Rissani:  The ancient capital of Tafilalet and former major caravan center, but also home to the famous “Moroccan Pizza” or mdfouna. The bread comes in three sizes and a variety of fillings such as meat, eggs and even almond paste. We went the traditional route or the American pizza equivalent of a “supreme”. It tasted a lot like intensely spiced, extremely fatty taco filling stuffed into two pizza crusts. We ordered from a restaurant owner who proceeded to fill a plastic bag with about two kilos of ground meat, fat, onions, cilantro, and spices. He then took us to the large oven where several hundred mdfounas were being made. The identity of our bread was made known buy filling out a small ticket and placing it into the dough before it was baked. It was then removed (hence the giant hole in the top of the bread) before we devoured it. Rissani also boasts a large souk with specialty items from the Western Sahara such as beautiful hand dyed fabrics. Before we returned home I ordered a large mdfouna to go for my host family and they even put it in a box. It weighed about three kilos but smelled amazing the whole ride home.

Its wedding season again which means playing dress-up, henna parties and dancing into the wee hours of the morning.

While concentrating on French and Darija these past two years, my English has become progressively worse, in some cases my own English students have helped me think of vocabulary words that I could only express in Darija or French. Relearning my native language is just one of many struggles I think I’m going to encounter having to readjust to American life. There are so many things I’m going to miss about Morocco, but the following are some I honestly don’t know how I will live without:

1. Souk: Sometimes I forget what an amazing experience going to the open-air market is here, especially when it just becomes a weekly chore. At some point during my service, I stopped thinking like a foreigner and just lived to survive—like everyone else. Before you enter, you’re automatically caught in a crowd of people—women wearing traditional embroidered Amazigh cloths or jilabas, kids running around stuffing their faces with freshly popped popcorn or strawberries, bikes, motors, transits are all zig zagging throughout the crowd, effortlessly avoiding pedestrians. Immediately upon entering, you are stuck with an overwhelming amount of sensations. Smells of fresh cinnamon, cumin and cloves. Merchants yelling prices of their goods in riyals, dirhams and francs, in Arabic, French and Tamazight. Women kissing eachother’s cheeks, happy to greet each other in the market. There are several stalls under a large collaborative space which forms the “souk” itself. Each stall may sell the same thing but it is important that the shopper can find everything they might need in souk. There are shops for plastic shoes, pajamas, seeds and gardening materials, dates, nuts, spices, couscous, olives, fruits and vegetables and everything in between. Prices are not advertised and products are not always visible, so there is a lot of communicating the form of shouting that goes on in souk. Merchants push their wooden carts of brown country eggs, garlic piled mile high or whatever else might be in season. If it’s summer there are fruits galore, sun ripened and smelling sweet; peaches, nectarines, casaba, and giant watermelons that people tote on their shoulders. In autumn you will find piles of yellow and pink skinned pomegranates, 30 pound pumpkins, mandarins and fresh fennel. The winter months at souk yields a lot of root vegetables, beets, squash, turnips and a seemingly infinite amount of oranges. Once the spring months arrive you’ll begin to see spring onions, leeks, strawberries and fresh sweet carrots. When the months get warmer and summer approaches cherries and apricots make their debut and the cycle begins all over again. The most dreadful month (because it is the hottest in this region) is August, but it is also my favorite because figs as sweet as candy are inexpensive and overly abundant, I’ve never tasted a fruit more delicious.

One of my favorite parts of souk besides the seasonal variety and intoxicating smells of fresh spices is sampling things. If you ask the vendor he is obliged to slice you a sample of whatever he has available—it goes without saying the buyer is able to sample anything in Morocco—from dates to perfume.

I also can’t mention souk without mentioning all of the friends I have made there. It is a very social place. Twice I met someone in souk and had lunch at their house the same day. This would never happen in the States—mostly because people are wary of strangers but going to the market becomes a chore in a very full day with little to appreciate under the glaring UV lighting, shiny white floors and the absence of smells other than chemicals that were used to clean the floor. Usually, to top it off, there is some sad song playing in the background such as Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On”. With such a morgue-like environment why would you appreciate the experience of going to the market, let alone the other shoppers? I am proud to admit I am a regular customer for anything I might need in souk—I have established a “nut guy”, a “fresh ginger and barley guy”, “fruit guy”, “vegetable guy”, “date guy” etc. I have faithfully (for the most part) bought products from them consistently for two years. Although our interactions are brief, they are so frequent and they have been such a routine part of my service I am going to miss them very much. 

Although farmer’s markets are wonderful in the states, there is nothing quite like my neighborhood Moroccan souk. Words cannot begin to describe what it is truly like to be apart of such an experience; I will miss it very much.

2.Hi, Stranger! A lot of RPCV’s say one of the most difficult parts to returning to the states is not feeling like a celebrity anymore. Everyone in your town knows you are “the American” and most people want to interact with you unless you are in a larger city. Although I don’t think I’m going to miss living under a microscope, especially because I find myself to be quite timid, I will miss the friendly nature of it all, it seems cold and unusual to me now that we can live in a state where we barely know our neighbors. You mean my neighbors in America won’t invite me over for lunch everyday? I can’t say hello to everyone I pass by in the street and expect the same?

 3. What is  this “personal space” business and what do you mean I can’t hold your baby? Personal space really doesn’t exist here. I’ve gotten so accustomed to this style of interaction it is rare that if I’m talking to one of my female friends we don’t pat each other on the back, shake one another’s hand multiple times or latch arms when walking down the street. When you are forced to be in such close spaces with everyone (i.e. six people in a four seated vehicle) you just get used to it, plane and simple. I am so terrified I am going to invade everyone’s personal space once I return and I won’t even be aware of it—this concept simply does not exist here. Further, and I think they are linked is it’s completely acceptable to pinch a random babies cheek’s, tickle them or just plain grab them. In fact, sometimes parents might just walk up to you and hand you their baby if they have something they need to do. One of my favorite part of going to the clinic was being able to hold people’s babies while they spoke to the doctor. There is such a sense of community that babies are often passed around the waiting room and it’s perfectly fine if this strange four-eyed white girl with a terrible accent comes up to your child and just starts snapping her fingers and pinching her cheeks. I’m pretty sure Americans are very protective of their offspring and I’m a little terrified I might forget one day and just start holding someone’s baby…this might be a problem.

4.  What do you mean I have to be invited? Weddings, baby-naming ceremonies, lunches, teas, parties, random appreciation ceremonies and everything in between does not really require an invitation. I can’t express how many weddings I’ve been to when the person on either side of me claims to not know the bride. How many baby-naming ceremonies (sort of like our baby showers but after the fact) in which the guests don’t know the mother or whether she had a boy or a girl, let alone the name of the baby. One of the best ways I have integrated here is randomly showing up at people’s houses and celebrations. It took me a while to get used to this, since this would be extremely rude by American’s standards and I think one of the reasons being that we only prepare enough food for the expected guests. Most Moroccans automatically assume there will be unexpected guests at all times of the day, everyday, so there is always enough to go around. The amount of food and preparation that goes into celebrations is incredible. Again, there is such a sense of community that the formality of an invitation seems so cold and unnecessary to me at this point, I think it would not be unlikely that if I hear music walking down the street in the States I might just walk into someone’s house to see what kind of celebration they’re having.

5.How  do I know what time it is if I don’t hear the call to prayer? Even though I am not a Muslim, there is something so beautiful and sacred about the call to prayer. I’ve become so accustomed to the sound, eventhough I live across the street from a mosque and the 4AM call happens twice, vibrating my walls and ceiling. (I think he does this on purpose, to wake people up).  People generally do their daily activities according to the prayer times, which changes from season to season. I know when things will open and close and learned to adjust my daily schedule according to prayer times. I have heard that there is a “Call to Prayer” application for this thing called the iPhone and I’m seriously considering acquiring this technology, but I have to learn how to use an iPhone first.

 6. Wait, you mean I don’t have to say bismillah? Religion and culture are so intertwined here it was absolutely impossible to interact with people without using God Phrases. (l’Humdullah, Llai Etik ShhA, llai sehel, llai hamu…etc). I was reluctant to use them at first, but they are such a part of the Darija dialect and daily life here that I can’t help but say them regardless of what language I am speaking in. I can’t say anything in the future tense without saying “inchallah” afterwards, I say “bismillah” either in my head or out loud automatically now before eating something, even when I’m by myself. I actually said “bismillah” when paying for a coffee in the Chicago airport on the way home to the States last summer. (The cashier gave me a confused look and I pretended I was coughing). I’m sure people found me very strange before I left for Peace Corps but if I go around saying “lHumdullah!” everywhere I’m afraid people are going to think I have a mental illness of some sort.

Other things I’m not sure how I will live without:

Delicious, high quality, local olive oil straight from the press, the smell of freshly baked clay oven bread, freshly squeezed juice with anything from avocado to papaya for about $1 USD, bargaining for prices (when I’m in a good mood, it’s like a theatrical performance and can go on for several hours) buying things on “credit” for anything from Tide to bus tickets. There is such a sense of trust in these small communities that some people can buy groceries for a month on “credit”, paying it in full, interest-free whenever they can. Moroccans: For all the complaining that I’ve done I really have grown so close to so many people here, regardless of cultural, language or religious differences. The kindness and generosity, humor and overwhelming sense of community I’ve experienced with so many families has truly been an unforgettable experience and I’m so sad to say goodbye, especially knowing that there are some I will never see again. Most people in rural areas don’t have mailboxes and many women are illiterate. Internet communication is out of the question. Thankfully most of them have cell phones but I know it’s just a matter of time before I begin to forget Darija, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget some of the moments I’ve shared with them. I’ll miss the hours we’ve spent squatting outside mud houses, joking and laughing, calling each other fat donkeys. Sometimes I’ve laughed so hard my belly hurt and I admittedly cried when I said goodbye to my first host mother. I had no idea that in just two years you could share so many overwhelming experiences with people, both amazing and terrible but all the same unforgettable. 

After two years, I think I’ve had an appropriate amount of time to reflect on some of the things I don’t know how I will live without, and some I’d prefer if I never had to experience again.

HOME SWEET HOME(S).

“Does hot water come out of the sink in America?” –Actual question, I asked another PCV about six months ago.

Get me out of here (for these reasons, in no particular order):

1. HOT WATER. Bucket baths suck, plain and simple. I love experiencing hammams (public bath houses), so much that I think I’ll continue to seek them out in the States. But when you’re living on a Peace Corps budget and have an addiction to baking like I do, those visits are few and far between. It’s not that I mind all that much, most of my Moroccan friends only bathe once a week. Hot showers with water pressure (emphasis on that last part sense water pressure doesn’t really exist here) are just so relaxing. There’s something dreadful about dumping a bucket of hot water on your head while standing in a cold, closet-sized room in 30 degree weather.

2.The variety and ease of…everything.Sometimes you can find a light bulb, shampoo and balloons all in the same place. Sometimes you can’t find anything you’re looking for or you simply don’t know how to say it and the store owner doesn’t understand what you’re trying to act out for him—sort of like a really bad game of charades. In the beginning of my service it could take well over two hours at souk to find something I’m looking for and after two years I’m still discovering where and how everything can be found. I’m simply struck by the variety and ease of finding items in the States—essentially anything you want, anytime you want it. It might be nice to know exactly where and how to find things again and effectively communicate what you’re looking for.

3. Family and friends. Despite how close I’ve grown to some of my Peace Corps and Moroccan friends, there’s just something about your close friends and family that is so important. They understand you, I mean really understand you and I miss the ease that comes with being around them. I’m impressed with my tolerance of avoiding home-sickness over two years but on Moroccan Holidays seeing friends and family come together as we do in the States, it’s been difficult. Although Peace Corps-style Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations (i.e. improvised pumpkin pie and plastic bag stockings) have been wonderful experiences, I’m looking forward to an effortless gathering with loved ones again.

 4. SCHEDULES, SYSTEMS AND FORMALITIES: If you’re coming to Morocco forget everything you know about time. Ryszard Kapuscinsk describes the differences between “Europeans” and “Africans” and the concept of time of time in his book, The Shadow of the Sun. Although stereotypical, and I am by no means saying every Moroccan or every American feels this way, his explanation of different perceptions of time relates to what I have experienced, especially in rural areas in Morocco:

“In the European worldview, time exists outside man, exists objectively, and has measurable and linear characteristics…The European feels himself to be time’s slave, dependent on it, subject to it…He must heed deadlines, dates, days and hours. He moves within the rigors of time and cannot exist outside them…

Africans apprehend time differently. For them, it is a much looser concept, more open, elastic, subjective. It is man who influences time, its shape, course and rhythm…Time is something man can create outright, for time is made manifest through events, and whether an event takes place or not depends, after all, on man alone…Time appears as a result of our actions, and vanishes when we neglect or ignore it. It is something that springs to life under our influence, but falls into a state of hibernation, even nonexistence, if we do not direct our energy toward it.

In practical terms, this means that if you go to a village where a meeting is scheduled for the afternoon but find no one at the appointed spot asking, ‘When will the meeting take place?’ makes so sense. You know the answer” ‘It will take place when people come.’” (pp.16-17)

It’s not uncommon for projects to take ten times longer than you would expect them to take in the states, in addition to filling out a ridiculous amount of pointless paperwork and traveling to another town just to have them stamped or signed then misplaced shortly thereafter. Sometimes people are late for meetings or decide to not show up at all. The problem is that I’ve actually grown accustom to this concept of time, I really schedule my day around the call to prayer and by American standards I’ve been anywhere between a half an hour and an hour “late” to some things before, depending on the importance. I can’t seem to stop taking my work seriously, however, which I am usually on time for even if the participants are not.

Furthermore lines do not exist here. Whether you’re waiting for a bus ticket, a bank transaction, purchasing food or at the post office, whoever is the loudest and pushiest gets served first. I’ve learned to adopt this way of aggressiveness but the best part is that no one gets angry about it, just me. I’m only really bothered by it at this point when I’ve taken a 17 hour bus ride and I’d really just like to get my bag and be on with my life but people first all need to line up in the aisle and get on and off the bus at the same time and everyone pushes their way to the luggage. Need some nuts? Just push your way to the front and shout how much you want. Need a bus ticket? Just hand someone your money and tell them “one, please”. Although standing in line and first-come-first serve can be annoying and unbearably painful sometimes in the States it seems much less likely to give you a heart attack and greatly reduces your risk of being trampled.

5. Gender Interactions, dressing like an “American” and anxiety-free exercise: I think one of the most challenging parts of my entire service was dealing with a completely different perception of both women and foreigners, altering the way I dress, talk, walk and interact with men. I could write paragraph upon paragraph about the perception of gender in Moroccan society according to my personal experiences, the perception of women and the extreme discrepancy and contradiction that exists from village to town to city, but I will save this exhausting essay for another entry. I didn’t expect to change myself so completely, to hide certain aspects of my life just in order to maintain my integrity to my community, to avoid what I already came here labeled as—“A western floozy”. I’m not saying that every volunteer has done this or should, I’ve just grown to accept interacting and dressing in certain ways and for the respect and response that I’ve gained from making those few sacrifices for just two years, it has been worth it to me. It is entirely unacceptable for me to wear anything above my elbows or my knees and I can’t remember the last time I saw my bear legs. My daily outfit usually includes a long sleeved shirt or cardigan that covers my butt, pants or an ankle-length skirt and a scarf. I have never covered my hair, unless it’s for sun or wind protection. I’ve never felt the need. I’ve had many women emphasize the importance of not showing your shoulders and covering your butt since these things seem to send the most provocative message to men, according to my town. I’ve learned to walk with my head down, especially in front of cafés, which are overwhelmingly male-dominated spaces. I never make eye contact or smile at a man, it sends an entirely strong message which they are probably already thinking. If I am verbally harassed I do what most Moroccan women do and just ignore them, looking straight ahead because they have told me if you respond in any way, even negatively, it shows that you are interested. Regardless of the size of the town in this region, I find that the general anthropological commentary of Middle Eastern societies in which public space is male dominated and private space is female dominated to be entirely relevant. I actually appreciate this in some circumstances, since I’d rather be sitting in a woman’s kitchen drinking tea than at the smoke-filled café on the busy streets. I’m looking forward to being able to exercise and not be stared or yelled at, to be able to wear a dress without jeans, to be able to jog without four layers and feeling comfortable in public. It’s not that I’m scared or worried when I leave my house, but I am constantly alert, especially in the main town in my region since harassment of women, not just foreigners, has become such a major issue. I’m so used to an environment in which men are separate from women I’m not sure how to reacclimate to being comfortable in the same space again. Although we still have a long way to go for women’s equality in the states, I am so appreciative and proud that I feel like I can truly be myself, regardless of who is in the room or how I am dressed.

6. Not taking the bus, ever again: Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but I’ve had to rely on cheap, inefficient buses for nearly all my transportation for two years—some which break down, do not have adequate seating (i.e. I’m standing in the aisle, seated on a tiny plastic seat or my legs do not fit in my seat), tolerated so many people vomiting that I automatically carry a plastic bag anytime I travel  (not for me but for the passengers that will inevitably get sick en route), sat next to screaming babies, chickens, creepy men, had people sleep, drool, sneeze and vomit on me, almost passed out from heat exhaustion, seen death flash before my eyes as we nearly speed of a 50 foot cliff, endured 18 + hours of travel that I think I’m good on long bus rides for a while. I’ve taken public buses quite often to get around in the States and even in Portland where there is generally at least one homeless crazy person each ride and I’ve never been as uncomfortable. I’ve done many things to tolerate these long bus rides and they’re actually quite efficient compared to other countries but after two years I need a break.

7. Not feeling guilty:  From the day I arrived I felt like I owed every Moroccan something. I’mthe one that wanted to be here, so I should do something to prove it. To this day, I am essentially at everyone’s beckon call in my community and if I cannot provide them with one of their requests, even if it is absurd, rude or I know that I’m somehow being taken advantage of, I can’t help but feel guilty that I failed them somehow. When I have to cancel class because I am sick, or I lock myself in my room to watch a movie after 17 hours of travel I feel incredibly guilty. I’m not sure where this feeling comes from, it might be a sense of work ethic or just simply that when I signed up for Peace Corps I knew you had to be very flexible and I was willing to do anything and go anywhere in the world to be able to be a part of this type of experience. It also might be linked to cultural responses here—saying “no” directly to someone’s request is very rude and every “no” has to be a long, indirect explanation. For example: “Come have lunch with me!” “Another time, God willing!” Even if you don’t intend to do so…but if I didn’t I would probably feel guilty about it.

“Peace Corps is hard.” Some other small annoyances that I could do without for a while:

The Turkish toilet: great in some circumstances, not so great in others. There is also never any toilet paper or soap in public bathrooms so just chew on that one for a while. The large “ventilation hole” in my ceiling that provides for it to rain into my house, and also so that I can hear everything my neighbors do and say and likewise. As I was making coffee this morning she didn’t bother coming down to speak to me, just shouted my name and started asking me questions as if we were already living together. As I write this they are blasting the Qu’ran. Along these lines I am going to appreciate privacy again, as most people just walk into my house and both in my old site and here, talk to me through windows, walls and any open spaces. I can’t go to the store without at least three people stopping me and asking me what I am doing. Temperature control: except for one month in the spring (March) and one month in the fall (November) it is extremely cold or extremely hot in everyone’s house. Air conditioning and heating come in small, inefficient and incredibly expensive units. Although I live in a desert climate I could sleep with up to four blankets, a hot water bottle, all of my clothes, and a hat in the winter and I wore close to nothing with frozen water bottles and towels in the summer, if I wasn’t able to sleep on the roof because of the glaring noise of weddings going on until 5 AM or all the mosquitoes. Hand washing…EVERYTHING: Rain, wind, hot or cold laundry has to be done. Hand washing every single sock, pillowcase, blanket and towel is a lot of work and can take a whole day. Keep in mind that with washing machines in the States you can do your laundry and something else at the same time! Not living out of a bag: I am fortunate enough as a Peace Corps Volunteer to have basic necessities like a home, dishes and utensils but I’ve essentially been “living out of a bag” since March, 2011, regardless of whether or not I’m traveling. It will be nice to not have to wash something and immediately put it into a bag and not feel like such a vagabond. Gas that does not come from a butane tank:  These cheap, and sometimes terrifying tanks seemingly weigh 50 pounds and replacing them is always an ordeal. They are often problematic or leak and if you ask a Moroccan to help you they are wonderful but always “test” for a leak with a lighter. My heart always jumps out of my chest for a few minutes. Not having to carry this thing four blocks and “install it” each time I want to keep cooking something will be really nice.

Meet the temperamental metal gas box (oven) and her partner in crime (butane gas tank):

I can’t say how much ice cream I’m going to consume or how long of a shower I’m going to take but what’s important is come May 22^nd both of these things will be at my fingertips. After two years a hot shower and a cold IPAnever seemed so heavenly. 

Shoofin’ in Chef

brainoffline:

The Far Side - 1984

Jardin Majorelle à Marrakech

ksarr qddim fransawaeen (The Old French Fortress) 

Huddled around a tiny fire in our complex breezeway I had a very interesting conversation about natural remedies and dreaming a few nights ago.

Some of the remedies I discovered according to several Moroccans I spoke to during my service:

Cinnamon, oregano: good for gas

Lemon wedges, onions or potatoes: helps soothe headaches and fevers

Roasted mandarins: subsides an annoying cough

Soot, paprika or bleach: some people put this on wounds to “clean and heal” the wound. This is very terrible and despite all of my nagging they are still convinced these things work. (Thankfully nurses and doctors I’ve spoken to in the area agree with me on this one).

Sleeping in a coating of soap on a sunburn:  apparently heals the skin.

Bleach: Many believe that bleach has health benefits—such as purging ingrown nails, curing scorpion stings…

Hot water, fennel seed, drinking cumin tea: subsides Colic/ aids stomach pains.

Coffee grinds and lemon, drinking olive oil: Helps a sore throat.

Some others that I’ve witnessed during my service:

Bleach or toothpaste used as “burn creams” : (

Applying dirt to cuts/wounds: I’ve only witnessed this once, but heard of it from many other Moroccans and Peace Corps Volunteers.

Tying cut potatoes around ones forehead when experiencing a fever, to decrease the temperature.

Drinking ground tea to vomit: Witnessed the aftermath of this at our Girl’s camp (unfortunately) because a girl was suffering from cramps and wanted to vomit to stop the pain. (I don’t think she attended our session on anatomy and menstruation.)

As an anthropology enthusiast, I try not to pass judgment on people’s perceptions of remedies. As a skeptic of Western Medicine, I appreciate herbal remedies and believe they have many benefits. As a Health Volunteer, I feel that it’s my responsibility to try to educate a person if they may be doing something harmful or making a situation worse. However, as an outsider, it’s very difficult to change someone’s behavior, especially when it’s linked to tradition and culture.

After I spent fifteen minutes trying to convince them that bleach should never be used on cuts or wounds, especially considering the fact that bleach in Morocco is highly concentrated, we moved on to discuss dreams and nightmares.

Afficher davantage