Consumption-sumption, What's Your Function?

Today's New York Times included a guest op-ed by Jared Diamond about the unsustainable consumption rate of the United States. (Which I will not link to because it mentions things I am not allowed to mention.) Obviously, the human impact on the environment is a hot topic these days, garnering Nobel Peace Prizes, countless headlines and endless redesigns of product labels. Oh, wait, that last thing - that's the problem.

One of the most difficult things I've had to adjust to in Morocco has been the rate of consumption here. And with good reason, according to Diamond, I'm accustomed to wasting at 32 times the rate of residents of developing countries!

Here, there is a nearly pathological resistance to waste. Even seemingly well-off families are averse to discarding a potentially useful plastic bag. (I've seen them hand-washed and hung on the clothesline to be reused again.) Candy wrappers, soda cans and gum wrappers virtually don't exist in homes, because individual servings are anathema to how most people function. Families eat from communal dishes (no plates) with their hands (no utensils) and they share one cup for water (fewer dishes to clean, but more "microbes" to pass around). Left-over food, like orange peels and bits of bread are fed to the animals. (Did you know that donkeys love orange peels and cats like bread?) The vast majority of people don't even use toilet paper! (Is that TMI?) The little bit of trash that is produced by the average family is mixed with palm fronds and burned in order to heat the communal bath, or hammam.

The down side of all this is that when there is no system for creating waste, there is no system for collecting it. The fields I walk through every day are strewn with plastic bags that flew off clotheslines, piles of half-burnt trash that was too hashuma to give to the hammam keeper (if you want examples of hashuma trash, please send me an email and I'll be happy to explain) and other random things lying about. No one appears to care, because it's not in their, well, backyards.

When I move in to my own home in February I'm curious to see how many of my old habits will return. Under the scrutiny of my host families, I have managed to produce only two or three very tiny bags of trash, which I take into Oz to discard with some semblance of anonymity. (Though, today, a group of boys started yelling "Peace Corps! Peace Corps!" at me. It must be the large, black sunglasses and unwashed hair that gives me away.) But I already have plans for eating yogurt every morning, and that involves individual containers and that involves trash. Oh, the shame! At least I have a lovely collection of plastic bags stowed away in my suitcase. That, however, is a habit I picked up from my lovely, American grandmother.

Hippity-Hop

The exciting inter-city souk bus ride didn’t happen. Nobody likes a girl unwilling to pay full-fare to Agadir even though she’s just going a third of the way to Taliouine, so I pulled a little maneuver we like to call “taxi-hopping”. It’s a delicate science, not unlike baking, of negotiation, proper mixing, and timing.

As I stood next to the dogmatic ticket salesman whose continuous cries of “Agadir, Agadir, Agadir” nearly brought me to tears, I overheard a tourist ask in French if the bus would stop in Taliouine. The dogmatic man replied “Yes, Agadir, Agadir, Agadir, you pay full-fare, Agadir, Agadir, Agadir.” Mr. Tourist promptly turned on his heel to ask another ticket salesman about his destination. Having waited an hour and half already in the hopes that the silly man wouldn’t sell all his tickets I cried (with only the slightest hint of desperation), “Do you speak English?” His lovely wife said, “Yes.”

Anjuli: Is Taliouine your final destination?

Helen: Yes. Are you going there, too?

Anjuli: Yes! Do you want to join me in a taxi? None of these men will sell you a ticket to Taliouine; it’s New Year’s you know.

Helen: Yes, sure, let’s go.

Hallelujah! Helen (actually Surinamese), her husband Jan (actually Dutch, not French) and I went outside to the grand taxi station to negotiate with the kurti, or coordinator/god of all taxi drivers. It’s a powerful position he holds. My fate has been determined by more than one grumpy, toothless kurti who insisted on 150 MAD for a 5 MAD ride. (Hence my clinging to the hope that the bus ticket salesman would relent.) Helen, Jan, and I negotiated a reasonable, though still inflated, price and piled into the backseat of a grand taxi that to the normal eye should hold a total of five passengers, including the driver.

Helen: We go now?

Anjuli: Ummm, no, we have to wait for the other three passengers.

Helen: Where will they sit?

Anjuli: Well, there will be two in the front passenger seat and four of us back here. We can’t leave unless they sell six seats. Hopefully, there won’t be any livestock.

Helen: Livestock?

Anjuli: Yes. If someone didn’t sell his sheep at market, especially because of the recent holiday, we might be joined by a sheep.

Helen: Oh.

Luckily, there were no sheep, and we were joined by three men (one of them blessedly small) who accompanied us to Taznakht. Wait, wasn’t I going to Taliouine? We’re taxi hopping, people! You can’t just go straight to your final destination. That would be a) efficient and b) boring. I know, I know it’s hard to keep all these towns straight (and, yes, they all begin with t’s and, really, they should preferably end in t’s), but bear with me.

When we arrive in Taznakht the six of us are swiftly piled into a station wagon. Ah, room at last. I can knit and eat oranges. Lovely. Oh, wait, no. They add two more men to the taxi, and we are all squished again. After paying the kurti, we watch the driver expectantly. The car is running, he is behind the wheel and he has even shifted into first gear. We’re on our way! Oh, wait, no. He needs to adjust the bags in the trunk. He returns to the driver’s seat and we begin our journey. Oh, wait, no. We only traveled about 5 feet. The driver kills the engine and gets out of the car. He returns with a jug of water and opens the hood. This is reassuring. I love a taxi driver that maintains his car. Finally, he gets behind the wheel, turns on the car, and we actually drive all the way to Taliouine, with only one teensy stop to pick up a suitcase from three children at a gas station on the side of the road. I didn’t ask what was inside.

In Taliouine I left Helen and Jan to join Anny and Matthew, my fellow volunteers and dear friends, who had arrived some time before me, having taken just one taxi from the opposite direction. Taliouine is famous for it’s saffron. It’s one of the only places in the world where it grows in large amounts and there is a huge farming cooperative just outside of the town. It takes about 200 flowers to generate just one gram of the stuff.

We didn’t see any of it. (Harvesting ended in November.) Instead, we spent the entire weekend talking, and reminding ourselves that we’re not crazy; we’re just products of our culture. (Yes, we’ve totally internalized Peace Corps training, but at least we’re aware of it, right?) It had been about a month since I had seen them, and I have to say they looked better than before. We’re all obviously sleeping more and eating better than we did during training. Matthew is learning the fine art of leather making (it involves pigeon poop) and Anny is exploring the world of underground goat cheese-making (goats climb trees here, so I’m not sure how she herds them together).

We also did some hiking (actually the German, wandern is more descriptive of what we did) around Taliouine. We forded a river, climbed a mountain, discovered Roman ruins, and drank tea with a nice lady that was so shocked that I spoke Tashlheit she almost dropped her baby boy. We also went to an amusement park, which had a rickety old Ferris wheel that I would love to tell you I was brave enough to ride. But I wasn’t. I’m afraid of heights. I did eat fried food, though, and we all know that that’s what amusement parks are really all about. Then we went back to our hotel room, watched Center Stage, which I’d never seen before, started Gone With the Wind, and then fell asleep as a happy little family. This is how I celebrated the coming the New Year.

Taliouine is officially my new second favorite sleepy little town, after my site, (codename: T-Toot) of course. It’s a little crazy to think that I’ve been in Morocco for nearly five months, and that it’s next year already. I wish you all the best in 2008. Leap years are always tons of fun. Make the most of that extra day!

Orange is the New Black

Does anyone else remember that Banana Republic ad campaign a few years back that really pushed orange? There were orange scarves and orange coats and orange knit wool tights. Vogue even touted it as the new "bold neutral." Personally, I never bought into it. And I still don't.

One of my favorite artisans here, Rbia, loves orange. It's best with green in her opinion. It also goes well with brown and black. Or at least that's what she pointed to on the color chart I made for her. Many of her peers agree with her. Indeed, I know some candy marketers that would whole-heartedly agree with all of them.

One of the most interesting parts of my job (aside from the sheep's brain I kind of accidentally ate the other day) is walking the fine line between encouragement and constructive criticism. Rbia works so hard on her products. The time she spends at the association working on them takes away from her household duties, her work in the fields, and her family.

On the other hand I really want that time to be worthwhile. It's my job to tell her what my American eyes see, and what they saw tonight are handbags that could be vastly improved with a bit more attention to color combinations and improvements in technique and consistency.
The wonderful thing about Rbia is that she's open to new ideas and she doesn't (appear to) take criticism personally. We have lots to look forward to. Now if I could only get the whole "organizational management" project underway.

In other news: I saw the king twice this week. He's just as handsome as he is on TV. And tomorrow I'm taking my first "overnight" to see Matthew and Anny (see earlier post) so I'll have a whole new town to tell you about, along with the experience of an inter-city souk bus. Whoa, baby!

Update 27/01/2008: Orange is beginning to grow on me. After being bombarded by the colors over and over again while shopping in the souks for what seems like a hundred days straight, I'm coming around to Rbia's point of view. I still maintain that it is not completely appropriate for the American market though. The color chart I made for them has worked wonders, yet there are red and green bags on the looms as we speak! Imik s imik, (little by little) right?

The Big Feast

My horoscope for yesterday: Quality time with animals will transform your mood. Visit a stable to hang with the horses, go for a hike in the woods with your dog, or volunteer to help out at a rescue league.

Yesterday each family in my town slaughtered a sheep (or two, in my family's case) to commemorate the sacrifice of Ishmael (I know some you want to say, "Oooooh, Anjuli forgot; it was Isaac." Not here it wasn't.) Each house has a lovely, skinned sheep hanging in some shady spot on the roof, or in the living room. It's not really that gross, until you make the connection between what's on your plate and what's hanging upside down behind you . . .

OK, so my horoscope was a little off the mark (astrology is an imperfect science, OK?), but my mood was transformed. The whole ritual slaughtering of sheep thing was a little depressing. (I'm sheltered; I admit it.) Later in the day, however, we got dressed up, put on some make-up, and strolled about town, visiting other families. I met about twenty women I'd never seen before. There was some dancing (girls only), a whole lot of cookies, a little tea, and my favorite treat of all: coffee. Yum. I also made an amazing discovery. Widade, my one English student, owns a sewing machine! Sewing machines are kind of rare here, so this is a huge boon for my association. It's all about making connections.

Kiss and Tell

Birthdays are always a little trying for me. There’s the pressure to celebrate, to appear popular in some way. There’s the constant distance between my family and me. And in the past there was always the fear of an unwanted phone call from my estranged father - a guaranteed argument and tears all around.

On the other hand my family does an amazing job at making me feel quite special. Phone calls, cards, presents, and expressions of love are in abundance every 14th of December. My mother makes a point of calling me as near to 9:29 AM PST as possible, simply because that’s the time at which I was born.

Traditionally, birthdays are not celebrated in Morocco. Indeed, many people don’t even know when their birthdays fall. It’s a hallmark of our individualist culture that we expect to celebrate the birth of a single, normal person.

Needless to say today was rough. I missed home all the more, and waiting until 5:29 PM GMT to talk to my Mom seemed unbearable this morning, as I sat knitting a hat and trying to do yoga in a culturally appropriate manner. (Impossible. Bending over and sticking your butt in the air is never culturally appropriate, but for some reason it’s OK to do on the roof in full view of the entire community . . .)

Things started looking up at lunchtime, when I learned how to eat cous-cous (sksou in Tashlheit) with my hands. I know it seems impossible, but really it’s not. It’s just really messy and involves having fewer qualms about messiness than I have. This new technique caused me to eat much slower than usual (it’s possible), but my host sister, Habiba, was so excited to see me try it that it lifted my spirits - emotional eating at its best.

Later I went into Oz to check my mail (walu) and my email (bzzef). And there were tons of well wishes from all of you! Thank you! Not only do I have the best family in the world but also I have an amazing group of friends back home. I don’t know what I would do without your support.

On my way home, my Mom called, which made me feel tons better. After we finished talking, I entered the communal fields and ran into three little girls that are friends with my host niece, Ikram. We greeted in the normal way by grasping hands and kissing on the cheek. Then I greeted their mothers, whom I had never met before, in the same way. It was one of those rare moments when you treasure something totally mundane. I must give and receive dozens of kisses everyday, but these were special somehow. Maybe it was because we weren’t in a home (where it’s mandatory to greet this way) or because the girls were so happy to see me. I’m a complete stranger to this community. All they know is that some crazy American wants to learn Tashlheit and ask them lots of questions about household goods. But in those brief moments, and as I overheard the girls explaining who I was, I felt like I had connected with my community in some small way. Not a bad birthday present.

What are you wearing?

In another context this question might be considered mildly offensive, but it’s quite relevant to my position in Morocco. Navigating the clothing conundrum is one of the most important ways in which female volunteers adapt culturally and ensure their safety and security.

Something I haven’t talked a lot about is the heightened sense of the public and the private. How I would dress in a house of my own is very different than how I dress in my host family’s home, which, in turn, is very different from how I dress in public. I could wear shorts and a tank top in my own home and no one would care, but the minute I step out onto the street, my manner and dress convey multiple messages about who I am and what my intentions are.

My gender plays a significant role in all of this. As a woman I’m expected to cover-up quite a bit. (You can see how some of the young women in my community dress to the right.) Most days I wear jeans with a loose-fitting long-sleeved shirt. It’s always a plus if the shirt is long enough to cover the rear pockets of my jeans. If I’m in public or in the presence of men I never show above the elbows or knees, or my collarbones (the New York Times was right - they are an erogenous zone!). Cleavage is absolutely out of the question. As the temperatures are quite low this time of year, this hasn’t been much of a challenge. (I’m wearing four layers and sitting inside my sleeping bag underneath a blanket as I type this. I’ve formed an alliance with the family cat to keep warm at night! Oh, and I’m also knitting myself legwarmers, mostly for their function and, maybe, just a tiny bit (like 1%, I swear!) for their fashion. Oh, that hurt to admit.)

The consequences of dressing inappropriately can be serious. It’s considered disrespectful to both men and women to display a lot of skin. Today, over tea, my host sisters, Habiba and Jmeia, and I had a discussion about the hashuma of showing our shoulders. Their advice to me: don’t do it. In a large city like Fes or Ouarzazate a women could be mistaken for a prostitute if she wears too little clothing. Even in the blistering hot summer I’m expected to wear long pants and long sleeves. It’s important that I demonstrate my willingness to adapt to my community, otherwise they may not respect my efforts to work with them as a professional.

None of this is to say that Moroccan women don’t dress how they please. There are those who wear traditional j’llabahs everyday, and there are those who wear skinny jeans and look like someone plucked them right out of Williamsburg. The veil is not mandatory here, and many women adopt it by choice - even over the protests of their parents and siblings. I happen to live in a conservative, rural town that has certain expectations. Even so, I have to say that my community has also been respectful of my choices. No one has insisted that I wear a zif (head scarf) or give up wearing pants. They were very supportive, however, when I bought a pair of house slippers. tHla bezzef (very nice).

In other news: I now have Skype and I almost know how to use it. There’s a bit of a time delay, but I believe it’s beneficial to my mental health to hear your voices, even if we can’t carry on a totally normal conversation. So call me. I miss you guys.

Wedding Part II and A Few Other Things

I'm finally home and somewhat settled in my host family's house. Most of my things are still in another city, and I can't seem to get warm! I've never appreciated the warmth of a family pet so much! Oh, and I know I promised more about the wedding I attended so here it is:

OK, so not much happened on the second night! There was a bride, which was a plus in my opinion. The groom also attended, you'll be happy to know! The two arrived in a car in the courtyard of the hotel and were escorted, with lots of cheering, to two throne-like chairs under a beautiful metal canopy. There was a band, and lots of dancing. Some women danced and some chose not to. My host sisters were among those who did not, as they believe it is shameful (hshuma) to dance in the presence of men. Some women actually danced with men though! Whoa! But mostly the genders stuck to themselves.

At certain intervals the bride stepped out from the canopy, sat in a small cage, was lifted and carried throughout the dancing crowd. She waved a little like Princess Di. When she was set down, the groom was carried around. He actually stood up and did a little impromptu dance. Then they both left the courtyard and she came back in a new dress. Depending on the wealth of the family the bride will change clothes up to five times, sometimes more. What I remember most is that there was a lot of orange involved, and that it was too cold for me to sit out there the entire night. I understood why people danced despite the hshuma. However, I did get a couple of good pictures of my host family out of it. The first one is of my host mother, Zahara, with my host niece, Fedwa, and the second is of my with my host sister, Habiba. I couldn't have asked for a lovelier family.

Speaking of really lovely people, I also recently said goodbye to all of my new Peace Corps friends! On November 26th we all swore in as volunteers in Fes. Yay! But sad that we had to leave one another. There were definitely some moments when I wanted a little "alone time" but mostly I feel like my fellow volunteers are my family away from home. Here are a few pictures:


This is Jackie, my roommate for three months. She was the very first person I met upon arrival in Philadelphia, and she was an invaluable source of insight and support.



This is my CBT group from Ait Benhaddou! Mia, me, Mahri, Amina (our LCF), Megan, Kate and Anny. I miss them so! Every morning we debriefed about all of the wacky things that happened the night before. We struggled through Tashlheet together, and hiked the kasbah as often as we could. Reunions are definitely in the making.




I'm not sure I can say enough about these two incredible men, Matthew and Brian, so I won't try in this forum. Just know that I'm always safe and protected when I'm with these two.

The next two months will be spent living with my host family, implementing some development tools, collectively known as PACA, searching for a house of my own, and meeting the volunteers in my region. I'll also try to get back to answering all of the questions you've sent me. Happy holidays and lots of love from Morocco!

Wedding Part 1

"Part I," you ask. Yes, there are multiple parts to this story, and you're really only getting what I managed to pick up in a loud, crowded room with very basic Tashlheit skills. . . The second part will unfold tonight . . . And I have a feeling that both parts will differ from the nice description available at the link above.

Last night I attended the first night of my first Moroccan wedding. It was pretty spectacular. The town's women, dressed in some of the most gorgeous gowns I have ever seen, occupied the grand lobby of the kasbah hotel. One group of women sat in the center of the room and played drums, large and small. A second group of women rose to sing and dance in a circle. It was a sort of hand-clapping, shoulder-raising, hip-shaking dance. The movements were small, but the effect was grand as they moved slowly around the circle. The lighting was very poor but this should provide you with an idea of what was happening:



"Aren't there men in your town," you ask. Well, yes, of course, but they had been invited to attend the wedding during the day, and the few that were in attendance at night sat in another room eating dinner.

After some dancing (I joined in after much prodding from Rbia, my older host sister) the women were separated into smaller rooms with tables and given communal plates of chicken with tomatoes and onions and beef with prunes. We also drank Fanta. (I am nurturing a serious sugar addiction.) At the end of the meal, I noticed that I was the only who ate all of my food. Earlier I had noticed that my host sister, Jmeia, had served me less than the other guests, but I thought that was because I "eat in the time of a chicken". I was sooooooo wrong! The women were the ones who ate like chickens! And then they packed up the meat in plastic bags and put them in their purses. Whoa! That was not what I was expecting. I thought it had something to with not wasting food, which is a big deal here and deserves an entire post of its own. When Jmeia and I arrived home and she gave the meat to her mother and sister (who had not joined in the festivities) it all made sense.

Maybe now you're wondering, "Why haven't you mentioned the bride and groom?" Well, dear, reader, they weren't there. After dinner all the women gathered outside in the hotel's courtyard and waited for the "asli". Soon I saw a group of people approaching the courtyard with a figure in shrouded in a white blanket. It was the groom! And, no he wasn't wearing anything under that blanket (or so I was told). A man guided the figure to the center of the courtyard and had him kneel before a small table of burning incense and basil, and some other things I couldn't see or identify.

An announcer-type man placed a bright red basket on the groom's head, and people started lining up to give the groom gifts. The announcer-type man would announce the gift as well as the name and giver's relationship to the groom. Then he would place the gift (usually cash) into the basket. Large comforters, picture frames and other items that might have caused the groom discomfort were placed at his side. It was probably the best way to be introduced to the entire community at once. Seeing them be so generous en masse was really quite beautiful and overwhelming.

Tonight it's the bride's turn to be the center of attention. I've gathered that she will be lifted up on a chair, which is appealing for many reasons, none of which I can go into here. I will try to write some tomorrow, but as I will be traveling for the next three weeks straight that may be difficult. Obviously, ask me any questions you have! I'm sure I've left out a million things.

A New Home

After seven days at my permanent site, I'm pretty sure I'm in love. It's deserty; it's green; it's warm and chilly simultaneously - it's all the little contradictions of Morocco stuffed into a tiny, tiny town of about 700 people in the Ouarzazate region. Plus, my new host family has wireless, and I took a shower with a frog the other day. What's not to love? Did I mention that there's an airport about thirty minutes away? Ummmm . . . yes, that means you (yes, you!) should definitely visit.

Here are a few pictures of my new town:

What, exactly, is a kasbah?

Before you read this you should thoroughly review the lyrics of the classic song Rock the Kasbah by The Clash. Not only does it have a rockin’ beat, but also it provides a lovely description of what actually used to happen to kasbahs. (OK, fine it’s more of a metaphor, and the person who asked this question is a musical man so I thought I would relate it to music in some way.) The term kasbah refers to an ancient fortified city. They generally look like castles, are multi-layered, and come in many shapes and sizes. Sometimes entire towns are considered kasbahs and sometimes just a small area is. Wikipedia may have a different opinion but this is what I’ve learned by living near one for six weeks. I’ve also read that it refers to small structures that acted as military strongholds of ruling sheikhs or kings. Before a town or city could be officially conquered the ruler’s kasbah had to be destroyed, usually by means of bombarding it, or if you like, rockin’ it.

The kasbah with which I am most familiar is Kasbah Aït Benhaddou, which is the largest and best preserved kasbah in the entire Sub-Atlas region. If you climb to the top of it you'll have this view of the Dades Valley. Let's just say that it's gorgeous and I love it. It draws a steady stream of tourists (and by steady, I mean that it’s the most visited town in all of Morocco). Most of the town’s population lives just across the Ouarzazate River, where running water and electricity are readily available (though not every day and not all day . . . ) A few families still reside within the kasbah walls and make a living by charging unwitting tourists a fee to enter through their homes. There are two other (free) entrances to the kasbah, which the town hopes to develop into more official entrances that will charge fees that will be reinvested into the maintenance and development of the site. It’s a UNESCO site, so it’s well-preserved and well-advertised, but alterations are a tricky business. In other news, my new site has a kasbah, too! Yay! So the obsession will continue, my friends. I know you're excited!