Ruth and the Boots Made for Walking (And That's Just What They'll Do)

It's Wednesday. It's raining. A lot. My town has been reduced to a big pool of mud. I ventured out this morning, only for the rain to start the minute I walked out the door, of course. And to find that none of my women were going to work out at the association on account of the rain that I was by then soaked by. So, here I am, back at home, with the whole day ahead of me.

After being drenched, I curled back up in bed for a bit this morning to get warm and read. I'm reading a great book at the moment, called In Arabian Nights: A Caravan of Moroccan Dreams, which my sister sent me (thanks, sis!), by Tahir Shah, who is also the author of the Caliph's House, if anyone's read that. It's the travels that the author goes on throughout Morocco looking for, as per Berber tradition, the story within him. And it takes him from Tangers to the Sahara, and all the great places in-between. But the reason I bring this book up is because there are a couple of really great passages in it, and I thought I would share on this rainy day.

"Settling into a new country is like getting used to a pair of shoes. At first they pinch a little, but you like the way they look, so you carry on. The longer you have them, the more comfortable they become. Until one day without realizing it you reach a glorious plateau. Wearing these shoes is like wearing no shoes at all. The more scuffed they get, the more you love them, and the more you can't imagine life without them."

So I'm still in the shoes-are-pinching-me stage, but they are getting more comfortable by the day. I wonder at what point during the next two years will I look back and find that I've broken my shoes in completely, and I am as comfortable here in Morocco as I am walking around in my beloved Austin boots. It's a long and confusing process, that's for sure. But, like all good, broken in shoes, it's well worth the wait.

But enough reflection for one day. Some of us have an entire language to get on and learn. Must look up how to say "my brain is about to explode" in darija.

xoxo

Ruth and the Castles in the Sand

I've just gotten back from a weekend in Essaouira - which is an amazingly gorgeous city, and with which I'm now completely in love with. From start to finish, there were picturesque views all around. I drove (well, the bus driver did) up the coast from Agadir to Essa, which is reminiscent of the Californian coastline - stunning. The city itself consists of the old medina and the new city; we spent most of our time in the old medina, which is all whitewash walls with blue trim, a maze of windy narrow alleyways, and little shops selling the traditional wares of the area - one of which is wood-carved objects, since the Essaouira region is rich with a wood called Thuya, which is in the cypress tree family, and as I learned, is becoming increasingly rare.

We - myself and three other volunteers - spent the weekend wandering the streets of Essaouira, eating 5 dh fish sandwiches, strolling on the beach, lounging in the sun (when it was out) on the breakwaters in the port, and watching the sunset on the ramparts of the medina. And we were staying in an amazing riad, with four floors and a lovely roof, from which we had spectacular views of the city. It was a bit chilly and rainy while we were there, since it's rainy season at the moment, although there's not been a whole lot of rain in either the Essa region or my region. It was super nice to get away for the weekend - not that I don't like being where I am - but for the simple reason that it's nice to be able to speak and joke in English, and be understood, not given blank stares (well, I suppose that depends on the joke). We were able to commiserate about tough situations regarding rubbish disposal, among other things, and cheer each other on, seeing as we're all in the same stage of trying to figure out where we fit in each of our situations. We also decided that we have an amazing group of people here with us, and that we are all gangsters, baby.

Sunday we also ventured to one of the other volunteers' sites - which is about an hour from Essa, out in the countryside, which is very pretty in that region. This volunteer, in my opinion, has a hardcore Peace Corps site - no running water, no internet reception, and about 250 people in the village. Water is brought to him twice a week by a young boy with a donkey, and the walk for drinking water is 30 minutes each way when that is needed. I arrived home incredibly appreciative of my running water. I also learnt of another volunteer with a 12km trek in to her site from the nearest main road. I'm super impressed with those of us who are basically camping for two years in the Moroccan outback. It's a challenge for everyone just in terms of working out daily life without those extra obstacles thrown in the way - so well done them.

We were racking our brains this weekend for who wrote the song that was supposedly written in Essaouira - it was Jimi Hendrix, but I was disappointed to learn that he didn't write "Castles in the Sand" about Essa - since the song was written two years before he visited there. Fun fact.

And my venture out of site did in fact end in cheese. Yummy blue cheese. Mission accomplished.

xoxo

Ruth and the Roman Ruins

I know I've already complained about the bugs once this week, but I have another story, which I think tops the rest. I got up yesterday morning, and as I was getting ready to leave the house, I thought to myself, I'd better make the bed, so that no crickets decide to crawl in there and make their home in my pajamas. Again. And so I flicked back the covers in preparation for step two, pulling them straight again, and there, bold as brass, was the worlds biggest cricket/black bug/flying creature/mutant THING in my bed. That's right, IN THE BED. Under the covers, no less than 2 feet from where I had been lying shortly before. Luckily, I successfully I managed to get a tupperware container over his head, and him out the door. So, that was a really amazing way to start the day. How many people can say they've shared their bed with a mutant cricket? I showed the picture to my tutor today in order to find out what the thing was called in darija, and he had no idea, since he'd never seen one of them before. I'm not sure what that means.

But I did have really great adventure yesterday. There are two girls that live next door to me, the daughters of my landlady, called Soumia and Omia. They are super lovely, as is their brother, Abdelali, and they invited me to come and join them for lunch at their house. Imagine my delight when I was served chicken instead of mystery meat! (Did have to fight down two olives, but I survived to tell the tale.) But, we - the three kids, my landlady, Fatima, and her mother, got to talking - well, in as much as I "talk" or "converse" - after lunch and they were showing me their family photo album, and the two girls started talking about an old house, where there's a lot of sun, on the farm. I was confused by this, and they could see that I was not processing, so they decided that we were going there, leaving immediately. So off we went, and turns out they were talking about the old ruins of the mud house that their mum's family used to live in, which is at the back of one of the fields near my house. It was a gorgeous day, and they were right about there being a lot of sun. They brought along their school books (which I would have done too, had I any idea where we were going) and we sat in the sun and they read, and I took pictures and wandered, we played Marco Polo, found a turtle, watched the boys in the neighboring fields get chased by the farmers, it was great. Such a lovely quiet spot.

What else? Tuesday morning and this morning, I got up at 6am, yes, that's right - not a typo - and went walking with the ladies in my association. It was super cold - remember kids, the desert is not always warm - and pitch black when I left my house, which made for great star viewing as I was crossing the field by my house. The sky really is enormous here. And the call to prayer was still sounding when I left, which was really nice in a surreal kind of way. Usually I only hear it in my half-dazed state of going back to sleep. It was really interesting and quite eerie to see all the men leaving the mosque when it was over, moving through the town in their white jellabas, in the dark. My women go walking (some run) three mornings a week at this time - I'm guessing in the heat of the summer this is going to be the best time to go - before it gets to 120 degrees outside. In the winter it's just cold, but it feels nice to be getting some actual exercise in.

So I don't know if you're getting a sense of how I fill my days here - I've found that I am slowly getting in to a routine of sorts. Riada in the mornings with my women, and then I usually cycle in to town if I need to run an errand or go to tutoring that day, come home for lunch, spend the afternoons with my women at the association, studying and chatting, and have quiet evenings at home, unless I am invited to kaskrut or dinner after work has finished at the association. If I do end up at home for the evening, I get to crack into my top secret stash of "grape juice" and attempt to study.

But now I've come down with yet another cold so it's an early night for me… oh wait, what, I didn't tell you? I'm going for a world record of most colds in two years. I'm on three in four months, so I'm feeling good about my chances. If I stay on my very well thought out schedule I should have another one as a birthday present to myself in mid-March. Go me. Baileys counts as like a rescue remedy type thing, right? Good, glad you're on board.

xoxo

Ruth and the Fixing of the Photos

So, I've just discovered an amazing way to post pictures, captions and all, without them looking like a complete mess and making me want to throw up.

I'll be revisiting old photo posts to clean them up, eventually, but the theory goes, I will now be putting up many more pictures for your viewing pleasure. My gift to you.

xoxo

Ruth and the Magical Photoslide Thinger, Part 1

Ruth and the Plague of Locusts

Okay, well not locusts exactly, but big, huge, enormous, horrible, disgusting, it-might-eat-your-face-off bugs. My house is under attack it would seem. And I can't work out why they have all chosen to pick on me. Can they smell fear? It all started with the largest spider I've EVER seen. EVER. I'm not exaggerating, and I know everyone always says that, but the bastard was about 2 inches across. And even from ten feet away I could see his teeth. I'm not making this up! Unfortunately when I opened the front door to throw out a cricket I found (see below) he - we'll call him Herbert - ran away somewhere - he's a fast bugger. So unfortunately he's still in my house - I think in the window above my bathroom. Then I found a HUGE cricket in the kitchen, trying to disguise itself in a glass pyrex dish. Fail. Out the door it went. Then I found a cricket in my pajamas. That one I killed with a plastic shoe for being so brash as to think it could make it's home in my pjs. No, no, no. Then I found Herbert's less evil cousin under my shoe. Killed him too. He was big - not as big, but the size of a nickel maybe. Ugh. Then another cricket - big. I threw a glass over his head and he joined his friend outside. Oh and then a little spider. Harmless, but died for being in cohorts with Herbert and his cousin. And, upon curling up in bed last night with a film (The Sheltering Sky - thank you Philip and Tani - the book and the film, both great!), I had to constantly reach over to my screen to kill little flies landing on it, attracted by the light. There's all sorts of fly internal organs smeared on my screen. Yuck.

And yes, I know, I know... killing flies, crickets, and spiders is like eighteen different kinds of Hsuma in this country, which is why I went for a combination of killing and throwing out - I'd like to think that I'm slightly justified in my killings since they happened in the privacy of my own home, and it's because insects are invading where I sleep! And didn't sleep very well last night, might I add, since I kept hearing Herbert creep closer with dastardly plans of biting me in the throat and sucking my blood.

The next time I'm at Marjane I will be investing in lots of big storage containers with lids so that bugs can't get in things, and a very large can of bug spray, industrial strength.

Can't wait for the summer to see what bugs that brings. This country sure knows how to breed 'em.

Quick notes on other news: I'm very excited to be typing this from my shiny new desk that was delivered this evening. It was supposed to arrive yesterday, along with another table for the hallway, but apparently when someone tells you they are going to deliver something at a particular time, you should ignore that, add at least 24 hours, and still not get your hopes up. But now I have somewhere for studying that doesn't require me balancing all my notebooks, textbook and dictionary on my lap. Yay!

Also, I put pictures up on my wall, which is making me very happy, and I'm very impressed with myself and by my efforts with a roll of duct tape and some paper clips to create a bulletin board. Result. So, send me photos to put up! I don't want to forget what everyone looks like over the next two years!

xoxo

P.S. Is it wrong that I've eaten seven tangerines today? Discuss.

Ruth and the Inexplicable Shortage of Window Handles.

Another Christmas has come and gone, the first not being at home, which was made easier by the fact that it doesn't feel like the holiday season here. Christmas felt like a normal Saturday - shops were open, and everyone was going about their normal business. Have seen some very entertaining 'Christmas' decorations here - and I used that term loosely, since they consist of the scariest looking inflatable Father Christmases I've ever seen. New Years was very quiet too - I partied the night away with my host parents, going wild watching Moroccan televised celebrations, while knitting my scarf. I walked in to town on New Years Day, expecting at least some of the shops to be closed, or it to be at least a little quieter, but no… But I am going to keep my pink Christmas tree up just a little bit longer, no matter that technically it's all over.

But my own private celebrations are centered around finally being in my own house. I can finally eat dinner uninterrupted by a crying four year old, watch a movie without being interrupted by a crying four year old, and take a hot bucket bath whenever I bloody well please. Which will be often. And so here I sit. In MY house. On MY double mattress. With all of MY things out of my suitcase and finally seeing the light of day again. It's been a blissful 36 hours of pottering, cooking, organizing, cleaning (Mum, you would be proud of the number I did on my turkish toilet), listening to music, and eating chocolate.

I spent about an hour and a half in four different grand taxis today, on the way to and from the Marjane in Agadir (house shopping, yay!), and had an enjoyable time thinking about this method of travel here in Morocco, while squashed up against the window with three other people in the back seat. There are two different types of taxis - grand and petit. Grand taxis are for longer trips, generally between larger towns, while petit taxi's are just within city limits. But in a grand taxi, which is invariably a beaten up old Mercedes, you have the pleasure of being in the car with six or seven other people - four on the back seat, two in the front passenger, plus the driver, and occasionally an eighth person squeezed next to the driver, between him and the door. So generally, the theme is, squeeze in as many people as possible. Yet in petit taxis, there are five available seats, but only four of them are ever occupied. What gives? Surely you could get at least another two people in that vehicle! I've also noticed the severe lack of window handles in grand taxis. This baffles me the most I think. The car was made with four handles on the windows, allowing each passenger the opportunity to wind down their window should they feel uncomfortably warm. But over the years, three of the handles in each grand taxi have disappeared. If you want to roll down your window, you must ask the driver for his window handle, to attach to your own window to get a breath of fresh air. But where do all the window handles go? Is there a graveyard of handles somewhere? Are they being re-purposed for something? Is there a black market for them? Why not just leave them where they are? It's all very confusing. I've decided that the prime seat in a grand taxi is the one directly behind the driver. This way, a) you're next to the window, not squished in between two other people, b) you can make a quick exit when you stop, and c) you can look over the driver's shoulder at the games of chicken he's playing with other drivers on the road. Never a dull moment.

So, off to bed in my new house. I've discovered that there is quite the menagerie of barnyard animals that reside in my little cul-de-sac (read: dead-end dirt path). So far, donkeys, sheep, goats, ducks, chickens, and a rather sorry sounding dog. I'm hoping they are going to pipe down just long enough for me to fall asleep. Again, never a dull moment.

xoxo.