I don’t know if I’ve talked about this much yet in the blog. It seems like I’m always talking about it, so my memory tends to get a little hazy. Regardless, however, I’m fairly certain that it’s impossible to over-emphasize the point. Winter in Freedonia is cold. Damn cold.
They like to ask us what our expectations had been of Morocco before we came, and I like to answer with something along the lines of how I had tried incredibly hard to not have any. This is true, but that doesn’t mean that I succeeded. And one area in which I failed to not have any expectations is with the assumption that while living in a country significantly closer to the equator than where I had previously been I would not be concerned with the lower half of the thermometer. When we arrived, however, our program directors cheerfully explained that Morocco is “the cold country with the hot sun.” There has never been a better description of anything in the history of describing things. When the sun is out – even in the winter, even here in Freedonia – it’s hot. We’ve had a few days here in the past weeks when I’ve worn a long-sleeved shirt only because it’s a little inappropriate to wear short sleeves. When the sun isn’t out, however, because it’s raining, nighttime, or simply because a cloud has temporarily moved in front, it’s cold. This can be especially true indoors. It can also be especially true in Freedonia.
And what happens, as I’ve learned from speaking with other volunteers up here in the northern mountains and from my own unfortunate experience, when exposed constantly to this kind of cold (remember what I said about houses – they’re more-or-less the same temperature as the outdoors with the only differences being the presence of blankets and furnaces), is you get chilled to the bone. Literally. Your bones get cold, and this causes them to create horrible red rash-like manifestations on your hands and feet. It looks like eczema or similar everyday dermatological problems, but it’s not. It’s your bones being cold. Your bones. Usually it itches, and when you’re particularly unlucky, it just hurts. Other times, you can’t feel it at all – in a good way, not in an advanced-stages-of-frostbite way.
I’ve taken to referring to this condition as bone-itis, and I’m fairly sure that this is the correct clinical name (for more information on bone-itis, see Futurama, season 3, episode 21, “Future Stock”). And what’s the prescribed treatment? Spend four days somewhere warm. Good luck with that. This means that I can most likely look forward to several more months of my bones being cold enough to cause epidermal irritation and my hands exhibiting that look of general decrepitness you’d expect from octogenarians.
There is an upshot, however, to all this cold. Word has it that the summertime in Freedonia is paradise on earth, made even more so by the tales of volunteers in the south sweltering the season away, having to pour buckets of water on their beds before they can sleep. That’s the sort of vision that carries me through the long cold nights.
My only regret is that I have bone-itis.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
“There Are Mountains Facing Mountains”
So goes the beginning of a song we sing occasionally in the Dar Shebab, and this past weekend I found out first hand that in the Greater Freedonia Area, this is absolutely true. Of course, having driven through here in taxis to and from the seminar site of my pre-service training and having looked out a window once or twice or just in a generally upward direction from the street, I already knew this, but there’s nothing like first-hand, on-the-ground experience to really solidify any knowledge.
At some point in the past weeks, probably in the recent nice weather we’ve had since my first few weeks here of rainy misery, the guys from the Dar Shebab decided that we should all take a hike in the mountains and have a picnic. Last Sunday that’s exactly what we did. Now, I’ve taken my fair share of hikes and prepared my fair share of picnics, so I began this hike with a pretty healthy load of confidence in my ability to do both of those things. I was going to be in for quite a surprise.
To start with, I was beginning from an initial elevation that’s just shy of Denver’s and going upwards, so we’re talking some reasonably serious mountain climbing. Second, I may have eaten some bad mutton the night before. On the other hand, perhaps I’ve just never really given the appropriate appreciation to the American forestry services that blaze and groom the many trails that lead us around our national parks. Whatever the reason, our initial ascent was a killer for me and I found myself stumbling all over the place. Then again, I’ve yet to find a single surface in the entire kingdom of Morocco that is “flat” in the sense that we Americans come to take for granted, an observation made all the more shocking on this trail littered with rocks the size of large mice that rolled around on each other like ball bearings when I realized that this was not merely a recreational mountain pass but a pedestrian artery between Freedonia and its environs traversed regularly by animals, children, and 60-year-old women with a lot more on their backs than just a camera and a bottle of water. I was even more shocked when I noticed that I seemed to be the only one of us having any sort of difficulty, but determined to carry on.
So, the general idea was to hike our way into the mountains until we came to a natural spring (of which we eventually saw several), and then cook ourselves some tagines and have a great time. For any of you who don’t know what a tagine is, it’s a type of traditional Moroccan dish defined by its being cooked in a pointy-topped ceramic pot and general deliciousness. Before we could cook anything, however, we had to build some fires, which, given the incredible windiness of the top of a mountain at this altitude, reminded me on several occasions of one of Jack London’s more well-known works, much to my exclusive pleasure. And while building the fire places that we eventually used to contain our fires, we happened upon another noteworthy discovery: scorpions. Yes, scorpions. Four of them, in fact. Little yellow ones, the smallest of which was not any bigger than a dime, though the largest was easily the size of a Hot Wheels car. If Indiana Jones is to be trusted, this should be a serious problem, but my understanding is that though you can (obviously) find scorpions in Morocco, the ones you’re likely to encounter will at worst make you sick for only a couple of days.
But this was all quickly forgotten as we got to work on the cooking and eating. It was quite exciting to be making this picnic up there, since everything was prepared on the top of the mountain. The cleaning and dicing of the vegetables, the seasoning of the meats, the brewing of the tea. This was definitely the first time I’ve ever gone hiking with a tea pot, but in Morocco very little is done without the assistance of tea. It also turned out to be the best tagine I’ve eaten in this country, as well, as apparently one of the guys had previously been a chef in the Royal Armed Forces and definitely knows what he’s doing with a chicken, some vegetables, and a pointy ceramic pot.
The tagine euphoria was quickly shattered, however, by one of the most heart-breaking aspects of Moroccan culture: the total lack of environmental consciousness. We had a beautiful picnic in pristine nature, but, as the standard operating procedure in Morocco is generally just to throw your trash more-or-less wherever you feel like, this will not be the case for the picnic that comes after us. One of the guys did gather up most of trash into bags and tied them together behind a rock, which kind of makes a difference, except for the fact that, no, it really doesn’t. Of course, you may be asking, “But Duncan, why didn’t you do something about this?” You have a good question there, and I don’t really have a good answer for you. I mostly just stared in pacifying depression. As this blog and its millions of avid reader/disciples are my witness, however, I intend to rectify my lack of action with something hopefully much more sustainable by the time I leave this country.
But before that happens, I’ll conclude for you my story of mountain adventure. It was at about the same time that I was being made an unwilling accomplice to LitterGate that I was given another surprise: the natural spring where we had just gorged ourselves like hedonistic Romans was not actually the spring of our final destination. And so we set off once more following at times donkey (excuse me) trails (it’s impolite in Moroccan culture to say “donkey” – excuse me again – without excusing yourself), and other times making our own paths through brush and scrub trees where no man was ever intended to tread. We walked through sun and rain; we saw snow on the ground and walked through intense heat. We made our way up to the top of one mountain with boulders and caves and crossed over sheer ridges. At one point we met a farmer up there and paid him off with our remaining bread to take photos with his donkeys (excuse me one final time). If I’d been walking with Halflings I’d have sworn I was in New Zealand. It’s possible that in all this time I may have breached the extent of my out-of-site policy, but as I’m not really sure where it is that I went, I suppose that no one – including myself – will never really know.
Our journey finally came to an end after we had ascended and descended four separate ridges and the sun had gone down completely enough that I was no longer the only one having difficulty with his footing and we began to discuss the various dangers posed to us in different degrees from the wild boars, lions, feral dogs, wolves, foxes, Aisha Qandisha, and our mothers if we were forced to spend the night in the mountains, but we managed to make landfall once more in Freedonia at around only 6:30 in the evening (sunsets are a lot faster the closer you get to the Equator, and there’s a lot less light pollution in Morocco than I’ve ever been used to) after around eight hours and countless kilometers (who really understands kilometers anyway?) of hiking. I can’t wait to go again.
It also got me thinking seriously about the excellence of the standard, The Ants Go Marching, but that's probably a story for another night.
At some point in the past weeks, probably in the recent nice weather we’ve had since my first few weeks here of rainy misery, the guys from the Dar Shebab decided that we should all take a hike in the mountains and have a picnic. Last Sunday that’s exactly what we did. Now, I’ve taken my fair share of hikes and prepared my fair share of picnics, so I began this hike with a pretty healthy load of confidence in my ability to do both of those things. I was going to be in for quite a surprise.
To start with, I was beginning from an initial elevation that’s just shy of Denver’s and going upwards, so we’re talking some reasonably serious mountain climbing. Second, I may have eaten some bad mutton the night before. On the other hand, perhaps I’ve just never really given the appropriate appreciation to the American forestry services that blaze and groom the many trails that lead us around our national parks. Whatever the reason, our initial ascent was a killer for me and I found myself stumbling all over the place. Then again, I’ve yet to find a single surface in the entire kingdom of Morocco that is “flat” in the sense that we Americans come to take for granted, an observation made all the more shocking on this trail littered with rocks the size of large mice that rolled around on each other like ball bearings when I realized that this was not merely a recreational mountain pass but a pedestrian artery between Freedonia and its environs traversed regularly by animals, children, and 60-year-old women with a lot more on their backs than just a camera and a bottle of water. I was even more shocked when I noticed that I seemed to be the only one of us having any sort of difficulty, but determined to carry on.
So, the general idea was to hike our way into the mountains until we came to a natural spring (of which we eventually saw several), and then cook ourselves some tagines and have a great time. For any of you who don’t know what a tagine is, it’s a type of traditional Moroccan dish defined by its being cooked in a pointy-topped ceramic pot and general deliciousness. Before we could cook anything, however, we had to build some fires, which, given the incredible windiness of the top of a mountain at this altitude, reminded me on several occasions of one of Jack London’s more well-known works, much to my exclusive pleasure. And while building the fire places that we eventually used to contain our fires, we happened upon another noteworthy discovery: scorpions. Yes, scorpions. Four of them, in fact. Little yellow ones, the smallest of which was not any bigger than a dime, though the largest was easily the size of a Hot Wheels car. If Indiana Jones is to be trusted, this should be a serious problem, but my understanding is that though you can (obviously) find scorpions in Morocco, the ones you’re likely to encounter will at worst make you sick for only a couple of days.
But this was all quickly forgotten as we got to work on the cooking and eating. It was quite exciting to be making this picnic up there, since everything was prepared on the top of the mountain. The cleaning and dicing of the vegetables, the seasoning of the meats, the brewing of the tea. This was definitely the first time I’ve ever gone hiking with a tea pot, but in Morocco very little is done without the assistance of tea. It also turned out to be the best tagine I’ve eaten in this country, as well, as apparently one of the guys had previously been a chef in the Royal Armed Forces and definitely knows what he’s doing with a chicken, some vegetables, and a pointy ceramic pot.
The tagine euphoria was quickly shattered, however, by one of the most heart-breaking aspects of Moroccan culture: the total lack of environmental consciousness. We had a beautiful picnic in pristine nature, but, as the standard operating procedure in Morocco is generally just to throw your trash more-or-less wherever you feel like, this will not be the case for the picnic that comes after us. One of the guys did gather up most of trash into bags and tied them together behind a rock, which kind of makes a difference, except for the fact that, no, it really doesn’t. Of course, you may be asking, “But Duncan, why didn’t you do something about this?” You have a good question there, and I don’t really have a good answer for you. I mostly just stared in pacifying depression. As this blog and its millions of avid reader/disciples are my witness, however, I intend to rectify my lack of action with something hopefully much more sustainable by the time I leave this country.
But before that happens, I’ll conclude for you my story of mountain adventure. It was at about the same time that I was being made an unwilling accomplice to LitterGate that I was given another surprise: the natural spring where we had just gorged ourselves like hedonistic Romans was not actually the spring of our final destination. And so we set off once more following at times donkey (excuse me) trails (it’s impolite in Moroccan culture to say “donkey” – excuse me again – without excusing yourself), and other times making our own paths through brush and scrub trees where no man was ever intended to tread. We walked through sun and rain; we saw snow on the ground and walked through intense heat. We made our way up to the top of one mountain with boulders and caves and crossed over sheer ridges. At one point we met a farmer up there and paid him off with our remaining bread to take photos with his donkeys (excuse me one final time). If I’d been walking with Halflings I’d have sworn I was in New Zealand. It’s possible that in all this time I may have breached the extent of my out-of-site policy, but as I’m not really sure where it is that I went, I suppose that no one – including myself – will never really know.
Our journey finally came to an end after we had ascended and descended four separate ridges and the sun had gone down completely enough that I was no longer the only one having difficulty with his footing and we began to discuss the various dangers posed to us in different degrees from the wild boars, lions, feral dogs, wolves, foxes, Aisha Qandisha, and our mothers if we were forced to spend the night in the mountains, but we managed to make landfall once more in Freedonia at around only 6:30 in the evening (sunsets are a lot faster the closer you get to the Equator, and there’s a lot less light pollution in Morocco than I’ve ever been used to) after around eight hours and countless kilometers (who really understands kilometers anyway?) of hiking. I can’t wait to go again.
It also got me thinking seriously about the excellence of the standard, The Ants Go Marching, but that's probably a story for another night.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
The Big Holiday
That’s the popular name for Eid al-Adha, the Islamic Feast of the Sacrifice, which just past this week. Eid al-Adha is, for comparison, like a combination of the intensity of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and occasionally little bits of Halloween all at the same time. It’s so big, in fact, that Peace Corps volunteers are forbidden from travelling anywhere for a full week – the roads are that packed with people going home or to visit friends and relatives, and towns and cities are just that crazy. Fortunately, I’m still living with a host family, so I was able to experience all there is to the Eid, but before we get there, perhaps a little background on its origins.
The Eid is a commemoration of something that happened at perhaps the very beginning of all three Abrahamic religions. It’s a festival celebrated only by Muslims, but the event is part of Judaism and Christianity. I’m a little fuzzy on some of the details, to be honest, but I’m hoping that you’ll recognize the story and fill in the rest on your own. It all began with Abraham, the founder of this religious tree, and a dream he had. In his dream, God commanded him to sacrifice his son, Ishmael (I believe). We he awoke, he discussed this vision with his son, who, being sensible, recognized the inevitability of God’s will and told Abraham that he had to do what he had to do. They gathered everything necessary for the sacrifice, Abraham raised the knife over his son, and right before he’d gone too far, God interceded and sent a ram, which they sacrificed instead. As well as I can remember, this was God’s test for Abraham, who, having shown his absolute piety, would go on to lead the new religion. (Anyone should feel free to comment here on the accuracy of my recounting this story.)
Today, people across the Muslim world show their piety by reenacting this story’s most important detail, the slaughter of a ram. Actually (and here I’m going to start speaking just about my experience in Morocco rather than universal Islam), it doesn’t have to be just a ram. Though most people do look for the biggest, fattest, most impressive-looking ram that they can find and afford, they’re more than free to slaughter a ewe instead, or even a goat. My language is not the best, but I’m fairly certain that I heard that people with diabetes opt for the goat. Why this makes a difference I can’t tell you. And I should make a small amendment: when I say “people,” I should say “families.” There is supposed to be one ram per family, which means that even small towns in Morocco need a lot of rams.
This is part of the excitement, however. Starting about a week before, all the sheep and goat farmers from the area start bringing in their animals and make an informal souq (“market”) in the center of town. At least, that’s what happened here in Freedonia. As we get closer to the day of Eid, people start to get moving on acquiring their sacrifice. The souq gets packed with folks looking for the best ram, which has to meet several requirements. First, you feel its back end, right about where the spine reaches the hips, to see if there’s any meat there or not. You also have to pick it up and take a look at its teeth (for obvious reasons). You see, there are some unscrupulous ram venders who try to fluff up the wool, or give it low-quality, fattening feed in the week immediately before to give it bulk, but not meat. And these things are expensive. Families are dropping well over a thousand dirhams – and this is in a relatively poor part of the country. In fact, they’re so much so that venders on quote the first two digits of the price, like, “26,” meaning “26 thousand riyals.” (A riyal is a ridiculous construction that is equal to one twentieth of a dirham, and just about all prices are quoted in them, but there are no denominations of money that indicate their riyal value, but I’d rather not go down that road just yet. Suffice it to say, 26,000 riyals is the same as 1,300 dirhams, which is approximately 162.5 dollars. When's the last time you payed that much for your Thanksgiving turkey?) My family and I walked around the ram market for more than an hour, grabbing the back end of any reasonable-looking animal, asking for some prices, and trying to bargain down the sellers. I tended to have little idea of what was going on, but we eventually got ourselves a good-looking ram, brought him home, and got ready for the Eid two days later.
On the day of Eid, people wake up early and pray, and then get to the business of the ram. Like American Thanksgiving, the majority of the day is devoted to either the preparation or consumption of food, and, thus, the ram needs to be slaughtered quite early. Actually, the most surprising aspect of the entire Eid is the straightforwardness of the slaughter itself. I’m not exactly sure why, but I had expected something more of pomp and circumstance. There is none of this. No praying or invoking of holy powers, no family gathering, no ritualistic aspects of any kind. In fact, only a few people in my family were there when the ram was sacrificed, and I think this was mostly to see what I would think of it. And from what I saw of other families, this is fairly common. Even the king, who had his slaughter rebroadcast on the news, merely had a ram brought over and held down by attendants, took out a knife, and cut its throat. That was it. If the movie Gone in 60 Seconds had been about Eid al-Adha instead, it might have actually been a decent film.
The process of the slaughter is very important, however. Muslims are forbidden from consuming the blood of animals, which is not only a problem for Islamic vampires, but also means that all of the blood must be removed from the animal. (Spoiler Alert: If you’re a member of PETA or similarly disposed, you may not want to read the rest of this paragraph. Probably not the next one, either.) Consequently, the jugular of the animal is cut, causing lots of bleeding, but by not severing the spinal column the ram’s brain continues to drive the beating of the heart, which causes the animal to pour out all of its blood. If the brain were no longer connected to the heart, blood would stay in some of the veins. I’m not entirely certain that some doesn’t stay in either these processes, but I can say that a piece of meat here in Morocco doesn’t seep blood like a piece does back in the States.
Once all the blood is out, the butchering commences. This begins with removing the skin (wool included), which is actually quite fascinating. To separate the skin from the muscle, you cut a small hole in one of the rear legs and blow into it, inflating the torso and legs like a balloon or really unfortunate bagpipe. Things then proceed pretty much as you’d imagine – with a brief pause to decapitate the ram about halfway through – until all the skin is off. At this point, you hang up the carcass and have to get to the business of disembowelment. As far as I can tell, every part of the ram, aside from the hooves, horns, and skin is eaten, which includes all the major, minor, and never-before-seen organs scattered about its innards. Each must be carefully separated from the body and placed aside for cleaning and eventual eating.
Speaking of which, immediately after the organs start to come out, the cooking begins. Much of the food that I’ve eaten here in Morocco has been pressure cooked, but the Eid ram is grilled (some parts are pressure cooked later), and as far as I can determine, everyone starts with liver and lungs wrapped in the fat that lines the stomach. This may sound somewhat unpleasing, but the fat actually adds a lot of flavor, and, with some salt and hot pepper, makes for some very tasty kebabs. As for the rest, I’ve been counting down the internal organs as we’ve eaten them, and there can’t be too many left. I think that today’s lunch is going to be the head and everything that comes with it, after which I can’t think of anything remaining. It has been six days since Eid, and last night’s dinner was the first meal in all of that time when we ate chicken (mutton/goat and chicken are pretty much the only meats I eat with my family). It was delicious.
The Eid is a commemoration of something that happened at perhaps the very beginning of all three Abrahamic religions. It’s a festival celebrated only by Muslims, but the event is part of Judaism and Christianity. I’m a little fuzzy on some of the details, to be honest, but I’m hoping that you’ll recognize the story and fill in the rest on your own. It all began with Abraham, the founder of this religious tree, and a dream he had. In his dream, God commanded him to sacrifice his son, Ishmael (I believe). We he awoke, he discussed this vision with his son, who, being sensible, recognized the inevitability of God’s will and told Abraham that he had to do what he had to do. They gathered everything necessary for the sacrifice, Abraham raised the knife over his son, and right before he’d gone too far, God interceded and sent a ram, which they sacrificed instead. As well as I can remember, this was God’s test for Abraham, who, having shown his absolute piety, would go on to lead the new religion. (Anyone should feel free to comment here on the accuracy of my recounting this story.)
Today, people across the Muslim world show their piety by reenacting this story’s most important detail, the slaughter of a ram. Actually (and here I’m going to start speaking just about my experience in Morocco rather than universal Islam), it doesn’t have to be just a ram. Though most people do look for the biggest, fattest, most impressive-looking ram that they can find and afford, they’re more than free to slaughter a ewe instead, or even a goat. My language is not the best, but I’m fairly certain that I heard that people with diabetes opt for the goat. Why this makes a difference I can’t tell you. And I should make a small amendment: when I say “people,” I should say “families.” There is supposed to be one ram per family, which means that even small towns in Morocco need a lot of rams.
This is part of the excitement, however. Starting about a week before, all the sheep and goat farmers from the area start bringing in their animals and make an informal souq (“market”) in the center of town. At least, that’s what happened here in Freedonia. As we get closer to the day of Eid, people start to get moving on acquiring their sacrifice. The souq gets packed with folks looking for the best ram, which has to meet several requirements. First, you feel its back end, right about where the spine reaches the hips, to see if there’s any meat there or not. You also have to pick it up and take a look at its teeth (for obvious reasons). You see, there are some unscrupulous ram venders who try to fluff up the wool, or give it low-quality, fattening feed in the week immediately before to give it bulk, but not meat. And these things are expensive. Families are dropping well over a thousand dirhams – and this is in a relatively poor part of the country. In fact, they’re so much so that venders on quote the first two digits of the price, like, “26,” meaning “26 thousand riyals.” (A riyal is a ridiculous construction that is equal to one twentieth of a dirham, and just about all prices are quoted in them, but there are no denominations of money that indicate their riyal value, but I’d rather not go down that road just yet. Suffice it to say, 26,000 riyals is the same as 1,300 dirhams, which is approximately 162.5 dollars. When's the last time you payed that much for your Thanksgiving turkey?) My family and I walked around the ram market for more than an hour, grabbing the back end of any reasonable-looking animal, asking for some prices, and trying to bargain down the sellers. I tended to have little idea of what was going on, but we eventually got ourselves a good-looking ram, brought him home, and got ready for the Eid two days later.
On the day of Eid, people wake up early and pray, and then get to the business of the ram. Like American Thanksgiving, the majority of the day is devoted to either the preparation or consumption of food, and, thus, the ram needs to be slaughtered quite early. Actually, the most surprising aspect of the entire Eid is the straightforwardness of the slaughter itself. I’m not exactly sure why, but I had expected something more of pomp and circumstance. There is none of this. No praying or invoking of holy powers, no family gathering, no ritualistic aspects of any kind. In fact, only a few people in my family were there when the ram was sacrificed, and I think this was mostly to see what I would think of it. And from what I saw of other families, this is fairly common. Even the king, who had his slaughter rebroadcast on the news, merely had a ram brought over and held down by attendants, took out a knife, and cut its throat. That was it. If the movie Gone in 60 Seconds had been about Eid al-Adha instead, it might have actually been a decent film.
The process of the slaughter is very important, however. Muslims are forbidden from consuming the blood of animals, which is not only a problem for Islamic vampires, but also means that all of the blood must be removed from the animal. (Spoiler Alert: If you’re a member of PETA or similarly disposed, you may not want to read the rest of this paragraph. Probably not the next one, either.) Consequently, the jugular of the animal is cut, causing lots of bleeding, but by not severing the spinal column the ram’s brain continues to drive the beating of the heart, which causes the animal to pour out all of its blood. If the brain were no longer connected to the heart, blood would stay in some of the veins. I’m not entirely certain that some doesn’t stay in either these processes, but I can say that a piece of meat here in Morocco doesn’t seep blood like a piece does back in the States.
Once all the blood is out, the butchering commences. This begins with removing the skin (wool included), which is actually quite fascinating. To separate the skin from the muscle, you cut a small hole in one of the rear legs and blow into it, inflating the torso and legs like a balloon or really unfortunate bagpipe. Things then proceed pretty much as you’d imagine – with a brief pause to decapitate the ram about halfway through – until all the skin is off. At this point, you hang up the carcass and have to get to the business of disembowelment. As far as I can tell, every part of the ram, aside from the hooves, horns, and skin is eaten, which includes all the major, minor, and never-before-seen organs scattered about its innards. Each must be carefully separated from the body and placed aside for cleaning and eventual eating.
Speaking of which, immediately after the organs start to come out, the cooking begins. Much of the food that I’ve eaten here in Morocco has been pressure cooked, but the Eid ram is grilled (some parts are pressure cooked later), and as far as I can determine, everyone starts with liver and lungs wrapped in the fat that lines the stomach. This may sound somewhat unpleasing, but the fat actually adds a lot of flavor, and, with some salt and hot pepper, makes for some very tasty kebabs. As for the rest, I’ve been counting down the internal organs as we’ve eaten them, and there can’t be too many left. I think that today’s lunch is going to be the head and everything that comes with it, after which I can’t think of anything remaining. It has been six days since Eid, and last night’s dinner was the first meal in all of that time when we ate chicken (mutton/goat and chicken are pretty much the only meats I eat with my family). It was delicious.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Language
Some words and expressions in Darija that are particularly awesome, useful, or noteworthy.
Fayadan /fæ · yuh · dän/. This means “flood” in English, and is about the coolest sounding word I’ve ever heard. If I ever get into lucha libre (Mexican wrestling for any of you Philistines out there), that’s definitely going to be my name (with the requisite conditioners, of course). El Fayadan Loco.
Sfinj /sfinž/. This means “doughnut,” and is the funniest sounding word I’ve ever heard.
“Hit me with your telephone.” This is a literal translation of what you say when you mean “give me a call.”
Brodgan /brōd · gän/. These are boots – not your big galoshes types, more of the work/hiking disposition. Not very interesting in themselves, but the word makes them sound like something you’d find in a fantasy role-playing game. “Come hither, squire, and bring my brodgan. I must off to slay the terrible serpent.” Seriously badass.
The 4 Words (this is a tribute to another of my training comrades, Zacki, who discussed these in a speech at our swearing-in). These four words are pretty much all you really need to know to speak Darija. They are also very frequently used by volunteers speaking English (see Volunteer Darija, below).
1. /bε · zaf/. This means “a lot” or “much,” but is much more important than these two functions. “Bezzaf” is what you answer whenever anyone asks you if you like something, or if you’ve done things like eating already.
2. Shwiya /šwē · yuh/. This is pretty much the opposite of “bezzaf,” though it can also be used to imply incompleteness. For example, “I feel shwiya today,” or “I have a shwiya mudir (director) at my Dar Shebab.” It’s most used, however, when someone is about to give you more food or tea, though not very often listened to by said person.
3. Inshallah /in · šä · lä/ or /in · šä · uh · lä/. We’ve talked about this before, but for the beginner in Darija, “inshallah” is most useful as a way to end a line of questioning by an interlocutor, particularly when you don’t know what they’re talking about. Just say, “inshallah,” and you’ve got a 80% chance of having said the right thing. It’s also incredibly useful if someone asks you about doing something with you in the future, and you’re unsure about it or flat out don’t want to.
4. Yumkin /yehm · kin/. This means “maybe,” and should not be confused with mumkin (/muhm · kin/), which means “it is possible” (as I did for the first month or so). “Yumkin” is the perfect response to any question to which “inshallah” is not applicable, especially if you don’t know what they’re talking about.
“Fatal Tigers.” This is actually English and not Darija at all, but it’s been seen written as graffiti on a wall in Fes and here in Freedonia. I have no idea what it means, but whether it’s a street gang, a political movement, a rock band, or a team of synchronized swimmers, it’s got the coolest name of all time and I want to join. Also, I’ve yet to meet anyone who can explain anything about it.
Khowi /khä · wē/. This is a very dangerous word. The “kh” should be pronounced in a gargling fashion from the back of the throat, similar to an “r” in French. There is no phonetic letter for this sound that I know of, so it’s usually written as a “kh” in languages that use the Arabic alphabet, “ch” in Hebrew (think “Channukah”), or “x” in our Darija textbooks. In any event, if you have difficulty pronouncing it, talk to Michael McCowan; he’s really good at making this sound. Anyway, “khowi” means “pour,” as in “khowi attay” (“pour the tea”). The problem is that many people can’t make the proper gargle, and instead say “howi attay.” Normally it’s not such a problem if you make that mistake, but in this particular instance, you are giving the imperative command to do something quite improper (and seemingly impossible) to the tea.
Qub /qüb/. This is the verb that is the solution to your “khowi” problems. The “q” sound is also another difficult sound for non-Arabic speakers, being a sort of vocalized glottal stop rather than an English q. However, if you make a mistake when you say “qub attay” – which means the same thing as “khowi attay” – you just sound like a silly foreigner rather than a vulgar pervert.
Yek /yek/. This is what you say after making a statement you’re not sure about the veracity of. It basically means, “right?” For example, “We’re going to eat now, yek?” But it has a much better use, as well. After you make a statement that you really want the listener to understand, you say “yek.” Basically meaning, “you dig?” Excellent expression, yek?
“God help you.” This is the literal translation of what you say to people when you are leaving or going to sleep or someone else is leaving or going to sleep. It functions as something like “God be with you,” or “Godspeed,” or I really don’t know what it means, but it sounds funny every time I hear it. Especially since the reply is “Amin,” which is my name here in Morocco.
Volunteer Darija. We volunteers tend to speak another language of our own – two actually – volunteer Darija and volunteer Daringlish. Volunteer Daringlish is mostly English, with a handful of extra words from Darija thrown in. For example, The 4 Words, which are so important in our speaking of Darija that we can’t help but add them to our speaking of English. There are others, though. “Wallu” (/wa · lü/), meaning “nothing;” “belati” (/bi · lä · tē/), meaning “wait,” and “shnu” (/šnü/), meaning “what.” And this happens even we’re talking to people from back home who speak shwiya or wallu of Darija. We just can’t help it; so, if you’re thinking about talking to a PCV Morocco, you might want to learn those.
Volunteer Darija is the special language that we speak with actual Darija speakers, consisting of all the extra words and expressions that we’ve created. This isn’t a reference to our frequently unintelligible words we throw at unfortunate Moroccans. It’s more of a grassroots movement to build a new language, or at least redirect where this one is going a little bit. Here’s a sample.
- Mumtastic. This comes from the combination of mumtaz (/muhm · taz/), meaning great, and fantastic, meaning “fantastic.” People here tend to not really understand when you say this.
- Bezzaffer. This comes from the word bezzaf (see above) and is the noun form, as in, “That 5th policy session was a real bezzaffer.”
- Shukes /šüks/. A diminutive form of shukran (/šōk · rän/), which means “thank you.” “Shukes” is our creation of a “thanks,” and Moroccans tend to think it’s funny.
- Mashi Moosh /mä · šē müš/. Another diminutive, this time of the expression mashi mushkil (/mä · šē müš · kēl/), meaning, “not a problem.” “Mashi moosh” is easier and more fun to say, and, because it technically means “not a cat” in a combination of proper Darija and Berber, Moroccans tend to think it’s really funny.
Hopefully this guide is a useful way for you to better understand Darija and the life of your Moroccan Peace Corps volunteer.
Fayadan /fæ · yuh · dän/. This means “flood” in English, and is about the coolest sounding word I’ve ever heard. If I ever get into lucha libre (Mexican wrestling for any of you Philistines out there), that’s definitely going to be my name (with the requisite conditioners, of course). El Fayadan Loco.
Sfinj /sfinž/. This means “doughnut,” and is the funniest sounding word I’ve ever heard.
“Hit me with your telephone.” This is a literal translation of what you say when you mean “give me a call.”
Brodgan /brōd · gän/. These are boots – not your big galoshes types, more of the work/hiking disposition. Not very interesting in themselves, but the word makes them sound like something you’d find in a fantasy role-playing game. “Come hither, squire, and bring my brodgan. I must off to slay the terrible serpent.” Seriously badass.
The 4 Words (this is a tribute to another of my training comrades, Zacki, who discussed these in a speech at our swearing-in). These four words are pretty much all you really need to know to speak Darija. They are also very frequently used by volunteers speaking English (see Volunteer Darija, below).
1. /bε · zaf/. This means “a lot” or “much,” but is much more important than these two functions. “Bezzaf” is what you answer whenever anyone asks you if you like something, or if you’ve done things like eating already.
2. Shwiya /šwē · yuh/. This is pretty much the opposite of “bezzaf,” though it can also be used to imply incompleteness. For example, “I feel shwiya today,” or “I have a shwiya mudir (director) at my Dar Shebab.” It’s most used, however, when someone is about to give you more food or tea, though not very often listened to by said person.
3. Inshallah /in · šä · lä/ or /in · šä · uh · lä/. We’ve talked about this before, but for the beginner in Darija, “inshallah” is most useful as a way to end a line of questioning by an interlocutor, particularly when you don’t know what they’re talking about. Just say, “inshallah,” and you’ve got a 80% chance of having said the right thing. It’s also incredibly useful if someone asks you about doing something with you in the future, and you’re unsure about it or flat out don’t want to.
4. Yumkin /yehm · kin/. This means “maybe,” and should not be confused with mumkin (/muhm · kin/), which means “it is possible” (as I did for the first month or so). “Yumkin” is the perfect response to any question to which “inshallah” is not applicable, especially if you don’t know what they’re talking about.
“Fatal Tigers.” This is actually English and not Darija at all, but it’s been seen written as graffiti on a wall in Fes and here in Freedonia. I have no idea what it means, but whether it’s a street gang, a political movement, a rock band, or a team of synchronized swimmers, it’s got the coolest name of all time and I want to join. Also, I’ve yet to meet anyone who can explain anything about it.
Khowi /khä · wē/. This is a very dangerous word. The “kh” should be pronounced in a gargling fashion from the back of the throat, similar to an “r” in French. There is no phonetic letter for this sound that I know of, so it’s usually written as a “kh” in languages that use the Arabic alphabet, “ch” in Hebrew (think “Channukah”), or “x” in our Darija textbooks. In any event, if you have difficulty pronouncing it, talk to Michael McCowan; he’s really good at making this sound. Anyway, “khowi” means “pour,” as in “khowi attay” (“pour the tea”). The problem is that many people can’t make the proper gargle, and instead say “howi attay.” Normally it’s not such a problem if you make that mistake, but in this particular instance, you are giving the imperative command to do something quite improper (and seemingly impossible) to the tea.
Qub /qüb/. This is the verb that is the solution to your “khowi” problems. The “q” sound is also another difficult sound for non-Arabic speakers, being a sort of vocalized glottal stop rather than an English q. However, if you make a mistake when you say “qub attay” – which means the same thing as “khowi attay” – you just sound like a silly foreigner rather than a vulgar pervert.
Yek /yek/. This is what you say after making a statement you’re not sure about the veracity of. It basically means, “right?” For example, “We’re going to eat now, yek?” But it has a much better use, as well. After you make a statement that you really want the listener to understand, you say “yek.” Basically meaning, “you dig?” Excellent expression, yek?
“God help you.” This is the literal translation of what you say to people when you are leaving or going to sleep or someone else is leaving or going to sleep. It functions as something like “God be with you,” or “Godspeed,” or I really don’t know what it means, but it sounds funny every time I hear it. Especially since the reply is “Amin,” which is my name here in Morocco.
Volunteer Darija. We volunteers tend to speak another language of our own – two actually – volunteer Darija and volunteer Daringlish. Volunteer Daringlish is mostly English, with a handful of extra words from Darija thrown in. For example, The 4 Words, which are so important in our speaking of Darija that we can’t help but add them to our speaking of English. There are others, though. “Wallu” (/wa · lü/), meaning “nothing;” “belati” (/bi · lä · tē/), meaning “wait,” and “shnu” (/šnü/), meaning “what.” And this happens even we’re talking to people from back home who speak shwiya or wallu of Darija. We just can’t help it; so, if you’re thinking about talking to a PCV Morocco, you might want to learn those.
Volunteer Darija is the special language that we speak with actual Darija speakers, consisting of all the extra words and expressions that we’ve created. This isn’t a reference to our frequently unintelligible words we throw at unfortunate Moroccans. It’s more of a grassroots movement to build a new language, or at least redirect where this one is going a little bit. Here’s a sample.
- Mumtastic. This comes from the combination of mumtaz (/muhm · taz/), meaning great, and fantastic, meaning “fantastic.” People here tend to not really understand when you say this.
- Bezzaffer. This comes from the word bezzaf (see above) and is the noun form, as in, “That 5th policy session was a real bezzaffer.”
- Shukes /šüks/. A diminutive form of shukran (/šōk · rän/), which means “thank you.” “Shukes” is our creation of a “thanks,” and Moroccans tend to think it’s funny.
- Mashi Moosh /mä · šē müš/. Another diminutive, this time of the expression mashi mushkil (/mä · šē müš · kēl/), meaning, “not a problem.” “Mashi moosh” is easier and more fun to say, and, because it technically means “not a cat” in a combination of proper Darija and Berber, Moroccans tend to think it’s really funny.
Hopefully this guide is a useful way for you to better understand Darija and the life of your Moroccan Peace Corps volunteer.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
9 Things
Some things I’ve noticed about Morocco that are different or surprising enough to write about (aside from the obvious like everyone speaking Arabic).
1 – It’s rude to whistle. I’m not talking about whistling at girls or anything, which is just as rude back in the states; I’m talking about the whistling Dixie / whistle-while-you-work kind of whistling. Imagine burping the alphabet, and that’s about what whistling is like. Burping is pretty much okay, though.
2 – There are a lot of trees here in Freedonia that drop a lot of leaves, and people solve this problem in the most obvious of ways: they burn them. You walk down the street and you’ll see huge piles of leaves just burning away on the side of the road, heaped up against a wall, or right in the middle of a park. Of course, not a whole lot around here is built of anything other than concrete or mud, so there really isn’t that much danger of danger, but it’s nonetheless American-mindset blowing to think how many lawyers you’d have rolling over you if you even thought about it in the states.
3 – You can’t talk about the future without using the conditioner “inshallah,” which translates roughly as “God willing.” For example, you’re talking about college so you say, “I’ll graduate in a year with my master’s, inshallah;” or you’re going away on a trip so you say, “I’ll see you in a week, inshallah;” or you’re cooking dinner so you say, “tonight we’ll be eating chicken, inshallah.” Always. And if you don’t say it, the person you’re talking to will add it for you. “We have a meeting here at 3, so I’ll give you a call 10 minutes before.” “Inshallah.” But “inshallah” has other connotations as well. It’s not polite to flat out refuse something, so people often just say “inshallah.” For example, “Hey, baby [(you say “gazelle,” actually)], can I have your number?” “Inshallah.” In this case, your translation is more along the lines of “if God compels me to [you sleaze],” and I think it’s something we should definitely pick up in English.
After spending only a little time here, though, I can tell you that sometimes it really does take divine intervention for things to happen.
4 – Television is king. This is actually not different at all from the states; I add this point mostly because it’s something I really didn’t expect. What’s interesting is that the people I’ve watched television with seem to be more invested in the watching of tv than the actual tv that they’re watching. I can’t tell you how many times we start watching something and someone will just switch the channel to another show, and everyone just goes along with it. Maybe after a bit and a few more switches we’ll be back at that first show, but by now we’ve missed enough of the story that it doesn’t make sense any more. I guess it’s not what you watch, as long as you’re watching something.
5 – There is tile all over the place. Not just like in the states where the only place you see tiles are in bathrooms and kitchens (and those are purely functional), just about everything is decorated with beautiful painted tiles. Floors, walls, doors – you can’t get away from them. And this translates into the streets as well. Morocco is not so strong in terms of public sanitation, and you find tiny bits of trash all over the streets and open spaces. This includes tiny bits of tiles, too. You can’t walk down the street without stumbling over beautiful fragments of discarded tile. I don’t know why they’re there; from an American perspective, it’d be like tossing out shards of stained glass with the trash. I’m thinking about collecting them and making mosaics.
6 – Dar Shebab. That’s what we call the center where we do our work when we transliterate it from Arabic. Except that it isn’t. Everyone (this pretty much just includes Peace Corps staff) calls it the “Dar Chebab.” Now, there is no difference in the way the two are pronounced, both sound like /š/, as in “shut,” as in everyone who writes “chebab” should shut up. (Obviously, they aren’t speaking in this case, and if they were, that would be ok, as the two sound alike.) Consider this: there are four different ways to pronounce “ch”: /č/ as in “cheese,” /k/ as in “chemistry,” /tč/ as in “sandwich,” and /š/ as in “shebab.” Are you considering it? Rather than having to worry about whether we work in the Dar /Chebab/, the Dar /Kebab/, the Dar /Tchebab/, or the Dar /Shebab/, we could just say “sh,” which has only one pronunciation and no worries.
7 – English and Shleuha (the Berber word for Berber) are not at all “bhal bhal” (identical), despite the fact that “eat” (as an imperative) and “etch” mean the same thing and sound like each other.
8 – Pretty much all meals are eaten from a communal dish, which is pretty cool (very much like Ethiopian food, for those of you who’ve had it). It usually consists of a meat of some sort (the idea of vegetarianism is pretty much non-extant here) piled upon which is an assortment of steamed – thoroughly – vegetables. This is not really surprising or strange in any way. It’s mostly just delicious. What is mysterious enough to warrant inclusion in this list is the meat. The eating thereof, anyway. There seems to be an unwritten rule that everyone eats the vegetables first (mindful to stay in your triangle of the dish and not to violate the triangle of anyone else, of course), and, at a time ordained by some higher power, everyone starts in on the meat. What I cannot for the life of me determine is when and how you know it is that time. For me, it’s a lot like playing Hearts and waiting for someone to “break hearts” so that you can start playing your heart cards as well.
9 – The word for “winter” in Darija is “shtah,” which is exactly in writing and pronunciation like the word “shtah,” which means “rain.” At first, I thought this was just a funny coincidence, but then I came to Freedonia where it rains everyday, sometimes more than once in a day, and sometimes not at all because it’s snowing instead. This makes me wonder in a bad way about the summer, which in Arabic is “saif,” which is often pronounced like “sif,” which means “sword.” That can’t be good.
1 – It’s rude to whistle. I’m not talking about whistling at girls or anything, which is just as rude back in the states; I’m talking about the whistling Dixie / whistle-while-you-work kind of whistling. Imagine burping the alphabet, and that’s about what whistling is like. Burping is pretty much okay, though.
2 – There are a lot of trees here in Freedonia that drop a lot of leaves, and people solve this problem in the most obvious of ways: they burn them. You walk down the street and you’ll see huge piles of leaves just burning away on the side of the road, heaped up against a wall, or right in the middle of a park. Of course, not a whole lot around here is built of anything other than concrete or mud, so there really isn’t that much danger of danger, but it’s nonetheless American-mindset blowing to think how many lawyers you’d have rolling over you if you even thought about it in the states.
3 – You can’t talk about the future without using the conditioner “inshallah,” which translates roughly as “God willing.” For example, you’re talking about college so you say, “I’ll graduate in a year with my master’s, inshallah;” or you’re going away on a trip so you say, “I’ll see you in a week, inshallah;” or you’re cooking dinner so you say, “tonight we’ll be eating chicken, inshallah.” Always. And if you don’t say it, the person you’re talking to will add it for you. “We have a meeting here at 3, so I’ll give you a call 10 minutes before.” “Inshallah.” But “inshallah” has other connotations as well. It’s not polite to flat out refuse something, so people often just say “inshallah.” For example, “Hey, baby [(you say “gazelle,” actually)], can I have your number?” “Inshallah.” In this case, your translation is more along the lines of “if God compels me to [you sleaze],” and I think it’s something we should definitely pick up in English.
After spending only a little time here, though, I can tell you that sometimes it really does take divine intervention for things to happen.
4 – Television is king. This is actually not different at all from the states; I add this point mostly because it’s something I really didn’t expect. What’s interesting is that the people I’ve watched television with seem to be more invested in the watching of tv than the actual tv that they’re watching. I can’t tell you how many times we start watching something and someone will just switch the channel to another show, and everyone just goes along with it. Maybe after a bit and a few more switches we’ll be back at that first show, but by now we’ve missed enough of the story that it doesn’t make sense any more. I guess it’s not what you watch, as long as you’re watching something.
5 – There is tile all over the place. Not just like in the states where the only place you see tiles are in bathrooms and kitchens (and those are purely functional), just about everything is decorated with beautiful painted tiles. Floors, walls, doors – you can’t get away from them. And this translates into the streets as well. Morocco is not so strong in terms of public sanitation, and you find tiny bits of trash all over the streets and open spaces. This includes tiny bits of tiles, too. You can’t walk down the street without stumbling over beautiful fragments of discarded tile. I don’t know why they’re there; from an American perspective, it’d be like tossing out shards of stained glass with the trash. I’m thinking about collecting them and making mosaics.
6 – Dar Shebab. That’s what we call the center where we do our work when we transliterate it from Arabic. Except that it isn’t. Everyone (this pretty much just includes Peace Corps staff) calls it the “Dar Chebab.” Now, there is no difference in the way the two are pronounced, both sound like /š/, as in “shut,” as in everyone who writes “chebab” should shut up. (Obviously, they aren’t speaking in this case, and if they were, that would be ok, as the two sound alike.) Consider this: there are four different ways to pronounce “ch”: /č/ as in “cheese,” /k/ as in “chemistry,” /tč/ as in “sandwich,” and /š/ as in “shebab.” Are you considering it? Rather than having to worry about whether we work in the Dar /Chebab/, the Dar /Kebab/, the Dar /Tchebab/, or the Dar /Shebab/, we could just say “sh,” which has only one pronunciation and no worries.
7 – English and Shleuha (the Berber word for Berber) are not at all “bhal bhal” (identical), despite the fact that “eat” (as an imperative) and “etch” mean the same thing and sound like each other.
8 – Pretty much all meals are eaten from a communal dish, which is pretty cool (very much like Ethiopian food, for those of you who’ve had it). It usually consists of a meat of some sort (the idea of vegetarianism is pretty much non-extant here) piled upon which is an assortment of steamed – thoroughly – vegetables. This is not really surprising or strange in any way. It’s mostly just delicious. What is mysterious enough to warrant inclusion in this list is the meat. The eating thereof, anyway. There seems to be an unwritten rule that everyone eats the vegetables first (mindful to stay in your triangle of the dish and not to violate the triangle of anyone else, of course), and, at a time ordained by some higher power, everyone starts in on the meat. What I cannot for the life of me determine is when and how you know it is that time. For me, it’s a lot like playing Hearts and waiting for someone to “break hearts” so that you can start playing your heart cards as well.
9 – The word for “winter” in Darija is “shtah,” which is exactly in writing and pronunciation like the word “shtah,” which means “rain.” At first, I thought this was just a funny coincidence, but then I came to Freedonia where it rains everyday, sometimes more than once in a day, and sometimes not at all because it’s snowing instead. This makes me wonder in a bad way about the summer, which in Arabic is “saif,” which is often pronounced like “sif,” which means “sword.” That can’t be good.
What You've Been Waiting For
Or, as my eternally lovable training comrade, Anthony, would say: That for which you’ve been waiting. Either way you put it, I recognize that I have been very amiss in my writings in talking about my actual work here in Morocco, tending more towards philosophical tangents and nonsense.
Now, my work and nonsense. As I hope you are aware by this point, I am a Peace Corps volunteer. If you were not aware, I’m afraid that you’re going to have to do your own research on that subject, as, this not being an official Peace Corps publication, I’m not at liberty to tell you anything about it all. In fact, I may have said too much already. Let’s start again.
I am a volunteer with an organization that shall remain unnamed, working in the Youth Development sector. Youth Development varies somewhat form country to country within this organization, but in Morocco, this means working with the Ministry of Youth and Sports out of a building (there’s one in most all big towns, more than one in really big towns) called a Dar Shebab, which means “youth house.” It’s not exactly a house, however; it’s really more of a youth center. Mine actually does have a house attached to it, though, for the mudir, or director, to live in.
So, what do I do at the Dar (as we call it)? Well, the Dar is open from Tuesday to Saturday, at varying intervals of the day, so I go and teach English classes every evening except for Fridays. But, I should correct myself; it’s not so much that I teach English classes as it is that we do. “We” being myself and Ali, my counterpart. Ali is fluent in English himself, and does at least half or more of the work for the classes, as well as taking care of just about everything else that I have to do with me. If it weren’t for his New York Yankees hat, I’d say he’s a great guy.
There are two levels of class that we teach: beginner/intermediate on Tuesday and Wednesday, and advanced/baccalaureate on Thursday and Saturday. Fortunately, there are also two categories of students: ones who come only a few days a week, and ones who come everyday. Unfortunately, this means that the levels of the classes are really more of an academic exercise for me when I’m planning, and don’t really carry over too much into the classroom. We’re working on that, though.
But English teaching, though important, is really only a secondary objective for the organization’s Youth Development volunteers. The main idea, as you might imagine, is youth development, which is much bigger than just English classes. We spend a lot of our time doing activities with the youth, working with other organizations, motivating parents to take part in the lives of their children, and helping schools with their projects. That’s the idea, anyway. My town of Freedonia (you’ll recall that Freedonia isn’t actually its name) is quite developed for a site in Morocco. For example, there’s Ali who could do all the classes himself if he wanted to, there’s several organizations that run activities for the Dar Shebab, a bunch of older youth putting together their own organization to help tackle the lack of employment opportunities. In short, I’m not entirely sure why this town needs a volunteer, but I’m happy so far to tag along with these guys while they work.
And so I’ve spent the rest of my time meeting the principals of the various schools here (there are four elementary schools, one junior high, and one high school, as well as a private elementary and high school), talking to English teachers, and spending time with my host family. My house is in possibly the most aesthetically fantastic location in Freedonia. It sits at the top of a gentle cliff, looking out over a valley with a clear shot to the major city nearby. It’s gorgeous when it’s not raining. My family consists of my host mom, Mahjouba; dad, Mustapha; brothers, Mohammad, Smail, and Aisam; and sister, Noura, who lives and goes to college in Local Major City. Of course, this being Morocco there are also tons of other family around. In fact, my grandfather (who just left last week to perform the Hajj, the pilgrimage to Mecca - we’ll talk about that later), is the owner of the local ladies’ hammam. His house is a great place to hang out on cold winter days with all the pipes of scalding hot water.
Beginning this week, I’m going to have to start looking for my own place to live, though. I’m looking forward to the independence it will bring, though it will mean more work I have to do on the part of housekeeping and staying occupied. I do a fair amount here, washing my own clothes and taking care of my room – though my host mom would certainly prefer to do those things for me – but I don’t get to cook. It’s actually one of the most difficult parts of living in a host family in a country where such things are expected to be done by women only, but I did get to make a Thanksgiving dinner the other day, which was fantastic.
Anyway, that should give you some idea of what I’ve been up to around here. Stay tuned for some flashbacks about what I was up to during training.
Now, my work and nonsense. As I hope you are aware by this point, I am a Peace Corps volunteer. If you were not aware, I’m afraid that you’re going to have to do your own research on that subject, as, this not being an official Peace Corps publication, I’m not at liberty to tell you anything about it all. In fact, I may have said too much already. Let’s start again.
I am a volunteer with an organization that shall remain unnamed, working in the Youth Development sector. Youth Development varies somewhat form country to country within this organization, but in Morocco, this means working with the Ministry of Youth and Sports out of a building (there’s one in most all big towns, more than one in really big towns) called a Dar Shebab, which means “youth house.” It’s not exactly a house, however; it’s really more of a youth center. Mine actually does have a house attached to it, though, for the mudir, or director, to live in.
So, what do I do at the Dar (as we call it)? Well, the Dar is open from Tuesday to Saturday, at varying intervals of the day, so I go and teach English classes every evening except for Fridays. But, I should correct myself; it’s not so much that I teach English classes as it is that we do. “We” being myself and Ali, my counterpart. Ali is fluent in English himself, and does at least half or more of the work for the classes, as well as taking care of just about everything else that I have to do with me. If it weren’t for his New York Yankees hat, I’d say he’s a great guy.
There are two levels of class that we teach: beginner/intermediate on Tuesday and Wednesday, and advanced/baccalaureate on Thursday and Saturday. Fortunately, there are also two categories of students: ones who come only a few days a week, and ones who come everyday. Unfortunately, this means that the levels of the classes are really more of an academic exercise for me when I’m planning, and don’t really carry over too much into the classroom. We’re working on that, though.
But English teaching, though important, is really only a secondary objective for the organization’s Youth Development volunteers. The main idea, as you might imagine, is youth development, which is much bigger than just English classes. We spend a lot of our time doing activities with the youth, working with other organizations, motivating parents to take part in the lives of their children, and helping schools with their projects. That’s the idea, anyway. My town of Freedonia (you’ll recall that Freedonia isn’t actually its name) is quite developed for a site in Morocco. For example, there’s Ali who could do all the classes himself if he wanted to, there’s several organizations that run activities for the Dar Shebab, a bunch of older youth putting together their own organization to help tackle the lack of employment opportunities. In short, I’m not entirely sure why this town needs a volunteer, but I’m happy so far to tag along with these guys while they work.
And so I’ve spent the rest of my time meeting the principals of the various schools here (there are four elementary schools, one junior high, and one high school, as well as a private elementary and high school), talking to English teachers, and spending time with my host family. My house is in possibly the most aesthetically fantastic location in Freedonia. It sits at the top of a gentle cliff, looking out over a valley with a clear shot to the major city nearby. It’s gorgeous when it’s not raining. My family consists of my host mom, Mahjouba; dad, Mustapha; brothers, Mohammad, Smail, and Aisam; and sister, Noura, who lives and goes to college in Local Major City. Of course, this being Morocco there are also tons of other family around. In fact, my grandfather (who just left last week to perform the Hajj, the pilgrimage to Mecca - we’ll talk about that later), is the owner of the local ladies’ hammam. His house is a great place to hang out on cold winter days with all the pipes of scalding hot water.
Beginning this week, I’m going to have to start looking for my own place to live, though. I’m looking forward to the independence it will bring, though it will mean more work I have to do on the part of housekeeping and staying occupied. I do a fair amount here, washing my own clothes and taking care of my room – though my host mom would certainly prefer to do those things for me – but I don’t get to cook. It’s actually one of the most difficult parts of living in a host family in a country where such things are expected to be done by women only, but I did get to make a Thanksgiving dinner the other day, which was fantastic.
Anyway, that should give you some idea of what I’ve been up to around here. Stay tuned for some flashbacks about what I was up to during training.
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