I ate a cucumber for dinner last night.
I slept on my currently sheetless, pillowless (but amazingly wonderful) bed.
I felt a breeze during the night.
I woke up and drank black tea with milk and sugar.
I ate a bowl of raisin bran.
I listened to my Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me... podcast.
Yes, I love my host family.
Yes, approximately two tears rolled down my cheeks as I walked away from their home yesterday with the last of my belongings.
Yes, I will go visit them on a regular basis.
No, I couldn't be happier to be living alone!!!
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
home... is where i want to be, but i guess i'm already there...
Note: I am noticing that it is becoming increasingly difficult to express myself in English, so if any of this sounds peculiar, blame it on the Tashelheet (which seems to maybe kind of be improving).
I'm moving into my new place in a week. It's the same place the volunteer I replaced lived for the two years of her service so I didn't exactly have to put much effort into house hunting. I'm in the midst of some cleaning and organizing and brainstorming. I've never lived all by myself before and it occurred to me the other day while I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor that although I'm excited to live on my own, perhaps I'm not incredibly excited about being the lone soul responsible for the cleaning and upkeep of this house. I've never had to bear the entire load before (and to be fair, I don't think I've carried my own weight when the responsibilities have been shared).
It almost seems surreal that home-stay is coming to an end. Surreal and also like the-most-amazing-thing-in-the-world is about to happen to me. I really do adore my host family. At the right moments, I even feel like part of the family. But if two's company and three's a crowd, then what does that make seven? I learned this week that being bossed around by a four year old is even harder to bear than being bossed around by a twelve year old. That may seem obvious, but I didn't know that I'd ever learn it from first hand experience.
I've been spending about three mornings a week down at the sbitar (clinic). I sit in the office with my counterpart Aicha, who is the midwife. Her English is impressive, so we're able to communicate pretty well. Occasionally I'll use my Tashelheet with her, but when I want to express something that isn't incredibly simple, English is much easier (at least for me). Thursday is vaccination day and women from the surrounding douars (communities) bring their children in and I get to watch as they wail in displeasure with being stuck by needles. It can feel awkward to walk into the sbitar and greeting everybody. "Hey! How are you? Are you doing well? Happy to be sitting here waiting to see a nurse/doctor?" But it's a good way to get to know faces and sometimes chat with people who I might not see on a regular basis because they live a bit of a distance away.
There's a neddi (women's association) in town that makes and sells the oil made from the grinding of argan. Argan is a nut that grows on trees that thrive only in a particular climate. Morocco is one of the only places in the world where argan grows and within the country, it can be found only in the south. The neddi is made up of women of all ages, both married and unmarried, who are mainly caretakers for their families and households and would otherwise not work outside of the home. The argan nuts came in about two weeks ago and the women have been steadily working at cracking the hard outer shell with a rock with a larger rock as a work surface (when I tried this, I beat the heck out of my thumb and finger), and then sifting through the pile of cracked shells to pick out the nuts (a much more finger friendly task). I haven't been present for the actual grinding of the argan yet, but am hoping to figure out their schedule (the specifics of my interactions often elude me) so as to be able to see how that all happens. I wonder if it's funny for the women for me to be wide-eyed and intrigued by something that is so habitual for them.
I slipped on water and fell down the stairs the other day while carrying the entire whites load of my host family's dry laundry. Woops. Now they won't let me walk anywhere in my flip-flops where there may possibly perchance be water.
I've noticed that my longings for home (not homesickness) manifest themselves in the strangest ways. Yesterday while harvesting cactus on a steep hillside with my host mother, host sister, and neighbor, I felt this impulse to watch a movie on the Disney Channel. Not like Cinderella or Mulan, but one of those made-for-TV types starring a pre-teen involved in some sort of unrealistic suburban fairy tale. Weird.
Positive interaction of the week:
I was sitting outside the other night with the neighborhood women (as we do every night) and my six-year-old host brother was trying to get his mom's attention. I'm translating this exchange into English, as I'm a little doubtful of my audience's Tashelheet abilities. So, my host mom's name is Fadma Hussein, host brother is Mohommed, and my host father's sister is Fadma Ali.
Mohommed: Mom...
Fadma Hussein: Shit... (dismissively)
Mohommed: Moooomm...
Fadma Hussein: Shit...
Mohommed: Moooooommm...
Fadma Hussein: Shit...
Finding this funny, I laughed.
Fadma Ali: Hanneke (which sounds more like "Anka"), did you understand what Fadma Hussein said?
Me: Yeah, "Shit"?
Fadma Ali: See, you know some Tashelheet.
I'm moving into my new place in a week. It's the same place the volunteer I replaced lived for the two years of her service so I didn't exactly have to put much effort into house hunting. I'm in the midst of some cleaning and organizing and brainstorming. I've never lived all by myself before and it occurred to me the other day while I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor that although I'm excited to live on my own, perhaps I'm not incredibly excited about being the lone soul responsible for the cleaning and upkeep of this house. I've never had to bear the entire load before (and to be fair, I don't think I've carried my own weight when the responsibilities have been shared).
It almost seems surreal that home-stay is coming to an end. Surreal and also like the-most-amazing-thing-in-the-world is about to happen to me. I really do adore my host family. At the right moments, I even feel like part of the family. But if two's company and three's a crowd, then what does that make seven? I learned this week that being bossed around by a four year old is even harder to bear than being bossed around by a twelve year old. That may seem obvious, but I didn't know that I'd ever learn it from first hand experience.
I've been spending about three mornings a week down at the sbitar (clinic). I sit in the office with my counterpart Aicha, who is the midwife. Her English is impressive, so we're able to communicate pretty well. Occasionally I'll use my Tashelheet with her, but when I want to express something that isn't incredibly simple, English is much easier (at least for me). Thursday is vaccination day and women from the surrounding douars (communities) bring their children in and I get to watch as they wail in displeasure with being stuck by needles. It can feel awkward to walk into the sbitar and greeting everybody. "Hey! How are you? Are you doing well? Happy to be sitting here waiting to see a nurse/doctor?" But it's a good way to get to know faces and sometimes chat with people who I might not see on a regular basis because they live a bit of a distance away.
There's a neddi (women's association) in town that makes and sells the oil made from the grinding of argan. Argan is a nut that grows on trees that thrive only in a particular climate. Morocco is one of the only places in the world where argan grows and within the country, it can be found only in the south. The neddi is made up of women of all ages, both married and unmarried, who are mainly caretakers for their families and households and would otherwise not work outside of the home. The argan nuts came in about two weeks ago and the women have been steadily working at cracking the hard outer shell with a rock with a larger rock as a work surface (when I tried this, I beat the heck out of my thumb and finger), and then sifting through the pile of cracked shells to pick out the nuts (a much more finger friendly task). I haven't been present for the actual grinding of the argan yet, but am hoping to figure out their schedule (the specifics of my interactions often elude me) so as to be able to see how that all happens. I wonder if it's funny for the women for me to be wide-eyed and intrigued by something that is so habitual for them.
I slipped on water and fell down the stairs the other day while carrying the entire whites load of my host family's dry laundry. Woops. Now they won't let me walk anywhere in my flip-flops where there may possibly perchance be water.
I've noticed that my longings for home (not homesickness) manifest themselves in the strangest ways. Yesterday while harvesting cactus on a steep hillside with my host mother, host sister, and neighbor, I felt this impulse to watch a movie on the Disney Channel. Not like Cinderella or Mulan, but one of those made-for-TV types starring a pre-teen involved in some sort of unrealistic suburban fairy tale. Weird.
Positive interaction of the week:
I was sitting outside the other night with the neighborhood women (as we do every night) and my six-year-old host brother was trying to get his mom's attention. I'm translating this exchange into English, as I'm a little doubtful of my audience's Tashelheet abilities. So, my host mom's name is Fadma Hussein, host brother is Mohommed, and my host father's sister is Fadma Ali.
Mohommed: Mom...
Fadma Hussein: Shit... (dismissively)
Mohommed: Moooomm...
Fadma Hussein: Shit...
Mohommed: Moooooommm...
Fadma Hussein: Shit...
Finding this funny, I laughed.
Fadma Ali: Hanneke (which sounds more like "Anka"), did you understand what Fadma Hussein said?
Me: Yeah, "Shit"?
Fadma Ali: See, you know some Tashelheet.
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