First day "teaching"

AT AL-MUSTAQABAL

Today was my first day as a instructor. Today was my second time as a German instructor. Khalid immediately motioned me to a group of adolescent boys, admittedly a group that intimidated me thanks to my traumatizing experiences with adolescent boys at Bridges Rock Gym. I wanted somebody else from the group with me. Anybody who could save me. I even double checked that it was me he wanted, pointing at myself, asking "moi?" Yes. He wanted me and my German skills.

The group of boys hardly knew French and their German knowledge covered numbers 1-100, the first three days of the week, "my telephone number is ___" and "Ich heisse ____." Needless to say, I exhausted their German knowledge within 10 minutes. Khalid explained to me that they had been studying German for four months, that they can't choose between English and German (I got the feeling that Khalid considered German to be a little useless), and that although the German teacher lived in Germany for six years, he can't express himself in German. I can vouch for this, for when the boys were counting off numbers in German, they said siebenzig for 70, and although I corrected them (siebzig), they shook their heads, explaining this is what their teacher said it was. Khalid told me later that the school uses random placement - the children don't decide between English or German classes. I can see how German would seem useless in comparison to English, but as a lover of German, I was a bit crushed at its lack of love. On a side note, I'm not sure if I already said that Khalid doesn't speak English. He just speaks French and Arabic.

The boys laughed at my lack of Arabic skills, when I tried to appease them by saying Makangulish arabia (I don't speak Arabic). It was an awkward beginning. But, as soon as I grabbed a piece of paper and began writing introductions in German, then creating simple stick-figure drawings of family members and dialogues, they got really into it. More boys started coming over to my table, and whenever they were rowdy, other boys would tell them to be quite. One eager boy would ask me the names of various objects in the room, and I would write them in German. As they left for physics, I offered the paper with notes to the group and the eager boy grabbed in hastily. Then, Khalid motioned me over to a group of girls who were studying German for a German encore. I felt more at ease - especially because they spoke French, so I could write translations. Later on in the lesson, Khalid came over to check up on me, and he said, "Elles vous aiment. They love you. They want to come back with you to America." They smiled and giggled at these words. 

Rabat

As I begin writing this post, it is almost 3pm. I woke up merely a half hour ago.

Our stay in Rabat was crazy. We left Friday night, hit up a Senegalese concert and did some dancing, then all 8 of us stayed at a Russian girl's house, who we contacted through couch surfing. But instead of sleeping on her couch (what couch can sleep 8 people? I haven't heard of one), we slept in her salon. It slept seven of us and wrapped around the room. How efficient is that?!

In the morning, everyone with the exception of Terry, who can apparently sleep through anything, woke up to a bird flying around the room. We proceeded to fall asleep immediately, waking up a few more times and moving as it claimed our spots as its own. A little past 12, we finally got up and heading out to a souk, where we bought some fruit for breakfast before our Senegalese meal. What a long day. Our lunch wasn't made until dinner time. My eating schedule is wacked. Breakfast at 3pm today?!

After we left our Senegalese friend's house, with me obtaining contacts with the assurance of a place to stay in Dakar, we left to wander around the Rabat souk and then head to the Shakira concert, the headline of our stay.

The souk was crazy, and we only grazed it. At around 8pm, we passed by five dessert places (which was convenient as our purpose was to obtain some desserts), which nevertheless were so popular that we could barely see the contained goods. We ended up getting 1/4 kilo of cookies that are pictured below. The contained nuts, marzipan and sugar. They were soft and delicious. They were part of my "dinner" of two carrots, a grilled piece of corn, and an apple that I snacked on through the course of the night.

It took us a while to find a taxi, because we were three people. Taxi drivers prefer one person, because then they can pick up one or two individuals, thus gaining more revenue. One trick I learned is to have your friends hide, or stand further away from you, then stick your pointer finger out, signaling one person. As the taxi pulls up, have all your friends run and jump in the car before the siddi can say anything. Make sure to have him turn on the contour, as he'll probably be angry. On taxi driver expressed a small grin and then said to me, "that was a good trick. Saying you only need one person, then having two jump in." Ironically, a taxi driver was the one to tell me this trick.

The Shakira concert was somewhat traumatizing. She didn't go on until around 10:45, 45 minutes after expected. I was with Renda (who is a junior from Lewis & Clark, and who was on the Morocco trip this Semester), Sara (who is a Sophomore from Vasser), Terry (who is a junior from LC and who did the Senegal program), and Alex (who is a Sophomore from Smith College), and two Moroccan boys with dreadlocks that Renda met last weekend at the music festival. She kept repeating to us that they are the nicest Moroccans she has ever met. 

To say that the concert was crowded is an understatement. People sat on each others shoulders, and brought stools to stand on, so that the stage was blocked from our vision, and even some of the screens that broadcasted Shakira. People towered over us, constantly moving back and forward and to the side. It was mostly men too. That's the reason why it was so stupid that Shakira took off her clothes. She took off her shirt to a humongous group of sexually deprived Moroccan men. Really, how stupid can you be?! Granted, she had a nude bra underneath, but still. Needless to say, things got crazy when she pulled this move. Later on, a fight started to brake out in front of us, so made our way back through the maize of people, holding on tight to each other's hands (no one can say for sure whether there was any association with the two events). For the finale, Shakira played Hips Don't Lie and Waka Waka (which we heard 4 more times throughout the night), which almost made up for the traumatizing night. Feeling safe, and having room to kick our feet and shimmy, we were finally able to dance, and have fun doing so. 

After the concert, by the time the group reconnected after the concert, the last train of the night left. So, our Moroccan friends took us to a club in Rabat that has house and Rasta music. When the guards told us tickets for the club are 100dh, Sam, who was exhausted and was in no mood for another taxi ride, turned on her charm, persuasion, and Moroccan haggling skills. I was so impressed. Smiling, she strolled up to the guards, greeted them warmly in Darija, subsequently explaining to them that we are volunteer teachers in Hay Mohammadi who don't make any money. Then, she motioned over to the seven girls, saying that we were zwina, beautiful. The guard eventually declared that we could buy four tickets and enter, but when Sam gestured to Renda, and explained to the guards that Renda is Palestinian, the were sold and we danced until 3:30am until we went to the train station to take the 5:15 train back to Casa. 

the train looked like an airplane

(from right to left) Terry, sporting his Senegalese attire, Sam, Alex and Claire.

Alex resting on the "couch" that we couch surfed on.

at a souk

Senegalese food that we made/someone made for us. 

someone was selling puppies.

I've been wanting grilled corn since I got here. Delicious!

dancing at 2 in the morning. Shakira after party!

by the way: once I uploading my location to Casablanca, I've received an incredible number of Muslim boys asking me to go visit them. I'm pretty sure they think that Couch Surfing is a dating site. Just imagine when they hear about a site where girls contact you to stay to 'sleep on your couch,' which they probably think is a codename for sex. 

Jewish Historical Museum

Everything is slow in Morocco. That's what Sam has been telling us since day one. So, when she gets wishy washy answers as to how much work got done, she rephrases it to "did you backtrack?" Our day is successful when we don't backtrack. So far every day has been great. What a lovely standard! 

One thing about the hanouts is that you go to the same one each day and establish relations with people. It's like a video game Well, today was a big day for me and my favorite hanout. The guy, Abdullah asked me my name. And we introduced ourselves. And he asked me right off the bat if I wanted insimin. And he charged with 1dh less for the sweet corn bread (yummmmy!) 

So part of my other job is volunteering at the Jewish Historical Museum in Waziz (which means "oasis"). It always takes some time to get there by taxi, considering no one knows where it is. Even locals merely two blocks away don't know where it is. 

The crazy director. He likes to  get angry.

Right now we are just doing medial work - scanning documents to prepare them for translation. Digital archiving. But it needs to be done, and someone has to do it.

Our Arab Father

Khalid: Our Arab Father

"The women. They cannot go into the market by themselves. As men, it is our duty to protect them. Never let them do it. They will die. We are their protectors" and so on and so forth. This was what Khalid explained to Terry, the only boy so far on our trip, each time he pulled him aside from the group.

Khalid has taken it upon himself to escort us around not only Hay Mohammadi, but Casablanca as well. "I walk 18km for the day. It is my time for reflexion," he told me on several occasions. And so, he leads us on tours, mostly silent due to his swift pace and our futile attempts to catch up with him. I just wanted to buy vegetables. I had just three items on my list that I absolutely needed. Bananas, carrots, and bread. But Khalid, he's very picky about his food. He thinks all the food is poisoned and analyses all of his food - even food that his wife makes. So, when Sam stopped at a hanout because she was so hungry that she couldn't wait, we had to call to Khalid, who was 100 feet away already and oblivious to our stop, to wait for her. When he retraced his steps to see the person and purpose for which we were waiting, he scowled when he saw that Sam was ordering from a hanout. When we re-commenced, Khalid led us past perfectly good fruit and vegetable carts, and over a dozen places that sold bread. "It's not fresh," he told me as I peered wishfully over to the bread stalls. They looked delicious, whatever he said, but I couldn't disobey Khalid - I want to please my Arab father. I ended up with 1 kilo of vegetables and 1 kilo of bananas. Everyone's patience ran out before I was able to buy any bread.

My loot.

So what is a hanout? It is a little shop that sells pretty much the same goods, and is located on every street. They've got bread, chips, cheese etc. So what you do is order a sandwich. You pay for the bread, the tuna, the cheese separately and they cut it all up and give it to you. It never costs more than 15dh and can be as low as 7dh, if you don't by the fancy cheese (so from a little less than a dollar to less than two dollars for the sandwich). I go to one everyday for lunch, so I will take pictures tomorrow.

So far, I really love Morocco. It's got culture, another language (most people I've encountered don't speak English, or don't speak it that well), it's got good food and right now I am loving it because it's cheap (for me). I'm frugal, I know. 

Darija

Yesterday I mentioned Darija, Moroccan arabic. Today, I am going to include a small introduction including to Darija and talk a tiny bit about taxis in Morocco.

Hello, peace be upon you               "Salam wa alikum"
or, you can ask: How are you?        "Le bes?"
Goodbye                                          "Bslama"
Nice to meet you                             "Mitsharfeen"

Thank you                                       "Shukran" (formal) or "Barak allahu feek"

Yes                                                   "Eeya"
No                                                     "La"
Okay                                                "Wakha"
Please                                               "Afek"

Let's go                                            "Yela"
A little; lower it a little                      "Shwiaa"
A lot                                                  "Bezaaf"

So, there's un petit introduction.
And now onto Red Petit Taxis.

We've had a lot experience with taxi drivers. In fact, in the taxi is where I hear the most and where we use the most Darija. Taxi drivers pull a lot of tricks: attempting to drive us without turning on meters (meaning they can name a price if you haven't established it in the beginning), who turn the night tarrif on during the day, or who say that they don't have any change for your 50. If you push them, the truth (or part of it) comes out. Moroccan really does seem to be a about limits and haggling. I'm too easy. I usually let it go, though I bet I will toughen up during this trip.

An Impossibly Beautiful Day

A good time to resurrect what with my summer worldy travels commencing!

I'll start off with today. My last day in Nijmegen before I continue onward.

This morning was an Impossibly Beautiful Day. So I took a walk, which is something you do on days like that. I listened to "Helplessness Blues,"of course, and strolled around taking pictures of pretty houses. One house in particular stood out to me, although it was gaurded by trees and a wooden fence. I took pictures of it anyways. As I continued walking along, an old man followed me and started speaking to me in Dutch, to which I promptly replied, "Ik spreek niet nederlance, maar ik spreek engels en een betja duits." So, he started speaking to me in English, of course, asking me why I was taking pictures of the house (Because it's so beautiful!), to which he proudfully responded to me by leading me into his backyard, which proved even more beautiful, and leaving me there to take pictures. This is an ode to his house. I asked him if I could live there with him. He laughed, and said that there are most assuredly houses like this in California. . . it's not the same.