I suppose that you Americans, as tax payers, are entitled to know what I am doing out here living in Morocco off government money. (a whole $250 a month!)
This blog will, hopefully, enlighten you to the fact that I am actually WORKING-- quite a lot too.
Well, I teach English about 15 hours a week. Only 9 of that is in class, the rest is private sessions that I schedule when requested. I teach at the Dar Chebab, which is the youth center. The kids who attend those classes are mostly boys, though some girls and at the high school-ish level. I teach there in the afternoon/early evening- after school. (hopefully more girls will come once the sun starts setting later and it's actually light outside when they get out of school.) They are generally between the ages of 15 and 30. When I first knew I would be doing "Youth Development" what I thought "youth" were is different from the Moroccan concept of youth. Here, youth are high school-aged people or young, unemployed, unmarried adults. They are referred to as "Chebbab." (pronounced Sheh-BAB with a flat "a" as in cat) I also teach at the Nedi Neswi, which is the women's center. Those women are just coming to get out of their house for a few hours and generally are not learning English for any practical purpose. Those women are their twenties and have kids at home and households to maintain, so I teach them when their kids are at school. It's not very serious and we mostly just have fun.
So WHY am I teaching English? This is not the main goal of Peace Corps, especially considering that I'm not in the education sector-- and this is a Francophone country. The point of it is to meet people and get integrated into my community. The idea is that from meeting people through teaching English I can get my hands in other local development work, partnering with local associations/clubs. One of the goals of Peace Corps is sustainability-- meaning, after a volunteer has left, the work s/he did will continue on with local people. So to do that, that means that we have to collaborate with other associations/clubs and work with local resources-- not just pumping money or outside resources in, like donations. The good news is that this technique is working! I actually have projects and activities coming up. This whole concept was intimidating at first because they send you off into the middle of nowhere and tell you to find projects when you don't know the language or the people. And what kept coming through my mind is "WHAT projects? HOW?" But lo and behold, they are coming full speed. So on Friday I'm actually doing a tree planting project at the lycee (which is the high school). This particular local association called, Al Manar, is a group of well-educated but mostly unemployed men who mainly do informal education classes. By informal, I mean, they hold evening classes for kids who have left school already. By law, you can't leave school until 15 but that rule tends to be ignored out here in L'Arobeya (the countryside). Nobody gets in trouble if your kid leaves school early to work, especially if you are nomadic tent people. So this association works with those kids. They collaborate with the high school too to encourage people to stay in school. So I think the tree planting thing on Friday is just a way to be visible in the community.
I also have been meeting with an environmental club. I haven't quite figured out what they want to do, but I've been attending their meetings and they seem to be pretty organized. They are about my age.
Another club I've been meeting with at the Dar Chebab is made up of younger kids (like, early high school age) and they have said they want to be a club of "environment, theater, and sports." WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? So what I've gathered is that most of the clubs (as opposed to the associations, which are documented and official) are really unfocused. And this serves as a microcosm to their lives. Like, they have dreams and ideas and goals, but they have zero skills in actualizing these goals. This club is an example because they want to do all these things and then, because it's so unfocused, they end up doing nothing. So I feel like my role in this is to encourage them and say "ok you want to do x activity? Great. What's the first step we need to take to make this happen?" While this may seem logical, apparently it is not. This will probably be my main influence in the community. Sure, it's not as tangible as installing a water tower or something like that, but it is surely important and surely "youth development." Which, inchAllah, will translate into "adult development."
The youth I'm working with are so idle. And it's not completely their fault. A beautiful thing about the Arab culture here is that family is So important. People put family before everything else and they are intensely close and protective. One consequence of this is that people are not generally willing to leave their home town to find work. They will take whatever they can find to be home with their families. Yes, many emigrate if given the opportunity, but this is a huge and painful sacrifice for the one who emigrates. So, when these young 20-somethings can't find work, they tend to wallow around and hang out in cafes complaining about it. Or they get grand ideas and become really excited about them....and then they sit in the cafes talking about it, because how does one even go about making one's dreams come true? Where are the examples that they can follow?
So this is the feel I've gotten from my city since arriving the first week of December. Over the remaining 1 year and 10 months, I will really push my effort into teaching, both formally and by example, how to have an idea, a goal, and follow through with it, step by step. Melanie, the volunteer I replaced, has already started paving the way for this. Right before she left she had a conference called "learning to serve: multiplying the power of volunteerism" that was basically a leadership conference for "youth" where they learned these leadership/goal actualizing skills I've been referring to. So, hopefully, as the new volunteer, I will be able to build off of what Melanie began and create some empowered young adults.
Good use of your tax dollars?
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The Concept of Hshuma
This entry will be about what is polite and acceptable in Moroccan society and how it can be almost comically different from what we'd think of in the U.S. as polite. What's important to understand is the concept of "Hshuma." It means "shameful" and is not as serious as something that is Haram. Something "haram" is kind of like something that is an abomination, or not kosher. Specifically, these are practices that are outlawed in the Koran. As one 14-year-old put it so even an Arabic beginner like me could understand, Haram is sin in the eyes of God and Hshuma is sin in the eyes of people.
Now begins the contrast.
What isn't Hshuma in the U.S. but is Hshuma here:
- blowing your nose. The Moroccan people would rather have you sniffling all day long than see or hear you blow your nose. Nothing could be grosser to these people. Blowing your nose at the dinner table might well cause your Moroccan host to not be able to eat. This is something I struggle with as being someone always plagued by bad sinuses. Sometimes I just have to commit the Hshuma act and do it anyway. For example, on Monday I was taking a bus to my town from Errachidia. It was freezing and I was not feeling well. I figured these people will just get over it and I blew my nose more than a few times on that five-hour bus ride full of cigarette smoke and dust. Some people did the half-turn around like "eew, who's this disgusting foreigner" but they'll just have to move on with their lives and get over it.
- Women laughing or talking loudly in the street: I don't want to explain this one because I don't like it. But in my particularly conservative city of Morocco, women do not laugh in public. They stay stoic as statues while walking in the streets. I guess it's seen as improper to show such blatant emotion in mixed company on a public street. I fail at this one too.
- Married women traveling alone: This is Hshuma because, according to one man I talked to, she must be up to no good since there should be no reason she'd even want to travel without her husband. I don't think that this is a universal Hshuma in Morocco.
- Any mixed gender friendships are generally looked down upon except among people you've known since you were really young. Then you refer to them like "xuya" (brother) or "xti" (sister).
- Smoking: Whether it's cigarettes or hashish or shishah (hookah) all are most definitely regarded as Hshuma and some people would argue that they are Haram. The funny thing is that I would say that at least 80% of men in my city smoke, but they only do so in the cafes, not at home around the women where it would be considered disrespectful. The women all tell me that their husbands (or sons, if this is a match making situation) don't smoke, no sir. But I always want to laugh because later I'll meet their husbands (or sons) who will absolutely reek of cigarette smoke. A woman who smokes is going to be given the label of prostitute -- no arguments. Women DO NOT smoke...at least not where anybody can see.
- Not taking your shoes off on the carpet: Carpets are clean spaces because 1) they're expensive and 2) that is where people pray. When praying, it must be on a clean space, so people pray on carpets. Therefore, ALWAYS take your shoes off on the carpet.
- Announcing that you're going to the restroom: If you say that's where you're going it gets weird and awkward. You're supposed to just go. We all know where you're going and nobody will ask.
I'm sure there are other things that are Hshuma in Morocco but not in the U.S. that maybe I just haven't figured out yet. Maybe I even commit them. Hopefully if I am making serious cultural errors without knowing it, someone will enlighten me.
Now for the (longer) list of things that are Hshuma for the U.S. but not Hshuma here:
- Spitting on the street in public: I'm talking men hawking big loogies within arms reach of somebody else. Even in mixed company this is fine. I've even seen women spit on the street, though not as frequently. And I can't blow my nose???
- Belching: People are free to burp right at the dinner table or anywhere else they please. Sometimes while talking close to your face and in the middle of a sentence. It's not considered rude at all. Afterwards they may say "LHamdullah" which means roughly "Thank you Lord!" This often makes me want to gag, but that's probably how they feel about my nose blowing.
- Sneezing/Coughing without covering your mouth: This one is difficult for me to stomach as well, especially because I will often get showered with the ocean spray of other people's germs. This may exist in my city because we have a relatively low level of education. I was able to teach my host sisters to please not cough in my face and explain to them that millions of germs fly out at a thousand miles an hour and will get me sick. After you sneeze you say "lHamdullah" because, according to one 11-year-old, your heart stops when you sneeze and you say "lHamdullah" so that it starts again. That might just be a child's thing to say though.
- Scratching: men scratch wherever they want, whenever they want, all the time. Even just walking down the street. Women scratch wherever they feel the need, as long as they are not with mixed company and behind closed doors.
- Licking your fingers during/after a meal: This, at first, grossed me out since it makes horrible smacking noises. But I have since embraced it and find it a delicious way to end a meal.
- Talking with your mouth full: This still grosses me out. Especially if you're talking with your mouth full, within one foot of my face and let out a large belch. Though I'm always impressed that this never seems to dampen the conversation -- at least on their end.
- A little body odor never hurt anyone: I don't want this to be too much of an insulting blog post, but it is true. There is no expectation of changing your clothes every day and most people do not wear deodorant, so a little body odor is a natural occurrence. To tell you the truth, it is bothering me less and less, as long as we're not in closed quarters. It's kind of a relief to not have to change my clothes every day. You wouldn't either if you were hand-washing everything. I don't think I smell though, I shower twice a week which is more than enough in this dry, and still wintery, desert community. Most people shower once a week.
- Cutting in line: this is kind of a joke because I often find myself thinking "Line? What line?" A "line" is what you make of it. The few times I have tried to form a line in my brain out of a group of people I end up not moving anywhere, as people just get in front of me. It has been difficult to feel comfortable with just worming my way to the front like the rest of them, but nobody seems to mind. I often get helped first because I'm a foreigner. Nobody seems too upset about this because people accept this as a reality of whatever social station they were born into. Almost like it was their destiny to be helped at the post office after me. Pre-ordained destiny is a huge belief in this culture. While this is good for me when trying to get bureaucratic things done, this is not good from a development standpoint and an equal rights standpoint. I hear people get testier about this during Ramadan, though, when everybody is hungry. This coming Ramadan begins on August 1st, where it will still be 120 degrees outside and everyone will be starving and the men will be nicotine deprived.
-Not introducing someone you're with to someone else you happen to run into: If you're walking along the street with a friend and run into another friend, you're not expected to introduce your two friends to each other. They can do that themselves if they so desire. I got "Hshuma-ed" (I usually use it as a verb when I'm speaking English) big time the other day for introducing a girl I was walking with to a male student from the Dar Chebab. Afterward she said ":Hshuma, Abigail, I can't be seen talking to teenage boys...." Oh well, live and learn. The people here are very patient with me.
- Calling a million times in a row: Unfortunately, Moroccan girls and guys think that it's OK to call you over and over and over again if you don't answer. As if I didn't see your missed call the first time around. I have gotten Hshuma-ed through text message for rejecting calls while in a meeting. It's like I'm their lifeline on Who Wants To Be a Millionaire and I'm not answering the phone; that is the fervor with which they call repeatedly. This is not just for me either, they seem to call each other like this too.
- Not brushing your teeth: I haven't figured out what the toothbrushing protocol here is, but it is most certainly not expected daily.
- Inviting yourself over: In fact, it's Hshuma to NOT invite yourself over. That is the way that somebody shows they are interested in being your friend -- they come over, unannounced, usually around lunch time or tea time in the afternoon. It's considered friendly and neighborly. Then you and your guest sit and have tea or lunch and spend a few hours together. This is probably my favorite freedom of this culture. I never feel like I am intruding and am always perfectly welcome. Though I still struggle with inviting myself over. I get Hshuma-ed sometimes for not coming over and they always say the same thing "Do you know the way to get here? Yes? Then where have you been!? Hshuma!" This will probably make me a much better hostess when I'm back states-side. I also have the benefit of living in a closed apartment complex where people cannot invite themselves into my apartment. Best of both worlds, though quite selfish of me.
I'm sure I will uncover more of these cultural intricacies over the next year and ten months. (I just passed the 4-months-in-country mark! Already!?) I'll add to the list as I discover new things!
I know I promised meal time etiquette, but I was inspired to write this first. I promise I will work on a blog for mealtime etiquette for the next entry.
Now begins the contrast.
What isn't Hshuma in the U.S. but is Hshuma here:
- blowing your nose. The Moroccan people would rather have you sniffling all day long than see or hear you blow your nose. Nothing could be grosser to these people. Blowing your nose at the dinner table might well cause your Moroccan host to not be able to eat. This is something I struggle with as being someone always plagued by bad sinuses. Sometimes I just have to commit the Hshuma act and do it anyway. For example, on Monday I was taking a bus to my town from Errachidia. It was freezing and I was not feeling well. I figured these people will just get over it and I blew my nose more than a few times on that five-hour bus ride full of cigarette smoke and dust. Some people did the half-turn around like "eew, who's this disgusting foreigner" but they'll just have to move on with their lives and get over it.
- Women laughing or talking loudly in the street: I don't want to explain this one because I don't like it. But in my particularly conservative city of Morocco, women do not laugh in public. They stay stoic as statues while walking in the streets. I guess it's seen as improper to show such blatant emotion in mixed company on a public street. I fail at this one too.
- Married women traveling alone: This is Hshuma because, according to one man I talked to, she must be up to no good since there should be no reason she'd even want to travel without her husband. I don't think that this is a universal Hshuma in Morocco.
- Any mixed gender friendships are generally looked down upon except among people you've known since you were really young. Then you refer to them like "xuya" (brother) or "xti" (sister).
- Smoking: Whether it's cigarettes or hashish or shishah (hookah) all are most definitely regarded as Hshuma and some people would argue that they are Haram. The funny thing is that I would say that at least 80% of men in my city smoke, but they only do so in the cafes, not at home around the women where it would be considered disrespectful. The women all tell me that their husbands (or sons, if this is a match making situation) don't smoke, no sir. But I always want to laugh because later I'll meet their husbands (or sons) who will absolutely reek of cigarette smoke. A woman who smokes is going to be given the label of prostitute -- no arguments. Women DO NOT smoke...at least not where anybody can see.
- Not taking your shoes off on the carpet: Carpets are clean spaces because 1) they're expensive and 2) that is where people pray. When praying, it must be on a clean space, so people pray on carpets. Therefore, ALWAYS take your shoes off on the carpet.
- Announcing that you're going to the restroom: If you say that's where you're going it gets weird and awkward. You're supposed to just go. We all know where you're going and nobody will ask.
I'm sure there are other things that are Hshuma in Morocco but not in the U.S. that maybe I just haven't figured out yet. Maybe I even commit them. Hopefully if I am making serious cultural errors without knowing it, someone will enlighten me.
Now for the (longer) list of things that are Hshuma for the U.S. but not Hshuma here:
- Spitting on the street in public: I'm talking men hawking big loogies within arms reach of somebody else. Even in mixed company this is fine. I've even seen women spit on the street, though not as frequently. And I can't blow my nose???
- Belching: People are free to burp right at the dinner table or anywhere else they please. Sometimes while talking close to your face and in the middle of a sentence. It's not considered rude at all. Afterwards they may say "LHamdullah" which means roughly "Thank you Lord!" This often makes me want to gag, but that's probably how they feel about my nose blowing.
- Sneezing/Coughing without covering your mouth: This one is difficult for me to stomach as well, especially because I will often get showered with the ocean spray of other people's germs. This may exist in my city because we have a relatively low level of education. I was able to teach my host sisters to please not cough in my face and explain to them that millions of germs fly out at a thousand miles an hour and will get me sick. After you sneeze you say "lHamdullah" because, according to one 11-year-old, your heart stops when you sneeze and you say "lHamdullah" so that it starts again. That might just be a child's thing to say though.
- Scratching: men scratch wherever they want, whenever they want, all the time. Even just walking down the street. Women scratch wherever they feel the need, as long as they are not with mixed company and behind closed doors.
- Licking your fingers during/after a meal: This, at first, grossed me out since it makes horrible smacking noises. But I have since embraced it and find it a delicious way to end a meal.
- Talking with your mouth full: This still grosses me out. Especially if you're talking with your mouth full, within one foot of my face and let out a large belch. Though I'm always impressed that this never seems to dampen the conversation -- at least on their end.
- A little body odor never hurt anyone: I don't want this to be too much of an insulting blog post, but it is true. There is no expectation of changing your clothes every day and most people do not wear deodorant, so a little body odor is a natural occurrence. To tell you the truth, it is bothering me less and less, as long as we're not in closed quarters. It's kind of a relief to not have to change my clothes every day. You wouldn't either if you were hand-washing everything. I don't think I smell though, I shower twice a week which is more than enough in this dry, and still wintery, desert community. Most people shower once a week.
- Cutting in line: this is kind of a joke because I often find myself thinking "Line? What line?" A "line" is what you make of it. The few times I have tried to form a line in my brain out of a group of people I end up not moving anywhere, as people just get in front of me. It has been difficult to feel comfortable with just worming my way to the front like the rest of them, but nobody seems to mind. I often get helped first because I'm a foreigner. Nobody seems too upset about this because people accept this as a reality of whatever social station they were born into. Almost like it was their destiny to be helped at the post office after me. Pre-ordained destiny is a huge belief in this culture. While this is good for me when trying to get bureaucratic things done, this is not good from a development standpoint and an equal rights standpoint. I hear people get testier about this during Ramadan, though, when everybody is hungry. This coming Ramadan begins on August 1st, where it will still be 120 degrees outside and everyone will be starving and the men will be nicotine deprived.
-Not introducing someone you're with to someone else you happen to run into: If you're walking along the street with a friend and run into another friend, you're not expected to introduce your two friends to each other. They can do that themselves if they so desire. I got "Hshuma-ed" (I usually use it as a verb when I'm speaking English) big time the other day for introducing a girl I was walking with to a male student from the Dar Chebab. Afterward she said ":Hshuma, Abigail, I can't be seen talking to teenage boys...." Oh well, live and learn. The people here are very patient with me.
- Calling a million times in a row: Unfortunately, Moroccan girls and guys think that it's OK to call you over and over and over again if you don't answer. As if I didn't see your missed call the first time around. I have gotten Hshuma-ed through text message for rejecting calls while in a meeting. It's like I'm their lifeline on Who Wants To Be a Millionaire and I'm not answering the phone; that is the fervor with which they call repeatedly. This is not just for me either, they seem to call each other like this too.
- Not brushing your teeth: I haven't figured out what the toothbrushing protocol here is, but it is most certainly not expected daily.
- Inviting yourself over: In fact, it's Hshuma to NOT invite yourself over. That is the way that somebody shows they are interested in being your friend -- they come over, unannounced, usually around lunch time or tea time in the afternoon. It's considered friendly and neighborly. Then you and your guest sit and have tea or lunch and spend a few hours together. This is probably my favorite freedom of this culture. I never feel like I am intruding and am always perfectly welcome. Though I still struggle with inviting myself over. I get Hshuma-ed sometimes for not coming over and they always say the same thing "Do you know the way to get here? Yes? Then where have you been!? Hshuma!" This will probably make me a much better hostess when I'm back states-side. I also have the benefit of living in a closed apartment complex where people cannot invite themselves into my apartment. Best of both worlds, though quite selfish of me.
I'm sure I will uncover more of these cultural intricacies over the next year and ten months. (I just passed the 4-months-in-country mark! Already!?) I'll add to the list as I discover new things!
I know I promised meal time etiquette, but I was inspired to write this first. I promise I will work on a blog for mealtime etiquette for the next entry.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
a place of my own!
Happy New Year!
I am celebrating by being in my very own Moroccan apartment! bwaHedi! ("by myself") Usually when I tell people who ask,that I live alone they all say "aw, mskina! (poor thing!)" And invite me to live with them. They can't imagine anybody WANTING to live alone, and when I tell them that they just look at me weird like "well....whatever....weirdo...."
It is in the center of town, not far from the Dar Chebab (the youth center where I work.) The downside of that is that everybody knows where I live but it has helped me when I've gotten lost. It's on the second floor. Since it's the same apartment Melanie (the previous volunteer) had, it's fully furnished. It has running water and electricity. The electricity has been quite reliable, though I don't have it every morning.
Occasionally I do not have running water in the morning and I think I have figured out that it's because morning is a peak time for water and people are using it and the water doesn't actually make it to my tap. I'm figuring this out because when I do have water in the morning the pressure is really really low. Shower: I have a shower! But don't think of shower in terms of the type you're used to. I mean that I have a working shower head. So I still shower over the "toilet" (which is the turkish toilet I have previously described). So consequently you get water EVERYWHERE, but the floors are all tile and there are drains so it doesn't really matter. I have yet to take a shower where the water doesn't cut out in the middle. I've figured out that the shower is very demanding of the water pressure and if my across-the-hall neighbor turns on his tap, my shower stops running. But I just patiently wait and eventually my shower water comes back. I even have a hot water heater. These are a luxury and very few people have them. This one was installed by the volunteer before Melanie. Good ones cost about 1000 dirhams, which is half a month's salary or more for most people. And it's not like you can go to Sears and get on a payment plan. I'm really living quite luxuriously. I share the propane tank that heats the shower water with the across-the-hall neighbor, so I don't overuse it because it's really heavy and replacing it is a pain. I'm still on a two-shower-a-week program and it will probably stay like that, at least until it's summer. When it's 120+ degrees here though I probably won't be worrying much about hot water.
My apartment has two rooms. One is the bedroom and the other could be a bedroom, but instead it serves more as a living room/office. The bedroom is probably 10ft x 10ft or so and equipped with a twin bed. This is the first bed I've slept in in Morocco! It's very "western" of me to have. I'm glad I brought the set of twin sheets that I did. I'm also glad I didn't waste luggage space on a comforter because I have lots of blankets that Melanie left. My "dresser" consists of old vegetable crates stacked to resemble shelves.
The other room has a hip-high table that is my desk with some books and papers. The room also features two low ponges, which are like thick mats, just a few inches high on the floor. These are poor Moroccan couches. It is more common to sit on the floor here than it was in the Fes region. I have two small carpets made from ram skins from previously eaten Eid Kbir rams. I will be bringing those back with me to the states, if possible. They are so soft! There's also a cute green coffee table. It serves as the table where I eat all my meals and drink coffee in the morning. It's the perfect height for floor sitting.
No there's no heat or air conditioning. I sleep with slippers on because I am COLD. The buildings are relatively new and constructed with cinder blocks with no insulation so the buildings stay really cold in the winter and very hot in the summer. I blame that on the French because when they came around Moroccans stopped building out of mud, which was much more insolating, in favor of more modern concrete.
The building is three storeys. (American storeys, not European storeys, where it would only be considered two.) On the first floor (ground floor) is a shop where they sell ponges, sofas, teapots, carpets, and things like that. On the second floor live me and a neighbor. On the third floor are two more neighbors, so together four of us live in the building. Because of this, we all have corner apartments and so I have four windows and get lots of sunlight. I haven't figured out whether the landlord lives here, or somewhere else. I know he manages the sofa shop though. There is a roof with clothesline where we hang our laundry and it's very picturesque. That's the spot where I took the photos of Bouarfa that I posted in the blog a little while ago.
It's going to be a comfortable place for the next two years, I think.
Here's a link to the photos!
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2225886&id=18806879&l=d878614dfc
I am celebrating by being in my very own Moroccan apartment! bwaHedi! ("by myself") Usually when I tell people who ask,that I live alone they all say "aw, mskina! (poor thing!)" And invite me to live with them. They can't imagine anybody WANTING to live alone, and when I tell them that they just look at me weird like "well....whatever....weirdo...."
It is in the center of town, not far from the Dar Chebab (the youth center where I work.) The downside of that is that everybody knows where I live but it has helped me when I've gotten lost. It's on the second floor. Since it's the same apartment Melanie (the previous volunteer) had, it's fully furnished. It has running water and electricity. The electricity has been quite reliable, though I don't have it every morning.
Occasionally I do not have running water in the morning and I think I have figured out that it's because morning is a peak time for water and people are using it and the water doesn't actually make it to my tap. I'm figuring this out because when I do have water in the morning the pressure is really really low. Shower: I have a shower! But don't think of shower in terms of the type you're used to. I mean that I have a working shower head. So I still shower over the "toilet" (which is the turkish toilet I have previously described). So consequently you get water EVERYWHERE, but the floors are all tile and there are drains so it doesn't really matter. I have yet to take a shower where the water doesn't cut out in the middle. I've figured out that the shower is very demanding of the water pressure and if my across-the-hall neighbor turns on his tap, my shower stops running. But I just patiently wait and eventually my shower water comes back. I even have a hot water heater. These are a luxury and very few people have them. This one was installed by the volunteer before Melanie. Good ones cost about 1000 dirhams, which is half a month's salary or more for most people. And it's not like you can go to Sears and get on a payment plan. I'm really living quite luxuriously. I share the propane tank that heats the shower water with the across-the-hall neighbor, so I don't overuse it because it's really heavy and replacing it is a pain. I'm still on a two-shower-a-week program and it will probably stay like that, at least until it's summer. When it's 120+ degrees here though I probably won't be worrying much about hot water.
My apartment has two rooms. One is the bedroom and the other could be a bedroom, but instead it serves more as a living room/office. The bedroom is probably 10ft x 10ft or so and equipped with a twin bed. This is the first bed I've slept in in Morocco! It's very "western" of me to have. I'm glad I brought the set of twin sheets that I did. I'm also glad I didn't waste luggage space on a comforter because I have lots of blankets that Melanie left. My "dresser" consists of old vegetable crates stacked to resemble shelves.
The other room has a hip-high table that is my desk with some books and papers. The room also features two low ponges, which are like thick mats, just a few inches high on the floor. These are poor Moroccan couches. It is more common to sit on the floor here than it was in the Fes region. I have two small carpets made from ram skins from previously eaten Eid Kbir rams. I will be bringing those back with me to the states, if possible. They are so soft! There's also a cute green coffee table. It serves as the table where I eat all my meals and drink coffee in the morning. It's the perfect height for floor sitting.
No there's no heat or air conditioning. I sleep with slippers on because I am COLD. The buildings are relatively new and constructed with cinder blocks with no insulation so the buildings stay really cold in the winter and very hot in the summer. I blame that on the French because when they came around Moroccans stopped building out of mud, which was much more insolating, in favor of more modern concrete.
The building is three storeys. (American storeys, not European storeys, where it would only be considered two.) On the first floor (ground floor) is a shop where they sell ponges, sofas, teapots, carpets, and things like that. On the second floor live me and a neighbor. On the third floor are two more neighbors, so together four of us live in the building. Because of this, we all have corner apartments and so I have four windows and get lots of sunlight. I haven't figured out whether the landlord lives here, or somewhere else. I know he manages the sofa shop though. There is a roof with clothesline where we hang our laundry and it's very picturesque. That's the spot where I took the photos of Bouarfa that I posted in the blog a little while ago.
It's going to be a comfortable place for the next two years, I think.
Here's a link to the photos!
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2225886&id=18806879&l=d878614dfc
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
No Thank You, It is my Duty
Something I have observed here in Morocco is how readily people ask for and give help. In America people pride themselves on being independent and doing things on their own. I have definitely found myself as a subscriber to this philosophy. For me, being in Peace Corps even represents that for me: "look at me! I'm here in a foreign country all by myself; living as one of the most isolated volunteers! I'm Alone!" Well the truth is that in Morocco it is impossible to exist "by oneself," independently. That is not the way this society works. Everyone needs help sometimes and it shows no weakness to openly ask for help and rely on the help of others to succeed.
For example, Peace Corps sent me a bag to be delivered by CTM bus. CTM is a passenger bus like a nice Greyhound but most of their money comes from the items that are in the cargo hold. So the bag arrived-- allegedly, but every time I went to the CTM office to pick up my bag it was closed and shuttered with no sign of life. I thought "this is ridiculous! I'm going to have to stalk this office and wait for a CTM bus to arrive and follow its cargo to the office!" CTMs do not even arrive every day in my town. There is no posted schedule of arrivals either. so I casually mentioned it to my host mother while in the company of one of her friends. Her friend, Wellid, said "oh, it's at the CTM station? Let's go!" When I told him it was closed he seemed unfazed and off we marched to the CTM. When we arrived, with it shuttered, complete with a metal grate, but we walked right past the CTM station and stopped at a metal door around the corner. Wellid, my new best friend, banged on this door yelling "EH! Azziz! Azziz! AZZIZ!" Eventually Azziz emerged looking like we'd woken him up. Wellid explained the situation with my bag. Azziz nodded, marched to the locked CTM station, opened the door and I had my bag -- easy as that.
This whole scenario would have been almost impossible or immeasurably more difficult had I not had Wellid's help. How would I have ever known that "Of course! Go to the CTM manager's home and yell up to his window!" Wellid's response to my million Thank Yous: "la shokran, ela wajib" or literally "No thank you, it is my duty." This really seems to be the truth. Help is readily given and received in a moment's notice.
Another small example of this ingrained hospitality: My host mother, her friend Fattiha, and my two younger host sisters went on a long walk that took us out of town. We'd walked probably about 4 kilometers and the girls got thirsty. So Fattiha saw somebody outside their home and said "hey you! Give us some water!" There was no "please" or "sorry to bother you but..." and the man nodded, went inside, and came back out with a glass of water.
A jogger in the states would have to be near death to ask for water from a stranger.
And if ever a "thank you" is even uttered, the response is inevitably "no thank you, it is my duty" -- although, "please" and "thank you" are seldom used. For example, my old host family would chuckle at me when I would say "Thank you" for pouring me tea, or handing me something. When I asked my language and culture facilitator about this he said that no thank you is required because maybe this time they're in a position to pour you tea, but next time, when you are in a position to pour tea, you will. That is a fair exchange and no pleases or thank yous are required. It's comforting to know that when I am (occasionally) a helpless American that there are many who have no qualms about helping me. It is understood that when I am in a position to help, that I will.
Table manners and what is acceptable/unacceptable in etiquette will be the topic of the next blog.
For example, Peace Corps sent me a bag to be delivered by CTM bus. CTM is a passenger bus like a nice Greyhound but most of their money comes from the items that are in the cargo hold. So the bag arrived-- allegedly, but every time I went to the CTM office to pick up my bag it was closed and shuttered with no sign of life. I thought "this is ridiculous! I'm going to have to stalk this office and wait for a CTM bus to arrive and follow its cargo to the office!" CTMs do not even arrive every day in my town. There is no posted schedule of arrivals either. so I casually mentioned it to my host mother while in the company of one of her friends. Her friend, Wellid, said "oh, it's at the CTM station? Let's go!" When I told him it was closed he seemed unfazed and off we marched to the CTM. When we arrived, with it shuttered, complete with a metal grate, but we walked right past the CTM station and stopped at a metal door around the corner. Wellid, my new best friend, banged on this door yelling "EH! Azziz! Azziz! AZZIZ!" Eventually Azziz emerged looking like we'd woken him up. Wellid explained the situation with my bag. Azziz nodded, marched to the locked CTM station, opened the door and I had my bag -- easy as that.
This whole scenario would have been almost impossible or immeasurably more difficult had I not had Wellid's help. How would I have ever known that "Of course! Go to the CTM manager's home and yell up to his window!" Wellid's response to my million Thank Yous: "la shokran, ela wajib" or literally "No thank you, it is my duty." This really seems to be the truth. Help is readily given and received in a moment's notice.
Another small example of this ingrained hospitality: My host mother, her friend Fattiha, and my two younger host sisters went on a long walk that took us out of town. We'd walked probably about 4 kilometers and the girls got thirsty. So Fattiha saw somebody outside their home and said "hey you! Give us some water!" There was no "please" or "sorry to bother you but..." and the man nodded, went inside, and came back out with a glass of water.
A jogger in the states would have to be near death to ask for water from a stranger.
And if ever a "thank you" is even uttered, the response is inevitably "no thank you, it is my duty" -- although, "please" and "thank you" are seldom used. For example, my old host family would chuckle at me when I would say "Thank you" for pouring me tea, or handing me something. When I asked my language and culture facilitator about this he said that no thank you is required because maybe this time they're in a position to pour you tea, but next time, when you are in a position to pour tea, you will. That is a fair exchange and no pleases or thank yous are required. It's comforting to know that when I am (occasionally) a helpless American that there are many who have no qualms about helping me. It is understood that when I am in a position to help, that I will.
Table manners and what is acceptable/unacceptable in etiquette will be the topic of the next blog.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Tafaughalt farm
This past weekend was another new adventure. Sometime in the middle of last week, my host mother asked me if I wanted to go to Oujda with her this weekend to see her mother and some family. Oujda is between four and five hours north of my town, and the closest big city. It's kind of like the hub of Eastern Morocco. So I thought about it for a second, and (the lazy) half of me said "blah, wouldn't you rather be by yourself and clean your new apartment so it's ready when you move in?" and the other part of me said "two days with Rahma and extended family!? My Arabic will get so good!" So of course the second voice won and I decided to go.
So on Friday night my host sisters slept at their friend's house and Saturday morning Rahma and I caught the 5am Souk Bus to Oujda. [Aside:Why is it called a souk bus? Well, one PCV I talked to named Jason thinks it's because the souk comes to you. Souk means market. The buses stop at every little city along the way to rest for a bathroom break and people come on the bus and try to hawk their goods at you. "No, I don't want your gold chain, no I don't want a kilo of honey." The downside of souk buses, besides no air conditioning, is the fact that you could buy a ticket and potentially have to stand, being harassed by people trying to sell you stuff, and it stops constantly. I feel like they stop every fifteen minutes. What would be a two-and-a-half-hour taxi ride turns into a five-hour bus ride. But I guess you get what you pay for. They're pretty cheap. They are like ratty, dusty Greyhound buses. ] [Language note: What we English speakers refer to as the souk bus, is, in Moroccan Arabic, referred to as a "kar," in singular form, and "kiran" in plural.]
So, Saturday morning we took the 5am to Oujda and arrived between 9:30 and 10. I met Rahma's mother at her house in Oujda proper. She was a pleasant lady and we ate lunch there. After lunch Rahma informed me that we would be going to a little place called Tafaughalt (pronounced just like it looks...haha) So I said sure. We hopped in a petit taxi, which takes you within the city, and we went to the taxi stand for the grand taxis, which take you out of town. The thing about grand taxis is they don't leave until they're full -- meaning 4 in the back and three in the front of a Mercedes sedan. So sometimes you may wait quite a while until the right amount of people are going your direction. Lucky for me and Rahma, we filled the last two seats of our Tafaughalt taxi. So onward we went. Let me tell you, Moroccans know how to eat and these women do not have small behinds and fitting four of us in the back of a sedan was no fun. But after 45 minutes or so, Rahma told our driver to halt and she and I got out...and found ourselves in the middle of nowhere. I thought "where on earth has she taken me!?" And then we started walking through the woods. I had to just go with it because what else do you do? So after a few minutes, in the distance, I saw a small farm house. That was our destination. Up and down slopes and slants we trudged through thick fog and found our way to a house FILLED with people. There must have been fifty people in this one house.
The occasion was a sabu3, which is a baby-naming-party I may have mentioned in an earlier blog. [quick cultural reference: a sabu3 is held on the seventh day after the baby has been born and until then it is not named. Then there's a big party] It turns out Rahma's family is quite conservative as far as Morocco goes and the men and women were 100% separated the entire time. So when we arrived, I entered the women's room (not the bathroom) and greeted about 20 ladies, mostly elderly, who were sitting, dressed completely in jellabas and lizars (more than a head covering, it's like a bedsheet that's wrapped around you) so me and my jeans and definitely no lizar sat with these women on the floor. People sit on the floor a lot here, it's not big deal. But it is still weird to see such elderly ladies on the floor. They are sitting on ponges (like cushions) that are about 2 inches thick and pillows behind their backs against the wall. The funny thing was that these women were old and so conservatively dressed but when I looked down their socks made me chuckle. It's really important to take your shoes off on any carpeted service, so all these women were sitting there on the floor, legs outstretched, and all were wearing different mid-shin to knee high GOOFY socks. Socks with frogs, hearts, oblong shapes, English writing that made no sense... To make it better, these long socks had goofy pajama pants tucked into them, so their legs looked bumpy and strange. I kept thinking "why would you tuck your pants into your socks?" It's so funny how dressed up these women get on the outside when underneath they really just have on pajamas and goofy socks.
So I sat and was awkwardly silent for a while until some 14 year old cousins came and adopted me and took me on a stroll. We talked for a while. Nobody spoke any English, so I got a lot of good practice in. I was shocked at how little they knew about what I thought was common knowledge, but I guess it was good that they even asked. They asked me things like "who was the king of America?" and if and how Christians pray. We are taught by Peace Corps to avoid talking religion but there was no refusing to talk about it with these girls. The second they found out I was not Muslim, they began to try to get me to say the shehadda, which, apparently, if you say three times you become a Muslim (though this is not something all Muslims believe, so I'm told.) When I told them I didn't want to, they turned to the tactics that some Christians use in the U.S. "All your problems will go away" "you'll be so happy with life." "You can marry a nice Muslim man and your family would love it." (ok, so maybe that last one isn't used as much in the U.S.) So when I still refused, the girls ever so sweetly said that I should make the choice between roasting over a fiery hell like a ram shish-kabob (that's a quote) or go to heaven. They really emphasized the shish-kabob part. So of course I still refused. Telling them I had my own kind of Quran called the Bible and I prayed in my own way. Eventually, they let it go and still adored me anyway and we talked another two hours or so. The whole family and experience was thoroughly pleasant. These conversion attempts are fairly frequent, though this was, by far, the most intense thus far. Comes with the territory, I guess.
So the challenging thing about beautiful Tafaughalt is that there is no running water. Toilet-wise, this works fine because there is a big barrel of water in the bathroom and a little scooper so you can flush and what-not. But this was not what I would consider potable water. So my main predicament was how on earth was I supposed to brush my teeth? I would have asked the other 50 people who were spending the night at the house, or even the 20 or so women I was sharing sleeping quarters with, who were going to sleep on the floor next to me, but...alas....as I figured, nobody was brushing their teeth. Which, given my experience here so far, is not surprising. (I smell a youth development project...) So unfortunately, I went to bed with dirty teeth. When we awoke in the morning, nobody had yet gone down to the well to fetch more water and once again, nobody was attempting to brush their teeth. So there I stood with dirty teeth and dirty hands and dirty everything else. No running water has not been the norm for me here. I guess that's why Peace Corps Morocco is sometimes referred to as Posh Corps -- because I don't know how I would even get along without it. How high maintenance!
I know, I know, you're saying "Abby! You're an agent of development and change! Maybe if this family saw how you brushed your teeth twice in twelve hours, they would brush their teeth!" Yes, I thought about that, but I'm still too much in a guest mind-set, I guess. I should have insisted, I should have said, "I'm aware that you have to walk a kilometer or so in the fog and cold, but I really need to brush my teeth." "Drink it? No I'm not going to drink it, I'm just going to spit it out. Could you boil it first, too? Ten minutes -- rolling boil ONLY." Next time I will be more pushy.
This weekend at the farm was my first drinking unpasteurized dairy and I was not sick! l'Hamdullah!
So after breakfast I was able to reflect on what a great time I'd had with great people. Rahma decided it was time to be heading back to Oujda proper. So we tromped back through the woods and up to the main street. But wait...a taxi had dropped us off before when we asked to be let off in the middle of nowhere. How were we ever to find a taxi out here? So we started walking. Me, Rahma, our bags, and three liters of farm fresh olive oil. (heavy!) We walked for probably half an hour and I kept feeling like we were getting nowhere. Eventually we just stopped on a corner and waited. After a time, a taxi*** pulled up and we jumped in. We made it back to Oujda safe and sound.
My trip to the farm was beautiful and fun, but also it's exhausting to be with family, especially not your own. My Arabic definitely benefited a lot more than it would have if I'd stayed home and I'm glad I went. To see a few pictures of Tafaughalt, go to this link:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2221957&id=18806879&l=f71089f6c3
Sorry I don't have pictures of the family, but being so conservative, they did not want to be photographed -- let alone attached to facebook!
This link is some photos of Bouarfa, the city where I will be living for two years, hopefully: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2221955&id=18806879&l=fb59c96379
***for the real foot note of this "taxi" you must ask in an email or facebook message.
So on Friday night my host sisters slept at their friend's house and Saturday morning Rahma and I caught the 5am Souk Bus to Oujda. [Aside:Why is it called a souk bus? Well, one PCV I talked to named Jason thinks it's because the souk comes to you. Souk means market. The buses stop at every little city along the way to rest for a bathroom break and people come on the bus and try to hawk their goods at you. "No, I don't want your gold chain, no I don't want a kilo of honey." The downside of souk buses, besides no air conditioning, is the fact that you could buy a ticket and potentially have to stand, being harassed by people trying to sell you stuff, and it stops constantly. I feel like they stop every fifteen minutes. What would be a two-and-a-half-hour taxi ride turns into a five-hour bus ride. But I guess you get what you pay for. They're pretty cheap. They are like ratty, dusty Greyhound buses. ] [Language note: What we English speakers refer to as the souk bus, is, in Moroccan Arabic, referred to as a "kar," in singular form, and "kiran" in plural.]
So, Saturday morning we took the 5am to Oujda and arrived between 9:30 and 10. I met Rahma's mother at her house in Oujda proper. She was a pleasant lady and we ate lunch there. After lunch Rahma informed me that we would be going to a little place called Tafaughalt (pronounced just like it looks...haha) So I said sure. We hopped in a petit taxi, which takes you within the city, and we went to the taxi stand for the grand taxis, which take you out of town. The thing about grand taxis is they don't leave until they're full -- meaning 4 in the back and three in the front of a Mercedes sedan. So sometimes you may wait quite a while until the right amount of people are going your direction. Lucky for me and Rahma, we filled the last two seats of our Tafaughalt taxi. So onward we went. Let me tell you, Moroccans know how to eat and these women do not have small behinds and fitting four of us in the back of a sedan was no fun. But after 45 minutes or so, Rahma told our driver to halt and she and I got out...and found ourselves in the middle of nowhere. I thought "where on earth has she taken me!?" And then we started walking through the woods. I had to just go with it because what else do you do? So after a few minutes, in the distance, I saw a small farm house. That was our destination. Up and down slopes and slants we trudged through thick fog and found our way to a house FILLED with people. There must have been fifty people in this one house.
The occasion was a sabu3, which is a baby-naming-party I may have mentioned in an earlier blog. [quick cultural reference: a sabu3 is held on the seventh day after the baby has been born and until then it is not named. Then there's a big party] It turns out Rahma's family is quite conservative as far as Morocco goes and the men and women were 100% separated the entire time. So when we arrived, I entered the women's room (not the bathroom) and greeted about 20 ladies, mostly elderly, who were sitting, dressed completely in jellabas and lizars (more than a head covering, it's like a bedsheet that's wrapped around you) so me and my jeans and definitely no lizar sat with these women on the floor. People sit on the floor a lot here, it's not big deal. But it is still weird to see such elderly ladies on the floor. They are sitting on ponges (like cushions) that are about 2 inches thick and pillows behind their backs against the wall. The funny thing was that these women were old and so conservatively dressed but when I looked down their socks made me chuckle. It's really important to take your shoes off on any carpeted service, so all these women were sitting there on the floor, legs outstretched, and all were wearing different mid-shin to knee high GOOFY socks. Socks with frogs, hearts, oblong shapes, English writing that made no sense... To make it better, these long socks had goofy pajama pants tucked into them, so their legs looked bumpy and strange. I kept thinking "why would you tuck your pants into your socks?" It's so funny how dressed up these women get on the outside when underneath they really just have on pajamas and goofy socks.
So I sat and was awkwardly silent for a while until some 14 year old cousins came and adopted me and took me on a stroll. We talked for a while. Nobody spoke any English, so I got a lot of good practice in. I was shocked at how little they knew about what I thought was common knowledge, but I guess it was good that they even asked. They asked me things like "who was the king of America?" and if and how Christians pray. We are taught by Peace Corps to avoid talking religion but there was no refusing to talk about it with these girls. The second they found out I was not Muslim, they began to try to get me to say the shehadda, which, apparently, if you say three times you become a Muslim (though this is not something all Muslims believe, so I'm told.) When I told them I didn't want to, they turned to the tactics that some Christians use in the U.S. "All your problems will go away" "you'll be so happy with life." "You can marry a nice Muslim man and your family would love it." (ok, so maybe that last one isn't used as much in the U.S.) So when I still refused, the girls ever so sweetly said that I should make the choice between roasting over a fiery hell like a ram shish-kabob (that's a quote) or go to heaven. They really emphasized the shish-kabob part. So of course I still refused. Telling them I had my own kind of Quran called the Bible and I prayed in my own way. Eventually, they let it go and still adored me anyway and we talked another two hours or so. The whole family and experience was thoroughly pleasant. These conversion attempts are fairly frequent, though this was, by far, the most intense thus far. Comes with the territory, I guess.
So the challenging thing about beautiful Tafaughalt is that there is no running water. Toilet-wise, this works fine because there is a big barrel of water in the bathroom and a little scooper so you can flush and what-not. But this was not what I would consider potable water. So my main predicament was how on earth was I supposed to brush my teeth? I would have asked the other 50 people who were spending the night at the house, or even the 20 or so women I was sharing sleeping quarters with, who were going to sleep on the floor next to me, but...alas....as I figured, nobody was brushing their teeth. Which, given my experience here so far, is not surprising. (I smell a youth development project...) So unfortunately, I went to bed with dirty teeth. When we awoke in the morning, nobody had yet gone down to the well to fetch more water and once again, nobody was attempting to brush their teeth. So there I stood with dirty teeth and dirty hands and dirty everything else. No running water has not been the norm for me here. I guess that's why Peace Corps Morocco is sometimes referred to as Posh Corps -- because I don't know how I would even get along without it. How high maintenance!
I know, I know, you're saying "Abby! You're an agent of development and change! Maybe if this family saw how you brushed your teeth twice in twelve hours, they would brush their teeth!" Yes, I thought about that, but I'm still too much in a guest mind-set, I guess. I should have insisted, I should have said, "I'm aware that you have to walk a kilometer or so in the fog and cold, but I really need to brush my teeth." "Drink it? No I'm not going to drink it, I'm just going to spit it out. Could you boil it first, too? Ten minutes -- rolling boil ONLY." Next time I will be more pushy.
This weekend at the farm was my first drinking unpasteurized dairy and I was not sick! l'Hamdullah!
So after breakfast I was able to reflect on what a great time I'd had with great people. Rahma decided it was time to be heading back to Oujda proper. So we tromped back through the woods and up to the main street. But wait...a taxi had dropped us off before when we asked to be let off in the middle of nowhere. How were we ever to find a taxi out here? So we started walking. Me, Rahma, our bags, and three liters of farm fresh olive oil. (heavy!) We walked for probably half an hour and I kept feeling like we were getting nowhere. Eventually we just stopped on a corner and waited. After a time, a taxi*** pulled up and we jumped in. We made it back to Oujda safe and sound.
My trip to the farm was beautiful and fun, but also it's exhausting to be with family, especially not your own. My Arabic definitely benefited a lot more than it would have if I'd stayed home and I'm glad I went. To see a few pictures of Tafaughalt, go to this link:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2221957&id=18806879&l=f71089f6c3
Sorry I don't have pictures of the family, but being so conservative, they did not want to be photographed -- let alone attached to facebook!
This link is some photos of Bouarfa, the city where I will be living for two years, hopefully: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2221955&id=18806879&l=fb59c96379
***for the real foot note of this "taxi" you must ask in an email or facebook message.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
S.E. Morocco
So today is the Muslim New Year. Today begins the year 1432. What is interesting is that nobody in town knew that today was the new year until last night. At about 9pm my host family and I were watching some TV when the show was cut short and a frozen image of a minaret came on the screen with a scrolling message. I couldn't read it but my family said "oh tomorrow is the new year! I guess that means no school tomorrow!" And that was it. Today I was supposed to start teaching English at the Dar Chebab too, but it's closed because of the holiday. I even saw the Moudir of the Dar Chebab yesterday and we had a long talk about my beginning today. I guess people really do fly by the seat of their pants here. I'm glad I didn't have anything really important planned. I wonder if transportation is affected....
So my host mother invited me to go to Oujda with her this weekend. That's the next closest full-fledged city. It's about 5 hours away. I'll be meeting my host mom's relatives and it should do wonders for my language.
My language is coming along well. I always understand worse in the mornings, but by mid day I'm doing fine. I feel like I can communicate without much trouble. I'm not doing anything like having philosophical discussions but maybe with some time. My newest language achievement is that I can now understand Moroccans when they are talking to each other! This means I'm understanding at full speed and not just at poor-American-can't-understand-me slow motion speed. Hopefully improvement continues. My weekend in Oujda where I'm not escaping to the solitude of my room will be great.
About Money:
So as PC Volunteers we're paid just a living stipend. I remember my mother referencing a college friend who joined the Peace Corps and was so not interested in material goods that he actually returned from Peace Corps WITH money. Well, I'm starting to think that I may be like that. In comparison to AmeriCorps I'm living the high life! That's not to say they're paying us too much, but that I have gotten so good at saving money that I just don't spend any of my PC money. Plus, everything is so cheap here. I may only be making equivalent to $250 a month but here're some examples of what things cost:
I could buy all the food I need for a week for about $6.
A cup of coffee costs $.50 at a restaurant. And I don't ever go.
This internet cafe is costing me about $.75 an hour.
My rent in a 2-bedroom apt I'll move into on Jan 1st. is $75 a month -- and that is money I'll be given in addition to my living stipend.
Yesterday I paid a man about $0.60 to cart a bookcase from one side of town to another in a wheelbarrow-like cart.
A night in a decent hotel in Errachidia (my stopping point for going anywhere) is about $8. I could go as cheap as $4 and still have a halfway decent hotel room.
So I'm feeling like I'm living the luxurious life (relative to Peace Corps). I'm sure I'll learn to spend money again as time goes on. I can't imagine how much I'd have if I lived in a smaller city where there wasn't even anywhere to spend your money.
So my host mother invited me to go to Oujda with her this weekend. That's the next closest full-fledged city. It's about 5 hours away. I'll be meeting my host mom's relatives and it should do wonders for my language.
My language is coming along well. I always understand worse in the mornings, but by mid day I'm doing fine. I feel like I can communicate without much trouble. I'm not doing anything like having philosophical discussions but maybe with some time. My newest language achievement is that I can now understand Moroccans when they are talking to each other! This means I'm understanding at full speed and not just at poor-American-can't-understand-me slow motion speed. Hopefully improvement continues. My weekend in Oujda where I'm not escaping to the solitude of my room will be great.
About Money:
So as PC Volunteers we're paid just a living stipend. I remember my mother referencing a college friend who joined the Peace Corps and was so not interested in material goods that he actually returned from Peace Corps WITH money. Well, I'm starting to think that I may be like that. In comparison to AmeriCorps I'm living the high life! That's not to say they're paying us too much, but that I have gotten so good at saving money that I just don't spend any of my PC money. Plus, everything is so cheap here. I may only be making equivalent to $250 a month but here're some examples of what things cost:
I could buy all the food I need for a week for about $6.
A cup of coffee costs $.50 at a restaurant. And I don't ever go.
This internet cafe is costing me about $.75 an hour.
My rent in a 2-bedroom apt I'll move into on Jan 1st. is $75 a month -- and that is money I'll be given in addition to my living stipend.
Yesterday I paid a man about $0.60 to cart a bookcase from one side of town to another in a wheelbarrow-like cart.
A night in a decent hotel in Errachidia (my stopping point for going anywhere) is about $8. I could go as cheap as $4 and still have a halfway decent hotel room.
So I'm feeling like I'm living the luxurious life (relative to Peace Corps). I'm sure I'll learn to spend money again as time goes on. I can't imagine how much I'd have if I lived in a smaller city where there wasn't even anywhere to spend your money.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Ram slaughter
Here is a public link to the facebook album of my photos from Eid Kbir. They are a little graphic. The captions tell a pretty good story though, so read them!
All is well.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2220557&id=18806879&l=898ed07e06
I don't think you need a facebook to view them.
All is well.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2220557&id=18806879&l=898ed07e06
I don't think you need a facebook to view them.
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