Since my last post I’ve had a lot of ups and downs in very
quick succession, less of an emotional rollercoaster than an emotional piston. At times things are great, and I feel like
I’m right where I belong, doing valuable work and serving both my country and
Morocco. Other times I feel like I’m
completely out of place, useless, and a waste of both tax payer dollars and
Moroccan hospitality. Some days it
really hits me that I’m a more or less untrained, first time teacher trying to
teach a difficult language to a group of kids who speak another difficult
language that I don’t speak well. I have
students from seven to twenty seven at the same level (mercifully not in the
same class) and what teaches one will not work for the other. Class can sometimes leave me absolutely
exhausted and anxious that the students learned nothing. I also have two fierce competitors for my
students’ attention: sif u kora (summer and football). The blazing heat of the summer midday makes
it impossible to focus. I’ve given up
trying to be productive during it and I know my students have too. Unfortunately this would be optimal review
time. With the heat almost hitting 100
Fahrenheit inside most days the
students can’t study, and I can’t expect them too. This means classes move slowly, as I have to
constantly reiterate past lessons before we can move forward. As for kora,
the Euro Cup is on and it’s a huge deal to most Moroccans. My new advanced class was supposed to meet
for the first time on Wednesday, but had to be postponed because Spain was
playing and only two kids showed up.
That class is entirely made up of motivated kids, but soccer is an
insurmountable obstacle here. I will be
leaving site in early July to help another volunteer with the summer camp at
her site (mine is too small for camp).
I’m hoping that this will both help me feel more useful and give me a
chance to develop some more lesson plans and activities that will excite and
energize my students.
This is not
to say that I’m utterly unhappy with how classes are going. My beginner class with older girls and young
women at the artisanal cooperative is going fantastically. I’m really excited for when the advanced class
actually starts as the students I’ve placed in it know enough that I can teach
a discussion based class in English. It’s just a matter of getting off the ground,
which has proved very hard in the summer.
I’m trying to look at it more as an extension of my training period, a
time when I get to try new lessons, develop syllabi, work on my Darija, and
meet potential counterparts, but I still wish I could feel more useful.
My Darija
is improving, but at a much slower pace than I would like. I’ve reached a point where I can get through
most simple interactions just fine, but while I make a point to bring in new
grammar and words it’s hard to study outside of real world conversation. Part of the reason I cut my students some
slack not studying is because of how hard I find it to study here. During midday lunch break I just can’t focus
in the heat. I sit down to study and
within minutes my mind wanders. I can’t
even really read in English then; the same thing happens. The evenings are cool, but they have to be
reserved for having a social life, which literally is part of my job here. Also, after four hours of teaching I’m
usually just to beat to focus on studying.
After some time in the café or hanging out with some students in the
public park I don’t get home until around ten thirty or eleven most days and
then I have to cook (my local hanut
(general store) owner suggests that I get a wife so I won’t have to cook for
myself and therefore will be less exhausted).
This leaves me with the morning before my first class at eleven to
study, but also to write lesson plans.
I’m looking forward to the fall, when it should be cool enough to use
the midday productively again. Right now
I have the unique sensation of not having enough time while at the same time I’m
conscious that I’m wasting a big chunk of my day. It’s very strange.
O.k. I’m
sorry I belied my title and opened with problems rather than picnics, but that
word order sounded so much better. Also,
now the rough part of the post is done.
I’m also sorry I used the word “belied,” but I’m reading Nicholas Nickleby and obviously I have
no outlet for its Victorian terms with my students, so I have to use them
here. Egads. I’m actually going to keep the picnic at bay
and talk about the parade first, since it happened first. One morning after class I want on an
expedition through the heat to the far side of town to purchase a
refrigerator. I got there too late; it
was midday naptime and the door was shut fast.
However, the locked door did not disappoint me since I could hear the
strange tones of a traditional Moroccan horn.
I went to investigate. I saw a
large procession proceeding down the town’s main street. It was almost entirely composed of colorfully
attired women except for various drummers and the horn player, though there
were a few other men in straw hats sprinkled around. At the head of the parade there was a cow
with a floral garland, obviously dinner’s main course later. Behind it were various wagons containing
wedding gifts, everything ranging from gorgeous kaftans to blankets, to
sacrificial sheep, to a few bottles of bleach.
Behind the carts came the women and the musicians. They shuffled forward, sang, and sometimes
stopped as the rhythm picked up so they could dance around the street, car
horns screaming as they raced past. I
asked a bystander what was happening. He said it was a wedding parade. I hope every wedding in town sparks one of
these.
Last Sunday
a group of thirteen students (three girls and ten boys) who just graduated high
school (making them around 19-20 here) took me with them on a trip to the
sources of Oum El Rabia. Oum El Rabia is
the longest non-seasonal river in Morocco.
Although it doesn’t pass through my town it passes through the nearby
city of Khenifra, and from there it is possible to quickly reach the springs
and waterfalls that start it. I met the
kids at five AM Sunday morning and we stuffed ourselves into a van they had
rented to get there. Renting a car or
van in Morocco is not quite like renting a car or van in the States since in
States you can reasonably assume that everything will work in your rental
vehicle. Shortly after we started out
the latch of the van’s sliding door broke, so we had to hold it shut. Sometimes one or two of the more adventurous
kids would open it and hang outside.
They were very touched that I cared enough about their safety to tell
them to get the hell back inside and close the door. Not touched enough to do it, but touched. The van also broke down a couple of times
going uphill, so we’d all have to get out, watch the boys pretend like they
knew what they were doing, see them get lucky and hit the right thing, then
keep going until it broke again. The van
had an amazing propensity to break down at beautiful vistas, so it wasn’t all
that bad.
Once we
finally got to the sources I got to see how a beach trip works in the mountains. When we got there we almost had the place to
ourselves, but soon it was full of families and other groups trying to get away
from the heat. The springs are icy cold,
and although it is literally freezing the air was so hot that all the men and boys
and some of the young girls went swimming.
Even the most modest older women, covered from their ankles to the tops of
their heads, got their feet wet. Every
group rents a small open hut for themselves, equipped with rugs, a table, and a
separate kitchen area. It was
interesting to see in our group that Moroccan gender roles immediately asserted
themselves and the girls went straight to the kitchen to start preparing a
tagine lunch. The boys lounged around,
except for the one who went for a walk with me around the waterfalls, which
were fantastic. When we got back some of
the boys were ready for a swim so we jumped into a small lake and all
immediately scrambled to get out of the cold.
The water is so cold that drink venders don’t use freezers there, they
just stick their wares into small cisterns filled from the spring.
When the girls finally did join us
in the hut we had a moment of cultural exchange. One of them noticed I was leaning against a
bare wall and gave me her pillow to lean on.
I gave it right back to her and told her “ladies first.” She stuffed the pillow behind my back while
the group told me that in Morocco it was “men first,” especially since I am the
American guest. Tired of the little bits
and pieces of daily chauvinism here I put the pillow back behind her and said I
wouldn’t take one until all the girls had one.
The boys sitting next to girls quickly sacrificed their cushions, and
another one tossed one to me. The girls
were appreciative, and most of the guys laughed at the quirky American. On the one hand I’m sad that this has been
one of my bigger gender role related victories, on the other I’m happy to have
any.
Otherwise,
the day was very relaxed. We sat in the
hut, talked in a Darija English patios, ate delicious tagine, took a couple of
walks, and every few hours built up the courage for another dunk. Additionally, tons of other groups brought
musical instruments, so it was never too far to find a little live concert. At one point a group of singers and drummers
even started a dance. A circle of people
shuffled and clapped or moved their hands rhythmically, while inside the circle
one or two people would energetically run around more or less to the beat. The kids pulled me into the outer circle, but
were unable (despite their best attempts) to make me make a fool of myself in
the middle. I told them I would if one
of them would with me, but there were no takers. The shirtless piratical looking gentleman was
just too much competition (and fun to watch) to join in. After more than twelve hours there we went
wended our way back with just the one breakdown.
Alright, I
think that will be all for now. I
probably won’t have another post until after the camp is over, but expect
frequent updates after that as it will be Ramadan and there won’t be too much
happening to stop me from writing during the day. The site I’ll be working at is up north near
the famously beautiful city of Chefchaouen, so hopefully the next post will be
full of pictures of its fabled blue medina!
Check out the post scripts for a request and a Joha story.
P.S. My tutor is looking for a
recommendation for websites where he can meet and talk to people all over the
world online. He and a friend host couch
surfers whenever they come to town (rarely) and have hung out with the last
three PCVs to live in town, but he really wants to meet a wider group of
different people from all over the world.
While this request led to a great conversation (in Darija!) about
diversity in New York (why I’ve never had to look for this kind of site), my
former international roommates, and diversity in Morocco it did not help him
learn any place to go. Any
recommendations would be appreciated!
P.P.S. My tutor
knows I love Joha stories and sent me this one the other day. It might be my favorite one now.
Joha once owned
a donkey who was without a doubt the finest donkey in the country. Do you think
that there is little difference between one donkey and another? Just listen to the things that Joha’s animal
could do. He could carry a load on his
back that was higher and wider than himself. He would even allow Joha to sit on top of the
load without letting him fall. His
strong legs carried Joha safely over the narrowest paths where no one else
dared to travel. He knew when danger was
near, and made certain noises to let his master know. He was very kind to children and he always
let them pull his tail and ears. He also knew when someone meant to hurt him,
and then he would kick to save himself and his load.
Very often Joha
and his donkey took long rides together after their work was finished. They
trusted each other and were close friends.
Joha believed that his donkey must have good food in order to do such
good work. So he always took him to the
best green fields where the grass was tall and sweet. The animal grew stronger and stronger. He loved his food so much that if he did not
have it he became very angry.
Now all the neighbors
knew that Joha had the best and hardest working donkey. So if they had an important thing to do, they
always asked Joha to let them use his brave donkey. “Joha,” said one, “you are the finest
neighbour in our village. I’m always
proud to tell my friends that I live next to Joha. You know, I have some wood to take from my
house to the other side of town today. Will you allow me to use your fine donkey?”
“Certainly,”
replied Joha, “but do take good care of him. And remember, you must feed him well.”
“Of course,”
laughed the man, as he started to take the donkey away. But late that night the poor donkey came home
tired and hungry.
A week later
another neighbor knocked at Joha’s door. “You may not know this, Joha,” he said, “but
my father and yours were great friends. And once when you were very young my father
helped your father in a certain business matter. I remember him saying that he would always be
grateful for my father’s kindness. Now
listen, Joha, my donkey is ill today, but I have an important visit to make in
town. May I ride on your donkey?”
“Of course,” smiled Joha. “Give him plenty of good food and he will do
anything for you.” But when the neighbor
brought the donkey back, Joha noticed that the animal was angry, and he knew
that the man had not fed him at all.
Joha decided to
stop lending his donkey to his neighbors. But Joha was a friendly man and he really
could not say no when people asked for help.
One morning Joha saw his neighbor walking up the path to his house. “Oh dear,” he thought, “he’s going to ask for
my donkey, and I need him myself today.”
“Good morning, Joha,” said the
neighbor. “I came to get your help.”
“I hope I can
help you,” came the reply. “What is your
problem?”
“You see, I have a heavy load of
beans to take to market today, but last night my donkey died and I have no way
to get to town.”
“Good neighbor, I wish I could help
you, but my donkey is not here,” said Joha.
Just then the donkey brayed in a loud voice, as if he knew that danger
was near.
“Joha” said the neighbor, “how can you tell such a lie? I just heard your donkey bray.”
“My good man,” said Joha, “do you
mean to tell me that you dare to believe my donkey and not me?”
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