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve been in Morocco for just over three weeks, and I’ve already managed to injure myself. On Sunday, October 3<sup>rd</sup>, 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.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh67c5Txi3DH-MTIA-n_IxTnCIbie6OdcYJuF1Q2aSJ2kMN_3kIMp1TKYbQidjEaDlzSRMMk1gKO2FzwUi2YG98hBnj_nkGWGHkdUucB02oqwbV-jtqLeDB7CdlvYA4KSAK6MNb__Z60hk/s1600/IMG_0240.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh67c5Txi3DH-MTIA-n_IxTnCIbie6OdcYJuF1Q2aSJ2kMN_3kIMp1TKYbQidjEaDlzSRMMk1gKO2FzwUi2YG98hBnj_nkGWGHkdUucB02oqwbV-jtqLeDB7CdlvYA4KSAK6MNb__Z60hk/s320/IMG_0240.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and my 7-year-old sister on our way to school.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">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… <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But seriously, I am. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">I keep trying to tell myself that this is all part of “the experience.” Here’s hoping. </span>Hannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07002419743917074661noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881808413407837465.post-34883574992246200352009-10-17T15:16:00.001-07:002009-12-17T18:36:05.851-08:00My New Life PlanSalem-ale-kum habibis,<br />
<br />
I know you've all been waiting with breath bated for my new placement (and if I was even going to continue with the Peace Corps). I have been offered Albania or Kyrgyzstan this coming March, but for some reason, after sitting on it for a week or so, neither one of them really seemed to catch my fancy. It's about 4 1/2 months until the March departure date for either of those placements, and 4 1/2 months seems like too long to wait for a placement that I only have lukewarm feelings for (as all of you know, patience is a virtue which I lack). After many, <i>many</i> phone calls with my placement officer in Washington, I have found pretty much the perfect placement. It leaves in July, which gives me the entire next semester to study Arabic in Egypt at a wonderful language school that I have found in a lovely area of Cairo. And, the best part: It will allow me to utilize my Arabic and French skills...and maybe learn Berber too! If you haven't guessed yet, I am set to leave in July of 2010 for...drum roll please...MOROCCO!!! Now I'm off to dig out those Arabic books, dust off my exorbitant collection of French grammar books (eek!), and take the GREs pre-departure. <br />
<br />
Salam,<br />
<span style="color: #888888;">Hannah</span>Hannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07002419743917074661noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881808413407837465.post-40391735876761092062009-10-12T18:45:00.000-07:002010-12-07T09:28:58.826-08:00And so the saga begins...In case you haven't already heard, I am, quite sadly, not in the Turk. After getting to Philly to meet all of my amazing fellow-PCVs, and after dotting all the I's and crossing all the T's of a gazillion forms, we all introduced ourselves to one another, saying something we had learned about Turkmenistan. We laughed and poked fun at , well, let's just say, the "interesting" facts-of-life in the Turk: a banningon recorded music, opera, ballet; the recently deceased president naming the months after his wives; the existence of an official melon day b/c the aforementioned president loved melons so much; replacing doctors and nurses with unqualified military conscripts b/c the same guy liked to have total military control over everything, in effect making it illegal to ban communicable diseases like HIV, etc...you get the picture.<br />
<br />
So we all have a good chuckle. Then the Director of the Peace Corps for Eastern Europe, Central Asia, and Asia introduces himself. As Mr. Ferrell would say, he's kind of a big deal. We were so honored to have him come and speak to us.<br />
<br />
Until he opened his mouth. Apparently, earlier that morning, the government of Turkmenistan sent an email to the U.S. PC office in Washington saying that they were welcoming PCVs for 2010. Washington thought it was a typo, so our country director called.<br />
<br />
It wasn't a typo.<br />
<br />
Apparently, THAT MORNING, it was decided (or at least we Americans were told) that we were no longer welcome in Turkmenistan, even after we had all been issued visas the week prior. It's currently 2 weeks post-rejection, and no one in the Peace Corps has any idea why the Turkmen government decided this. Everyone was (and still is) just flabbergasted. <br />
<br />
Through the grapevine, we heard that it was politics as usual. This <a href="http://www.chrono-tm.org/en/?id=1193">article</a> discusses the Turkmen government preventing its students from returning to their studies at the American University of Central Asia in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. Apparently, their government was peeved that U.S. officials intervened, so they decided to bar Peace Corps volunteers from entering Turkmenistan.<br />
<br />
Talk about middle-school drama.<br />
<br />
Even the New York Times posted an <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/aponline/2009/10/09/world/AP-AS-Turkmenistan-Peace-Corps.html?scp=4&sq=turkmenistan&st=cse">article</a> about us.<br />
<br />
So, to put it plainly, I got screwed by Turkmenistan. Now that's a real life FML. So the next time you get dumped by someone, and the mention of that special someone's name makes you cry on command as you devour that gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream, just remember: I got dumped. By a country. Beat that.Hannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07002419743917074661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881808413407837465.post-74816870347957042622009-07-22T08:22:00.000-07:002009-07-22T08:25:25.435-07:002 Months and Counting...Hey All...<br /><br />So, for those of you who don't know, I've been involved in the Peace Corps process for the past 7 months. Yesterday I found out where I'll be stationed for the next 27 months. So exciting, I know! I had told many of you I'd be going somewhere in Eastern Europe, as that is what I was being told by the PC, but you know how things go with the government and bureaucracy.<br /><br />...and...drum roll please...I'm going to TURKMENISTAN!!! <br /><br />I leave for this adventure on September 29, so I have a little over two months to get myself ready. I'll be Teaching English as a Foreign Language (TEFL) to primary and/or secondary school students. If anyone knows of anyone who teaches ESL, I'd greatly<br />appreciate it if you could share their information with me, as I want to see what I can learn before I leave.<br /><br />Fun fact: the recently deceased president-for-life (2006) banned ballet and opera, beards and long hair (among other things). It's only a recently independent state (1991), as it was part of the Soviet Union. Turkmen is the national language, though Russian is considered the language of "inter ethnic communication" (love that Wikipedia). Its bordered by Iran and Afghanistan to the SE and SW, and Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan to the NE and NW.<br /><br />Ciao (if I knew how to say "bye" in Turkmen I would),<br /><span style="color:#888888;">Hannah<br /></span>Hannahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07002419743917074661noreply@blogger.com1