Seriously, don't tell the students, but vacation time is a pretty good perk of being a teacher.
We had our first 'spring break' this week, for the Eid El Mouloud, the prophet Mohamed's birthday. I thought they didn't celebrate birthdays, but whatever. Steve came to visit from New York, and I got the pleasure of touring him around my city. Whether strolling the medina, visiting friends, or just sitting in a cafe, everyone here was excited to meet him. We spent an amazing time at Amina's family's house, where they made a huge fuss over him. Everyone was completely unable to remember/pronounce his name, so he was dubbed "Teeth," because it sounded like "Steve," which quickly became the Arabic "Snaan."
After leaving Fes, we took a night bus to Riazani and discovered that they guy Steve was staying with, Dan, another American, was also riding the bus south for a separate desert tour. Steve and I arrived in Riasani and were picked up by a very tall land rover that drove us out on a deserted road. Just as I was contemplating how easy it would be to kidnap us in this situation, the land rover turned off the empty road and out into the more empty desert. We rode for another half hour through the dunes and brushy shrubs before arriving at a few street signs planted in the middle of the sand, one of which directed us in the front door of the Auberge of the Blue Men, where we stayed.
We explored the desert a little on foot before walking with the "camel-man" into the desert where he caught our camels for us. They weren't wild, but it was a dramatic feeling to walk into the desert to catch a camel. For those of you who have not rode camels, you should know this: they are TALL. The saddle on a camel wraps around the hump and has a metal crossbar at the front to hold on to, and you need to hold on to it. Getting up and down is like a roller coaster. The walking is easy enough, but still very high from the unforgiving sand. We had fun spying on the little tracks of the desert critters traced in the sand as we walked through what was apparently the tallest set of dunes in the Sahara.
We spent the night in a Berber encampment in the middle of the dunes, in tents that were made of blankets draped over logs. We walked around, enjoying the amazing stars and listening to some Berber drum circles, and woke up the next morning for the sunrise.
After riding back to the Auberge on our trusty stinky mounts, we hitched a ride with the Austrians to the Dades gorges. We met some cool people and sat at a cafe for about 5 hours before leaving for Marrakesh on the night bus. It was great to have Steve visiting for as long as he could, and I was very glad to travel with him on the crazy desert excursion. I'm going to ask him to post something on this blog as well.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Update of Classes
We just finished a unit on 2-D shapes in 7th grade math, and so had a contest in measurement last week. Everyone loved it, but nobody was very accurate, so we had a rematch yesterday. The contest was set up scavenger-hunt style, where they had to find different measurements around the school and use them for calculations, like calculating the area of the glass windows in front of the office, or the amount of red tile used in the school logo on the front steps, or the diameter of the big tree in the courtyard. Instead of averaging about 120% off, the measurements are only about 50% off.
In sixth grade, the science class is learning about different types of energy. To demonstrate renewable, non-renewable, and indefinite resources today, the kids made three teams and drew small towns of four buildings. We played like a turn-based game, where each "month," they could add one more building if they wanted to, either a bank or a restaurant or a hospital, but they had to pay one 'resource' per month for each building they had in town. One town's resources was silly-noodle macaroni, and they only had a handful of it. The second town's resources was gravel from outside; they had each picked up a few pieces on the way in. When they ran out, one boy chimed in "Miss, can we just go out and get some more?" Good job, kid, yeah! It just takes time. The third city's energy resources were 100ml of water that they took from the sink next to them. indefinite. To top it off, their cities are works of art. Colourful, labeled creations with perspective and fountains and beaches... I was expecting that we would throw them out at the end of class. Instead, I am taping them on the wall.
In eighth grade, we threw barbies off the roof with specifically calculated numbers of rubber bands attached to them to make a bungee cable. Only one barbie died. Success.
In sixth grade, the science class is learning about different types of energy. To demonstrate renewable, non-renewable, and indefinite resources today, the kids made three teams and drew small towns of four buildings. We played like a turn-based game, where each "month," they could add one more building if they wanted to, either a bank or a restaurant or a hospital, but they had to pay one 'resource' per month for each building they had in town. One town's resources was silly-noodle macaroni, and they only had a handful of it. The second town's resources was gravel from outside; they had each picked up a few pieces on the way in. When they ran out, one boy chimed in "Miss, can we just go out and get some more?" Good job, kid, yeah! It just takes time. The third city's energy resources were 100ml of water that they took from the sink next to them. indefinite. To top it off, their cities are works of art. Colourful, labeled creations with perspective and fountains and beaches... I was expecting that we would throw them out at the end of class. Instead, I am taping them on the wall.
In eighth grade, we threw barbies off the roof with specifically calculated numbers of rubber bands attached to them to make a bungee cable. Only one barbie died. Success.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Illegal Aliens
Sometimes the most ridiculous aspects of life make the best stories. Every day, I wake up a bit before dawn to do some work and have some quiet relax time, and because I like to hear the dawn call to prayer. I go to school early so I can use the only computer the school has with the finicky printer, and usually start the day kinda wishing it was over already. First period is Pre-Algebra, and that almost always puts me in the mood to actually start the day, and each class I spend with the students makes me pick up momentum as the day carries on, so I know I have a good job. After school I tutor and have duties and/or admin-type responsibilities until around 6-ish, when I often have an errand to run, or I just walk around the city and talk to my friends who are vendors.
For the last 6 months, one of the errands that I occasionally have to care for involves my residency paperwork. First, I needed to visit the police agency with my passport and diploma to have them issue all of our papers. They gave us additional paperwork to fill out - the teachers last year didn't have it, but it wasn't a big deal. It had basic information. They also wanted our resumes. We all went back to the police station several times, and were repeatedly told, "we're kinda busy, come back tomorrow." Finally, they gave a few people residency papers. But not me.
The remainder of us were told that, to acquire residency papers would require us to open a Moroccan bank account in US dollars. So we went to the bank, all with our passports. Suzanne and Candace opened their accounts, and thus went back to the police agency and got their paperwork. 3aisa and I were told that a passport was not sufficient to open a bank account. Strike 2.
We two returned the following day with our drivers' licenses, but we were informed that a drivers license also was not sufficient. In addition to our passports, we needed a piece of mail that we had received while in America from a company. An electric bill, a phone advert, a paycheck. Anything with our name and an American address. Why would we have brought this to Morocco?! Why is it necessary or important?! Most importantly, since we definitely did NOT bring such an envelope with us when we arrived 6 months ago, how are we to get one now, now that we no longer LIVE in America or receive mail there?!
Finally, my friend Malika, who also works for the school, and is married to a man of influence, spoke with the owner of the bank. It is no longer necessary to have an envelope.
3aisa and I went to the bank today, but he has had another problem occur in the meantime: his passport was stolen on his last Visa run to Spain. It's being renewed in Casablanca now. She informed him that she could not help him, so he returned to school. What we forgot today was that, when he returned, he had the money for both of us in his pocket! So, I actually had the opportunity to open the account today, but had no money to do so. Strike three.
Insha'allah situations coincide better tomorrow.
For the last 6 months, one of the errands that I occasionally have to care for involves my residency paperwork. First, I needed to visit the police agency with my passport and diploma to have them issue all of our papers. They gave us additional paperwork to fill out - the teachers last year didn't have it, but it wasn't a big deal. It had basic information. They also wanted our resumes. We all went back to the police station several times, and were repeatedly told, "we're kinda busy, come back tomorrow." Finally, they gave a few people residency papers. But not me.
The remainder of us were told that, to acquire residency papers would require us to open a Moroccan bank account in US dollars. So we went to the bank, all with our passports. Suzanne and Candace opened their accounts, and thus went back to the police agency and got their paperwork. 3aisa and I were told that a passport was not sufficient to open a bank account. Strike 2.
We two returned the following day with our drivers' licenses, but we were informed that a drivers license also was not sufficient. In addition to our passports, we needed a piece of mail that we had received while in America from a company. An electric bill, a phone advert, a paycheck. Anything with our name and an American address. Why would we have brought this to Morocco?! Why is it necessary or important?! Most importantly, since we definitely did NOT bring such an envelope with us when we arrived 6 months ago, how are we to get one now, now that we no longer LIVE in America or receive mail there?!
Finally, my friend Malika, who also works for the school, and is married to a man of influence, spoke with the owner of the bank. It is no longer necessary to have an envelope.
3aisa and I went to the bank today, but he has had another problem occur in the meantime: his passport was stolen on his last Visa run to Spain. It's being renewed in Casablanca now. She informed him that she could not help him, so he returned to school. What we forgot today was that, when he returned, he had the money for both of us in his pocket! So, I actually had the opportunity to open the account today, but had no money to do so. Strike three.
Insha'allah situations coincide better tomorrow.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Chit-chat
I went to the medina yesterday evening to check on some pictures that I left with a friend of mine; he’s a painter, and I asked if he would get the pictures framed for me. Really, I asked him where we could get them framed, and he insisted on doing it for us. Last night, I didn’t make it there.
B’shwia.
On completely empty streets, it takes about a half hour for me to walk to his shop, and another half hour home. Around 5, I left my house to walk over, through the Mellah, where I had to stop to say hello to my friend who sells teapots. I then encountered the shop where I had left my boots, after having them break shortly after buying them, for the shopkeeper to repair the zipper. He hadn’t finished fixing them yet, but he had me come in and sit down while he messed around with them, and then he wanted me to try on a bunch of other shoes, ALL of which were the wrong size. Then I had to have an exchange with a homeless woman I know between two streets, and inquire as to the well-being of the caretaker of a hotel I scope out to defer guests to, since my place is not currently hosting out-of-towners overnight. I was delayed by the owner of my coffee-shop who saw me passing by, and wanted me to see how successful he’s been at chasing the cats away from his café, since I sometimes feed them when I sit. My favorite mul-malawi guy saw me, and the traditional mul-magasin in the medina streets wanted to teach me some business terms in Arabic.
By the time I got to Sidi Mohamed’s shop, it was late and everything was closed.
Just another evening in Africa. Typical. I love it.
There are some very specific rules about chit-chat, and it’s very prescribed. In my home culture, I am basically free to chat with anyone who feels like talking to me; this is relatively rare with strangers. Here, EVERYBODY wants to talk, in very direct ways. Strangers on the street run up to me and yell, “Are you from France? England?” It would be akin to waving down the next black person you see to ask if they were from Africa… so not p.c.
Although everybody *wants* to talk, the rules here are clearer about when chit-chat is appropriate. Navigating these social mores has resulted with my understanding of two very mutually exclusive groups of people: those with whom casual conversation IS appropriate, and those with whom it is NOT.
IS: For me, it’s appropriate to start conversations with virtually any females. I am also expected to talk with any foreigners, or anyone who looks foreign. Male shopkeepers are also appropriate to talk with, as long as there is the remotest faint possibility I may at some point be monetarily supporting their business.
NOT: Any local males who are not selling something. The only possible exception to this rule can be, sometimes, small children, very old men, men introduced to me by someone in the “is” category while we are supervised by said person, or someone with whom I am physically trapped for a period of time, such as a fellow passenger in a traincar or taxi. These conversations are had with a good show of trepidation.
I never cease to find this cultural distinction interesting, and from an insider’s perspective a bit amusing.
B’shwia.
On completely empty streets, it takes about a half hour for me to walk to his shop, and another half hour home. Around 5, I left my house to walk over, through the Mellah, where I had to stop to say hello to my friend who sells teapots. I then encountered the shop where I had left my boots, after having them break shortly after buying them, for the shopkeeper to repair the zipper. He hadn’t finished fixing them yet, but he had me come in and sit down while he messed around with them, and then he wanted me to try on a bunch of other shoes, ALL of which were the wrong size. Then I had to have an exchange with a homeless woman I know between two streets, and inquire as to the well-being of the caretaker of a hotel I scope out to defer guests to, since my place is not currently hosting out-of-towners overnight. I was delayed by the owner of my coffee-shop who saw me passing by, and wanted me to see how successful he’s been at chasing the cats away from his café, since I sometimes feed them when I sit. My favorite mul-malawi guy saw me, and the traditional mul-magasin in the medina streets wanted to teach me some business terms in Arabic.
By the time I got to Sidi Mohamed’s shop, it was late and everything was closed.
Just another evening in Africa. Typical. I love it.
There are some very specific rules about chit-chat, and it’s very prescribed. In my home culture, I am basically free to chat with anyone who feels like talking to me; this is relatively rare with strangers. Here, EVERYBODY wants to talk, in very direct ways. Strangers on the street run up to me and yell, “Are you from France? England?” It would be akin to waving down the next black person you see to ask if they were from Africa… so not p.c.
Although everybody *wants* to talk, the rules here are clearer about when chit-chat is appropriate. Navigating these social mores has resulted with my understanding of two very mutually exclusive groups of people: those with whom casual conversation IS appropriate, and those with whom it is NOT.
IS: For me, it’s appropriate to start conversations with virtually any females. I am also expected to talk with any foreigners, or anyone who looks foreign. Male shopkeepers are also appropriate to talk with, as long as there is the remotest faint possibility I may at some point be monetarily supporting their business.
NOT: Any local males who are not selling something. The only possible exception to this rule can be, sometimes, small children, very old men, men introduced to me by someone in the “is” category while we are supervised by said person, or someone with whom I am physically trapped for a period of time, such as a fellow passenger in a traincar or taxi. These conversations are had with a good show of trepidation.
I never cease to find this cultural distinction interesting, and from an insider’s perspective a bit amusing.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Tea with My Neighbors
I was skyping with Steve the other night, very late, when everything else was sleepy and silent. Faintly, I heard something like the slow cracking of breaking glass. I wasn't sure where it was coming from, but a moment later, I found out. Suddenly, behind me, the tiles on my floor split apart, rifting together like the Rocky mountains, and shooting sharp plaster bits all around the room. The entire length of my living room, two rows of tiles seemed to expand and pop out of the floor, leaving a little tile mountain range in the middle of the living room, that cracks menacingly anytime anyone steps near it.
...please consider supporting my journey here?
...please consider supporting my journey here?
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Chemicals!!
The rainy season strikes again - everyone is sick, and the locals are telling us that it's either because we aren't wearing gloves when it's raining, or because we're dumping hot water down the drain, thus angering the drain-djiin.
There were only 3 teachers to actually make it to the elementary school yesterday; and all three were mildly ill. In the middle of math class, the elementary principal walks in. She is fantastic. The whole sixth grade choruses 'Goooood moooorning' in a sufficiently adorable way to diffuse whatever irritation she might have from their latest misdemeanors, but she reassures them that she's only here to bring me some Vitamin C.
She pours me a cup of water and hands me a dissolvable bright orange tab, which immediately begins fizzing once dropped in the water. She doesn't realize what a gift this is for the science class. I yell 'CHEMICAL REACTION,' and the whole sixth grade bounds out of their seats to watch the Vitamin disappear in the cup of water, staining it fluorescent orange. We spend the next 10 minutes discussing reactions, chemical solutions, and the importance of vitamins to the body.
I love my job.
There were only 3 teachers to actually make it to the elementary school yesterday; and all three were mildly ill. In the middle of math class, the elementary principal walks in. She is fantastic. The whole sixth grade choruses 'Goooood moooorning' in a sufficiently adorable way to diffuse whatever irritation she might have from their latest misdemeanors, but she reassures them that she's only here to bring me some Vitamin C.
She pours me a cup of water and hands me a dissolvable bright orange tab, which immediately begins fizzing once dropped in the water. She doesn't realize what a gift this is for the science class. I yell 'CHEMICAL REACTION,' and the whole sixth grade bounds out of their seats to watch the Vitamin disappear in the cup of water, staining it fluorescent orange. We spend the next 10 minutes discussing reactions, chemical solutions, and the importance of vitamins to the body.
I love my job.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Taboo Subject
I had a sick day today. My stomach is suffering from too much Morocco.
There's no way around it; this country is just hard on the digestive system. Chemically, I wonder what the exact issues are, but even the locals report trouble more frequently than I'm accustomed to. Everyone who visits here gets sick, it seems... foreign bellies just aren't ready for the dense, delicious traditional cuisine.
After several months here, I had considered myself immune, but I realize that my diet while living here has been fairly basic. When I cook for myself, I usually eat sandwiches with delicious khubz bread, or some combination of the endless yogurt products. Since last month, I have been determined to prepare real Moroccan cous-cous correctly, and this weekend I tackled my first tagine. I made a tagine with steak pieces and potatos, carrots, zucchini, turnips, and a couple other vegetables I don't know the English names for. It actually turned out quite well, and the seasoning was decent. I made this for my Moroccan friend and her mother, who I hosted at my house yesterday after school for only about 5 hours. We had a lovely time together, and I got some ideas for next time I make tagine.
However, my body maybe doesn't like this frequency of eating traditional Moroccan cooking every day. I stayed home from school, since I wasn't really able to be vertical safely, much less move around to teach.
It entertains me that, though digestive sicknesses of all kinds are not considered delicate conversation topics in my home culture, here people are quite matter-of-fact. A friend and co-teacher who called me asked straight out, "Do you have diarrhea? Are you throwing up?" I guess that's the result when the digestive system presents such a regular interference to daily life.
I'm going back to sandwiches.
There's no way around it; this country is just hard on the digestive system. Chemically, I wonder what the exact issues are, but even the locals report trouble more frequently than I'm accustomed to. Everyone who visits here gets sick, it seems... foreign bellies just aren't ready for the dense, delicious traditional cuisine.
After several months here, I had considered myself immune, but I realize that my diet while living here has been fairly basic. When I cook for myself, I usually eat sandwiches with delicious khubz bread, or some combination of the endless yogurt products. Since last month, I have been determined to prepare real Moroccan cous-cous correctly, and this weekend I tackled my first tagine. I made a tagine with steak pieces and potatos, carrots, zucchini, turnips, and a couple other vegetables I don't know the English names for. It actually turned out quite well, and the seasoning was decent. I made this for my Moroccan friend and her mother, who I hosted at my house yesterday after school for only about 5 hours. We had a lovely time together, and I got some ideas for next time I make tagine.
However, my body maybe doesn't like this frequency of eating traditional Moroccan cooking every day. I stayed home from school, since I wasn't really able to be vertical safely, much less move around to teach.
It entertains me that, though digestive sicknesses of all kinds are not considered delicate conversation topics in my home culture, here people are quite matter-of-fact. A friend and co-teacher who called me asked straight out, "Do you have diarrhea? Are you throwing up?" I guess that's the result when the digestive system presents such a regular interference to daily life.
I'm going back to sandwiches.
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