checking in

ben folds'in it up (i'm a creature of habit)

It's been awhile! The past few weeks have been a blur. My house waged a vendetta against me last week, first the water then the electricity.

Two days after I moved in, a tube thing (pipe?) in my water heater came loose and instead of just being cool it started spewing water all over my hallway. Conveniently, this happened at like 11:45 at night, right after I took a shower. So, wet hair and all, I got to run and wake up my retired landlord yelling "Flood! I have a flood!" Miraculously, I know the Arabic word for flood.

This problem got solved a day later when my friend was able to find someone with a wrench. Being a lady, I don't have such things in my house.

I thought the house and I had made up, but a day later I plugged in my computer and the electricity in the entire place went out. I actually thought in my head "Okay, house, I don't like you and you don't like me...but we have to work together like mature adults." Which is just silly. Anyway, long story short, I had a really nice guy come look at my electric meter and turns out some bozo had taped some wires together with scotch tape. I'm not sure exactly what effect that has on my wiring except that it's bad. So that's fixed now and I think house knows who's boss.

On the bright side, the past two weeks have been really good in terms of food. I had tea with a random family last Wednesday after souk, lunch with the Dar Chebab guard the next day when it was too rainy to go home, couscous with the Dar Chebab director's family on Friday (I'm teaching his wife English), lunch with my host family Saturday, and lunch with them again yesterday. Plus I made pretty delicious macaroni and cheese using Laughing Cow.

Other things going on: I'm slowly but surely becoming more independent. Example: yesterday I re-registered my post office box in my name (the postal workers still thought I was the volunteer that I replaced) and paid to rent it throughout 2010 all by myself. This probably doesn't sound like a big deal, but trust me, it is. It involved paperwork and official stamps and three separate trips to the post office.

Also, I've started learning to read and write Arabic script. It was really overwhelming the first couple tutoring sessions but I'm starting to get the hang of it. The other day while waiting around at the post office (see above paragraph) I realized I could read a couple lines on the paper I was holding. Swiyyyya b swiyya.

Listening/comprehension is getting a lot better, too. Yesterday my brother told me a story about how he caught a frog and I understood the whole thing.

In terms of work, things are a little slow right now. I have a few diehard English students that I really enjoy teaching, but the younger kids are starting to lose interest. I don't mind so much because it gives me more time to just hang out with them instead of being their teacher all the time. This morning, for instance, no one felt like learning English so we started playing Uno and it turned into a huge, fun game.

I don't want to teach if the kids don't want to learn, but then again it can be a little stressful letting the whims of an 11-year-old dictate your work day. Last Saturday I showed up with a full lesson plan--we were going to review the vocabulary we'd been studying all week, then start a lesson on opposites where I planned to teach the kids how to sing "Hello Goodbye" by the Beatles. I even brought my laptop, and that bitch gets heavy when you are going up and down hills all the time.

Alas, when I got to Dar Chebab there were only three girls there, all of whom wanted to "play ballet." Hmph. I obliged, and brought them into the big activity room and started leaping around with them. This quickly dissolved into them demanding that I show them different steps, so I was jumping and spinning around in jeans and socks for about half an hour. Not gonna lie, I had a good time and it feels great to have a chance to do a little ballet every now and then, buttttttt I spent awhile planning that lesson and I really want to teach them "Hello Goodbye."

Anyway. Hoping to start some bigger projects, probably after February when I get back from a training session up north. I need to get comfortable living here before I can really work effectively.

If I were to sum up my life right now in a simple sentence I would just tell you that it's going on. Everyday I wake up with an idea of what I'm going to do and go to bed having done something else. I kind of like that though, I guess.

no children are grabbing me right now

currently listening to The Arcade Fire

I should note that I'm listening to music sans headphones. That's right, because I'm in MY OWN HOUSE BY MYSELF DOIN' WHAT I PLEASE. Today I went crazy-go-nuts and went food shopping, unpacked and showered. I know, I'm out of control.

I'm really happy with my house right now. It's not perfect--one of the windows leaks a little on really rainy days, the butagaz in my kitchen scares the hell out of me and my landlord hung the mirror over my sink really crooked (intentionally, I suspect)--but the important thing is that it's mine. I finally have a place to go where I can just be.

And unpacking was FANTASTIC. I forgot about some of the stuff I brought. It's hard to keep track of everything when you live out of a duffle bag for four months.

Also. It occurred to me today that I've never lived alone before. Away from my parents, sure, but I've always had a roommate: my best friend from college and I lived together for three years then the summer before moving here I lived with some British exchange students. I'm hoping that living alone for the first time in a (very) foreign country is one of those rash decisions that work out really well.

One funny thing to end on: yesterday I was explaining to a kid at Dar Chebab that I had been really sick this week and she asked me "shrbti nkila?" which means "did you take nyquil?" But the thing is, in different contexts, shrb means drink, and when she said nkila I heard tequila. I think you can see where this is going.

I responded with a nervous laugh and said "No! Shame on you!" in Arabic while thinking a swirly margarita from Lauriol would hit the spot right about now. She looked at me funny and then I looked at her funny and then I kind of figured out what she said. Awk.

And what happened then? Well, in Whoville they say that the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day.

Currently listening to Jimmy Eat World cover of the Wham! classic "Last Christmas"

I've been blogging a lot lately. taking advantage of the strong internet signal, plus a lot of stuff keeps happening and it's hard to keep up.

For starters, Merry Christmas everyone! It's not even lunch time here and I have to tell you my Christmas is going very well so far. Much better than what I was anticipating.

Usually I hate the fact that the first thing that I see/do in the morning tends to dictate my mood for the rest of the day, but today this worked in my favor. I woke up to

a) sunshine
b) two nice messages from my sister and my boyfriend

not a bad way to start off my first Christmas so very far away from home.

The day progressed nicely. We had coffee this morning! I haven't had any for two days so I was really excited. Plus, the two more annoying kids in my family were still asleep all through breakfast, so we actually had a pretty relaxing morning.

At Dar Chebab this morning I gave the kids little white circles to cut out snowflakes. They don't know it yet but the snowflakes are going to be ornaments on the recycled plastic bottle tree my counterpart and I have been putting together all week. We had time left so I taught them musical chairs and tried to do it with my iPod and a speaker. Fail. Couldn't hear anything. It was still fun though until the game got a little too heated and two kids got in a fight. Who can blame them? Musical chairs is a rough game.

Of course, there is one Christmas miracle I have yet to talk about, and it's quite possibly the most awesome thing that's happened to me in Morocco thus far. Last night my friend came to my door and asked me to come with him real quick. He led me around the corner, where I found a friend of mine dressed as SANTA CLAUS and bearing gifts! It was so so so so nice and I cried a little. I can't believe they found a Santa costume, and the gifts were so undeserved! Needless to say, I'm in a good mood.

Tut tut! Looks like rain!

Typed up 23 December

Current zippy Christmas song: Ella Fitzgerald’s take on Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

I think the Darija word for “wet” is perfect. Fzg. It’s an accidental onomatopoeia. Fzg fzg fzg as my boots sludge through the mud. And there’s always mud. I think the name of the town I live in may translate to “I-turn-into-a-sinking-pool-of-mud-come-winter.”

What’s funny is how I look around and realize I am far from the only person having issues with the mud and fzg. You’d think that a person who has lived in this town his whole life would have some strategies or something for going on about his daily business, rain or shine. So not the case. I am quickly learning that Moroccans in my town are basically Gremlins that you can feed after midnight. Don’t get them wet.

When it rains here, everything comes to a stop. People stand around under awnings, no one shows up to work, stores don’t open, kids stay home from school. It’s the rainy day behavior I so desperately wanted in the States, and yet here I find it excruciating.

And I know what my problem is, too. When there’s something obstructing my path, like rain or being sick, I deal with it by working around it, or completely ignoring it if possible. I pretend I’m not coughing uncontrollably or plan around rain by giving myself more time to get places, wearing my hair up, etc. However, this isn’t really the way Moroccans deal with similar issues and that’s where I run into trouble. In Morocco, if it’s raining, you let the rain win. If you have a cold, the cold wins. Stay home. Wait it out. There’s nothing you can do about it.

Maybe after two years I’ll be able to sit back and accept that there are things I just can’t do anything about.

I once described the innards of my brain as the island of misfit toys

currently listening to ALL CHRISTMAS ALL THE TIME (more specifically, Eartha Kitt's "Santa Baby)

I was thinking about the time I likened my brain to the Island of Misfit Toys in the Rudolph cartoon today when I was in the middle of a dar chebab meeting about the activities I've got up my sleeve for Christmas and started jotting down things to blog about. I'm not even sure if that last sentence makes sense because I started thinking about peanut butter and banana sandwiches in the middle of it.

Anyway this is going to be yet another rambling, disjointed entry. Hold onto your hats!

First of all, a bit I wanted to blog about before but couldn't figure out a way to write it in a way that didn't make me sound like Carrie Bradshaw. Don't get me wrong, Sex and the City is classic and a great way to pass lonely nights in Morocco. That said, I can't stand Carrie's writing style and I think she does as much for women in terms of gaining respect as the Spice Girls.

Off the soapbox and on topic: I find that in Morocco I tend to wish I was a man. And it's not penis envy. It's ability-to-obtain-coffee envy. In my current homestay situation I depend on my host mom for coffee, who depends on the shopkeeper that she has an open tab with. If he decides to sleep in, she can't buy milk in the morning and I am SOL. This makes for rough mornings that spill over into rough afternoons if I miss nap time. If I were a man, this would be no big deal. I could just skip the family breakfast and head to any old cafe and kick it. No problem. I might even have two cups, who knows. I'm crazy unpredictable, and who can understand a man anyway?

Sigh. Unfortunately for me, I feel comfortable in ONE cafe, and it's on the complete other side of town. A good 25 minute walk. Who's got that kind of time in the morning? Not me, that's who. Especially when I'm uncaffeinated. It's a vicious cycle.

Next!

Last weekend two dear friends and I reunited for the first time since swearing-in (bold-faced lie--I saw one of them a week after moving to site and then again a few weeks after that)and went to a little place called Marjane. The Marjane is a Super Target-esque store that would be totally ordinary and maybe even sub-par in the states, but in Morocco it almost made me hyperventilate upon entry.

Imagine spending three and a halfish months in small town Morocco, doing jumping jacks to stay warm at night, bathing every three days or so and considering it a good week if your bowel movements were more or less regular. Now imagine stumbling into a huge superstore with air conditioning, American music on the speakers, and BOOZE prominently displayed. My fellow Volunteers and I just stood in the entry for a solid minute, sort of giggling and trying to lower our heart rates. We then proceeded--slowly--up and down every aisle, inspecting every product and trying to think rationally about what we should buy. After an hour or two of blissful shopping to tunage like "Ghetto Superstar," we emerged triumphant with peanut butter, cheese, pepperonis (don't judge), Oreos, Snickers bars and various other tidbits. I was even given a printed receipt! Ridiculous.

Yukon ho!

Today I received my very first package from America in the mail. It was from my dearest daddy and it was magnificent. I can safely assure you that there is at least one Dwight Schrute bobblehead doll in Morocco as of this morning.

There is also at least one beloved lavender unicorn hoodie sweatshirt. And now, a spontaneous haiku:

mythical creature
you've one horn and you've one heart:
mine. How I've missed you!

And because I don't want to end this blog on a completely absurd note:

There's this part in Jesus Christ Superstar (and I assume this happens at some point in the Bible, too) where Jesus is surrounded by beggars yelling at him:

See my eyes, I can hardly see/ See me stand I can hardly walk/ I believe you can make me whole/ See my tongue I can hardly talk

And then they keep getting closer and encroaching on his personal space until he finally just flips his shit and screams "Heal yourselves!"

I don't mean to compare myself to Jesus in anyway, but I totally had a similar moment this morning. This kid kept grabbing my arm and another one was telling me something while another was whining that someone hit her and a third was asking me how to say everything in a 3 mile radius in English until a fourth grabbed my other arm and I sort of involuntarily jerked my arm away and said "What?!" irritably and a little loud. Of course I immediately felt like a complete bitch and spent the remainder of the morning playing Uno and trying to make as many silly faces as possible. That heals all wounds right?

inappropriate

currently listening to: “Camping Next to Water” by Badly Drawn Boy

current state: safe in my room, CLEAN, full of bread and cookies

‘Awkward’ doesn’t even begin to describe this afternoon. From 4 to 5 on Tuesdays I have informal tutoring sessions. Too many people have stopped me on the street asking for English classes, and they are all of different levels, so I think this might be the best way to deal with the situation for now. Anyway this man came today that I had talked to last week—he studied English in school and loved it, but he learned British English and wants to learn to speak like Americans. I told him to come by this week around 4 or 5 with a list of British terms and we’d go over them.

The man did indeed stop by, but instead of bringing his list of British terms he brought the lyrics of an Eminem song. Yeah. I spent an hour with a middle-aged man explaining American slang like “woody” and how “climbing up and down that pole” is a phrase that describes the movements of a woman performing a strip tease. Awesome.

Deep Thoughts, Why Rain is Sometimes Awesome and a Swashbuckling Adventure

Typed December 14

I sit through a lot of events where I don’t really understand what’s going on. Apparently you can’t learn a language in three months, no matter how hard you try. Anyway, as if my mind didn’t already wander enough, it wanders even more when everyone around me is speaking very quickly and passionately in Darija. Some things I was thinking about:

I don’t totally agree with Jim regarding his lyrical choices in “People are Strange,” even though it’s one of my very favorite songs. Yes, people are strange when you’re a stranger and yes, faces look ugly when you’re alone. I don’t really know about women seeming wicked when you’re unwanted, but I’m totally with him on the bit about streets being uneven when you’re down. My ability to trip and the amount of crabbiness I’m experiencing at a given moment are directly related.

Jim and I schism at “when you’re strange, no one remembers your name, when you’re strange.” I totally disagree. Everyone in this freaking town knows my name. This morning I was stopped by three people who called out my name, only one of whom I recognized. Everyone knows my name and everyone knows my business. Yesterday I went out of town and the police called twice, once to verify my itinerary and a second time to see if I came home. If you do a ‘man on the street’ style interview and ask where the American is, I bet you a million dollars he’ll know.

Anyway.

The other thing I was thinking about was a tip my dad gave me once when I was trying to get into running (fail). He’s kind of a big deal—ran the Houston marathon in ’96. Ain’t no thang. He told me that runners, over time, learn to rest while jogging. They will run at a steady pace, then when they need a break they don’t stop or even slow to a walk, but jog. I could never really figure out how to do that in running, but I realized that in life I have been doing that for as long as I can remember. And by as long as I can remember I mean since probably high school. I always seem to have a to-do list (in my more neurotic days I had two or three to-do lists varying in levels of urgency) and if I’m not ticking things off of it I feel like I’m not a whole person. Idle time makes me nervous. For instance, today is my day off, and I spent most of it working on uploading photos from an event yesterday—until my internet mutinied—then lesson planning for the week. I run Tuesday through Saturday (dar chebab, meetings, getting things together for my house) and jog Sunday and Monday (lesson plans, studying Darija, organizing paperwork). I’m not comfortable enough here yet to REST rest—read, nap, journal—on a regular basis, which sucks because I read blogs of people in my stage and see that they are chilling out, visiting friends, catching up on their reading. Why can’t I ever come to a complete stop? You’d think after 23 years I would run out of places to jog. Or that I would have more interesting stories to tell by now.

So those are my deep thoughts for the day. Moving on to why rain is sometimes really awesome.

Rain is sometimes really awesome when it’s Monday morning and you don’t work on Mondays and can thus stay warm in your jammies.

Rain is sometimes really awesome when you have a host mom that makes hrsha (Moroccan corn bread) and coffee on mornings when it’s cold and rainy.

Rain is sometimes really awesome when you work at a dar chebab that’s far away from the neighborhood that stampedes of children come from. Muddy streets cut attendance considerably and make the activities much more manageable.

Rain is sometimes really awesome when you have snuggly blankets and work that you can do from your bed.

However, sometimes rain is not really awesome. Times when rain is not really awesome are:

When you live in a house with a big skylight, and the method of keeping rain out is covering the skylight with an old piece of metal with some holes in it.

When your bedroom window doesn’t close all the way.

When you are walking somewhere and get stopped by a creepy man who helped Peace Corps find your homestay family and now thinks he’s going to be given your hand in marriage as a thank you gift.

When your boots don’t have good traction in mud and every step may be your last.

Finally, a swift recounting of a swashbuckling adventure. I should mention no swordplay was involved, but at times I felt like it would be cool if everyone was speaking Pirate instead of Darija, which that’s why I use the term “swashbuckling.”

At dawn, I crammed into a rickety white van with my two counterparts and thirteen kids from dar chebab in order to go to a seminar on youth leadership and give a presentation about their group activities. The van safely seated maybe 8-10 people. No big deal, we had some minors sitting on plastic stools in the back, next to the back door that didn’t close all the way. Nothing to worry about, especially since no one’s parents signed any sort of waiver allowing their children to take this method of transportation. Yes, I was the picture of calm.

A cultural lesson: Moroccan youth, especially boys, like to bang drums and sing songs on road trips, even when it’s very early in the morning, their chaperone has not had any coffee yet, and the van has a tendency to break down frequently on windy mountain paths that make you think Gollum will pop out at any moment.

Hamdullah, we arrived safely (and on time!) at the seminar. We breakfasted on glorious coffee and baguettes then got started with some icebreaker games. One that I had never played before involved everyone taking off a shoe and putting it in the center of a circle. Then one by one each person had to pick a shoe and describe the person who wears it. It was really fun, and I’m glad my shoe got picked pretty early because I wanted it back (it was freezing).

The kids did a really great job presenting their activities. They had a slide show of photos set to music and even dimmed the lights for effect. Each one rehearsed his or her part and no one goofed off. I was very proud, even though I can’t claim credit for any of it, having only been in site a month.

Finished off the event with tea, cookies and a music circle. I got to show off my moves (read: was coerced into showing off my moves) and it occurred to me that dancing isn’t necessarily shameful in Morocco as long as the dancer feels humiliated and self-conscious the whole time. That’s probably why people don’t drink here.

The ride back home was much like the ride away from it, except this time one of my counterparts started singing “Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely” by the Backstreet Boys and everyone was totally shocked I didn’t know any of the words.

I think that’s enough for now…if I find myself thinking deeply again I’ll let you know.