Site Updates

'Tis been awhile since I have updated y'all on the comings and goings in my site. So, here you go.

1. In terms of importance, this is number one. Well, not really when you consider the other news I have to share but its my favorite. Ali (he's 2 now!) has finally said my name. Back in November, a PCV who writes poetry asked my stage (training group) to finish the follow sentence: Before I Leave. One of the things I mentioned was Ali saying my name. 10 months later, it has finally occurred. A couple of weeks ago, I was impatiently watching the seconds' hand on the clock tick before lftur at the host family's. Ali ran up to me, pulled on my shirt and said "E-ham." While this is not exactly how to pronounce my Arabic name (Ilham) but its close enough. I looked at Naima, Ali's mom, and she confirmed that he was saying "Ilham" the best way a 2-year-old can.
    

2. Its been a long time comin' (I use this phrase merely because its one of my favorite) but trash cans have finally arrived. Yep, that is right. I can now dispose of my trash in a respectable manner 2 blocks from my front door. When I arrived so long ago, there were a couple of plastic buckets nailed to lamp posts but after a few months, they disappeared. For the last 18 months or so, I have been carrying my trash to the nearest dumpster, 30 k away. Not anymore!
    

   A piece of land that was covered in trash, rocks, and feces was bulldozed when the king came. Then a haphazard fence went up and just in the last few months, work was been underway to make it into a small promenade complete with park benches and trashcans. A public land beautification project—something I would not have expected two years ago and something to lessen my cynicism and increase my optimism.
    

3. Another trash-related item: I watched Ali throw away his trash. In a place where trash is just thrown out the window or dropped on the ground, Ali's action is important to me. He finished his yogurt, walked over to the trash can, lifted the lid, and threw away the empty carton. I jumped up and engulfed him in a big hug, startling him and making the others laugh.
    

   Upon settling in, I quickly realized that one of the best things I could do as a Peace Corps volunteer was to be a good influence, especially for Ali and SiMo (he is now 9). This sounds smug and portrays me as a bit of a high horse but honestly, I do not care. Part of my job description is to act as a cross-cultural ambassador. Those boys need better influences than the boys who throw rocks at me, than the men who whistle, honk and shout sexually-explicit phrases at me, than the ones who disdain education. For the record, they do have great male role models in their family. Side Note: The new school year started yesterday. For a week now, it is all SiMo can talk about. His enthusiasm is contagious and makes me excited about the next 2 months.
    

4. A bakery has opened, operated by the women who graduated from the computer classes! They wrote up the business proposal in Microsoft Word, a budget in Excel, and presented it to the commune president who donated the use of a building and storefront until the end of Ramadan. Using skills they learned in class, they have started to bring supplemental income to the community.
   

Little by little, goals are accomplished in this mountain village. It is hard to think about education, marketing options, and the environment when wood is scarce but crucial to surviving the harsh winter and food prices increase due to higher transport costs. But in 4 years (as far back as my information goes), the Internet has arrived, literacy classes have begun, women are forming associations and starting businesses, an inn has opened, INDH (the Moroccan version of UNDP) has built an office, and a large project is underway to bring water to every home. Yes, little by little or as we say here, "shiwya b shiwya."

my last Ramadan

19 days down, 11 to go.

My third and final Ramadan began during my vacation to the Mediterranean so these 19 days have had me on the move. Between vacation and COS conference, I returned to site a week into Ramadan. Traveling during fasting is no fun. Fights break out. For those not fasting, it is inappropriate to drink water, much less eat. The best place to be is in site—although without travel, the time seems to go slower.

My favorite part of Ramadan: the food. Many of the dishes are only cooked during Ramadan—mostly because they are expensive—and the third time around, I have learned to cherish the savory treats.

Just what exactly is the Ramadan food? Here is a montage of pictures I took while breaking the fast with my host family.



The table with hard-boiled eggs, shebekia, zmita, dates, regular bread, and tea

Shebekia: dough mainly consisting of sugar, fried and soaked in honey

Zmita: mixture of sugar, dates, sesame seeds and a few other things I do not know



The main breads

In the foreground is melawi (a bready-type thick pancake) drizzled with melted butter and honey. By far, my favorite Ramadan food.

In the background is what volunteers have termed fat bread. It is melawi with a mixture of sheep fat (so literally, fat bread), onions, and cilantro in the middle.

Not pictured: harira, a minestrone-like soup with chickpeas. Super yummy.

While at lftur (means ‘breakfast’) last week, my host brother talked about President Obama’s short message to Muslims on the eve of Ramadan. I asked if he knew that Obama hosted a Lftur at the White House. Everyone at the table’s eyes got big and started asking questions. Did he fast? Did his wife (for the record, she has many fans here) fast? Who went? What foods did they eat? My answers: I do not know; I think Michelle did not go; lots of people in government, Muslims, non-Muslims, etc; I don’t know foods were served, respectively. When I mentioned the Lftur to a PCV last weekend, the first thing out of her mouth, “Did President Obama eat fat bread?!” Obviously, you can tell what we care about most. We want to know if our young, energetic president ate fried bread stuffed with animal fat. If it was on the menu, I am sure he passed on the opportunity. Not that I blame him. I only eat Xalti Helima’s.

If the shoe fits, buy it in every color?

Two years in Morocco can significantly affect on one’s view of materialism. As I spend the next few months (maybe years) trying to describe my experience here, the lessons learned, the insights gained, etc., I can say with ease that one of the best and maybe earliest lesson learned is an in-depth understanding of the difference between needs and wants. Of course, my parents were great teachers during my childhood and still are. “Daddy, I need a reliable car that looks nice.” “No, Liz, what you need is a car that gets you from Point A to B (in my case, a 1987 Chevy Nova—may it rest in peace). What you want is another car.” This is an example with an easy distinction but living here—where one learns the value of basic needs that so many of us take for granted—has taught me about the sometimes fuzzy line between needs and wants. Example: I want running water on a constant basis. Furthermore, I want the tap to flow with hot water (ha!). All I need, though, is running water. (I have not been able to see running water as a want yet—as opposed to the basic need for clean water. I’m not sure I want to get to that point.)

Soon, when I am back in America—land of abundance and aisles full of cereal—comes the real test on how Morocco has changed my view of materialism. Just last weekend while Skyping with Mom and Dad (Mom-Sorry to leave you out on the last post! Love you!), talk turned to cell phones and what will be the proper plan for me. Dad made the comment jokingly (I think) that maybe I should look at getting a Blackberry or an Iphone. It seems many young people are getting them nowadays. I asked why I would need such a thing and Dad said, that maybe, I will want to stay connected all the time. No thank you. But I digress…

I must now do mundane housekeeping things including going through my house and deciding what items stay here and what gets shipped home. For most things, I am happy to leave them here for others to enjoy. But other things are trickier. Which books are shipped home? Do I have clothes with lots more wear left? (yes but am I tired of looking at them and will they ever be worn again?) How much more shopping do I have? (By the way, if anyone wants Moroccan goodies, get your orders in soon.) What is considered the acceptable amount of olive oil, argan oil, jellaba jewelry, rugs, etc. to ship home? At the moment, though, my biggest debate is about a pair of shoes.



Nothing too special but simplicity is one of their qualities. Why should I put into words what the eloquent Garrison Keillor already has? But these boots are special to me. One of the best things—if not the best—I brought back from the States during my visit last Christmas. Without these boots, who knows, I may not still be in Morocco. I have serious doubts I could have survived winter without them. Winter was so long, so cold, and too snowy (6 meters total!). Before the boots’ arrival in Morocco, it was hard to leave my house—one day I literally could not because the door was frozen shut.

The logical, soon-to-be RPCV in me says “Boots with leather uppers and rubber bottoms are widely available in America at a price less than what it would cost you to ship these bad boys home.” The other voice says “these boots are one-of-a-kind for how they helped you get through winter; they are caked in Moroccan dirt—dirt that has taught you so much; and will be a physical reminder for how you survived the harsh winter and persevered when you thought you could not.”

Lacing up those boots and walking around town, feeling the snow crunch under my feet, was magical. The town was in distress as helicopters dropped emergency supplies in a nearby village—necessary because the roads were impassable—and people worried about the alarmingly low wood supply but in my head I was calm, happy, and feeling invincible. My basic needs were being met. I was not hungry, I was warm (as warm as one can be under meters of snow with no heat), and I had people eager to host me for tea. Memories like these are why I want to keep them. Logic will win this battle, I know, and the boots will be passed to another volunteer in the hopes that the boots will be magical to them too. But the materialistic hoarder in me tells me that the “I wants” need to win one, just one.

From Us to You

The majority of my time this week was spent in Rabat to attend "Close of Service" conference. The sessions were full of reflection and the subject of "Moving On"—more to come on the event as I resettle into village life and Ramadan. First though, I want to share a list compiled by my stagemates (training group) and I. Maybe my loyal readers (thanks Dad!) will enjoy or find it useful. We were asked to complete the following sentence: something I've learned from this experience that I really want friends and family back home to understand…

Here are some of the answers:

--that a mud house in the mountains with a well and no bathroom does not mean a bad life

--appreciation for all the free and beautiful gifts we receive each day

--the best way to learn is through first-hand discovery

--the importance of family above all

--a sense of community is important for the well-being of an individual

--we are all connected and we cannot afford to be close-minded about our differences

--the turk is not gross-it's awesome

--how much energy is needed to make hot water

--that I experience the world differently, uniquely

--the similarities between Moroccan and American worldviews—we both preach peace, universalism, and acceptance/respect for people who are different from us. Unfortunately, we too often frown upon each other because we tend to focus on when the other is not following those ideals

--we may look different, have different beliefs but underneath it all, we all have the same needs and desires

--it's not savage and uncivilized to eat with your hands

--Reduce, Reuse, Recycle (mine)

I'm lucky that my family and friends back home already understand many of these concepts. It's the others who make hateful and false statements that scare me about returning home. Sounds like there is lots of third goal work ahead for me.

A Lesson in Patience

These long summer days give me a lot of time to wonder and, lately, I have been wondering if my new-found high level of patience (usually) will continue in America's work culture. Will I stay calm and collected when a deadline is missed, placing trust in my fellow man to do his job, or given a seemingly impossible deadline, believing I can meet it? When something unforeseen happens, will I accept it, handle it, and move on? I sure hope so despite a recent event and my reaction.

The patience I sorely lacked growing up has slowly come to me during my long stay here. The last 23 months have taught me more about frustration and patience than any other experience. Sure, I have fought battles I should not have. They were losing battles before I arrived and they will be losing battles well into the future, decades after I have left. I have fought the occasional winnable battles, triumphing in some and not in others. Trying to set a firm meeting time can be the week's biggest frustration. While negotiating and trying to narrow down a meeting's start time to a 2-hour time frame, internally, I just want to cry out "set a firm start time like Western, civilized countries do" thinking this little outburst comparing cultures will help me. For the sake of all those involved and my relationship with community counterparts, I am able to refrain from these ruinous remarks. It is these times that teach me how to be patient, to stay calm and collected, and to smile like everything is going to be okay—I may not believe it to be at that moment but eventually, things will be okay.

Patience does prevail and more often than not, I find things that would have bothered me or gotten under my skin in the States do not do so here. When ants crawl near my head while I sleep, I calmly pick up my mattress, mop the floor, and fill in the holes in the wall with an ant-killing blue powder. And I silently endure all the harassment—the catcalls, the rocks, etc. I just go about my daily business no matter how degraded I feel. And when salsa spills ruining a $50 polo shirt, I just shrug and move on. This is the attitude and approach I want to take back to America.

So what happens during one of my ponderings about patience, and flight or fight: I see a rat sneak through the cracked door, a confident swagger into my bedroom.

Do I react rationally and calmly by trying to corner the rat or gently push it out the door? No, I hurriedly closed the door and ran to my host family's. No one was available so I timidly returned to my house and notice that I had not fully closed the bedroom door. Realizing the rat could be anywhere in my house, I curled into the fetal position on the couch and sent SOS emails. Responding to nature's call, I got the courage to leave the couch. As I am about to flush water down my Turkish toilet, I see the rat—I sure as hell hope it was the same rat—stick its' head out of the toilet. I screamed, threw an entire bucket of water down the hole and plugged it with a spare water bottle.

My scream brought Naima running to the window. She asked what was wrong and unable to hold it in any longer, I broke down. Between sobs, I tried to explain that there was rat in my bathroom. Without knowing the word for rat, I started to describe it and got as far as "there was a thing in my bathroom that was small like a kitten but it was not a kitten." Naima immediately understood and tried to reassure me that it was gone and would not come back. Not convinced and still terrified there could a rat in the house, I unsuccessfully tried to sleep and headed to Azrou the first chance I could. I can honestly say I have never been more scared in my house than the next morning when I had to pee.

During an 18KM hike yesterday, I mentioned the rat scare to other volunteers. One asked if I immediately ran to my host family's and when I replied "of course" she said that was exactly what she would have done. If she said that purely to give me a little comfort, it worked. Still wondering how I was going to go to the bathroom in peace, I got very valuable advice from a local. I returned to my house later in the day and poured a half-liter of hydrochloric acid down the toilet.

Thanks to the mental health break in Azrou, the hike with other volunteers, and a strong chemical, I woke feeling refreshed and eager for coffee and the Sunday papers. My flight or fight response failed me this time but I still have 100 days to ponder, reflect, and work on patience and the ability to stay calm and collected when problems arise.

Today I Say...

Lhamdullah for NPR, its' podcasts and free Newport Folk playlist. And to Wana for ability to download all these in the comfort of my own home without which none would have been possible.

In the Here and Now

With less than four months to go in Morocco, it is a constant struggle to stay present in my life here. Work is coming to an end. Summer is brutal. Ramadan is looming.

I have recently returned from a long vacation in England and Ireland. It was blissful walking through the streets of London, reading in the parks, soaking up the great outdoors in the Lake District, and drinking Guinness while listening to Irish folk in the pubs. Towards the end of the trip, I had the realization that no one had whistled at me, or honked, or said inappropriate phrases. A sad realization, really, because I knew I had to return to Morocco where verbal harassment is commonplace especially in the summer. This was confirmed when I didn’t even make it out of the train station in Meknes before inappropriate phrases came my way.

I so much want to enjoy my last 121 days here. I really do. I want to live in the present soaking up early evening tea dates, taking advantage of summer’s stillness to read, and finishing up the PCPP reporting. But all I can do is think about what happens 122 days from now…