Showing posts with label Morocco. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Morocco. Show all posts
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
12 Days of L'Eid
December 24, 2008
The 12 Days of L'Eid (Arab holiday)
On the 1st day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, "A special price just for you!"
On the 2nd day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, two camel rides.
On the 3rd day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, three couscous bowls.
On the 4th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, four noisy sheep.
On the 5th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, five cups of tea.
On the 6th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, six mosques a calling.
On the 7th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, seven guides a guiding.
On the 8th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, eight Mohammeds staring.
On the 9th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, nine Khadijas cooking.
On the 10th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, ten Fatimas dancing.
On the 11th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, eleven broken taxis.
On the 12th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, twelve (hundred) inshallahs.
Merry Christmas from North Africa!!!
The 12 Days of L'Eid (Arab holiday)
On the 1st day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, "A special price just for you!"
On the 2nd day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, two camel rides.
On the 3rd day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, three couscous bowls.
On the 4th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, four noisy sheep.
On the 5th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, five cups of tea.
On the 6th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, six mosques a calling.
On the 7th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, seven guides a guiding.
On the 8th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, eight Mohammeds staring.
On the 9th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, nine Khadijas cooking.
On the 10th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, ten Fatimas dancing.
On the 11th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, eleven broken taxis.
On the 12th day of L'Eid, my Arab friend gave to me, twelve (hundred) inshallahs.
Merry Christmas from North Africa!!!
Friday, July 27, 2007
Rat in the Oven, Bat in the Bowl
July 27, 2007 (Africa story)
While in Africa, I stayed in the home of some American friends who have lived there for something like 10 years. The husband was always busy with work, but the wife and kids would sit around and tell us stories that kept us rolling with laughter. We'll call the wife Jem and the son Vol.
I came downstairs around 7am one morning for some coffee. While this early hour may surprise some of you who know me, let me say this: call to prayer went off right outside our open window before 5am, which then sets off ALL the animals...donkeys, dogs, chickens... and then the sun comes up and the main path between the mountain village and the valley village was right beneath my window. It was a miracle when I slept until 7.
So, coffee. I'm curled up on their couch, ever so thankful to be in the home of an American, where I can wake up to brewed coffee and not Nescafe. Jem comes in, plops down, and says, "There's a rat in the house."
I think she expected a more shocked look to appear on my face. I had not shared the rat-in-the-ceiling-stories, but they appeared quite quickly in the front of my mind and memory. "A rat? Did you see it?"
"No, but we saw all sorts of evidence of him. And we've had them before." And she goes into the following tale.
One night, the whole family is curled up on the couch together watching one of the Star Wars episodes. They have all the lights out for full movie enjoyment. She sees something in the hallway, and says, "Oh look...a neighborhood cat has wandered into the house." Vol looks at the large creature and says, "Mom, that's no cat." She sees the give away tail and realizes it is a cat-sized rat, but her screams for her husband to catch it scare the unwanted creature away before Mr. Jem can catch it. Cute as Ratatouille may be, when they're live instead of animated, and in your home...not so cute.
So Jem is on the war path. The next morning, she is scrubbing and cleaning and trying to remove all evidence that this rat has ever invaded her home. She hears a noise and realises--it's in the oven. She runs up the stairs into Mr. Jem's office, and says, "It's in the oven! It's IN THE OVEN! Please go take care of it."
He tells her that he is busy with work, and he'll come down when he's finished. She goes and finds Vol, and says, "It's in the oven! Please come take care of it." He also comes up with some excuse for why he can't come that minute.
So Jem wanders back into the kitchen, stressing out over a RAT IN THE OVEN. When recounting this story to us, she admits she acted a bit out of culture shock. She decided to smoke him out. Yep, folks, Jem turned the oven on as high as it could go. She even spoke some sinister words to it as she imagined him starting to fry a bit. I must say, as one who has had to deal with rats in the home...I can relate. I talked to my rats once upon a time. And it wasn't nice or pretty.
So Vol comes into the kitchen ready to help Mom. She spins around, and with a sort of wicked gleam in her eye says, "I turned on the oven. I'm going to roast him to death." Vol looks at his mom, looks at the oven (from which there are coming high pitched screeching noises and scratching sounds), grabs his mom by the shoulders and starts shaking her.
"Mom! You've got to snap out of it! What if it explodes? Can you imagine the mess and grossness and ick that you will have to clean up AFTER you've roasted the rat in the oven?" She said it took several minutes of him shaking her for her to realize she must turn off the oven. The rat, after he'd cooled off, crawled back out of whatever pipe through which he'd originally entered, and was killed in a trap later that day.
So she shares her rat story, I share mine, and the day goes on. We see no rat.
Next morning, 7am coffee again. Jem comes in and says, "Well, you've missed all the excitement this morning."
"What?! It's only 7! What happened? Was it the rat?"
"Oh no," Jem says, "Not a rat. A BAT."
What!? Apparently, a bat had flown into the house helper's room, and fluttered around all night long. By 5am, she was ready to admit she was freaked out by it, and started making small shrieking noises while trying to shoo it still so she could catch it. Jem walked in, and the house helper showed her the captured creature: IN A BOWL. They kept the bowl upside down until Vol got up and could take it outside to let it fly away.
So our last night at the house, we three girls had to stay there by our selves. As we locked up, we kept muttering our motto to ourselves: No rats, no bats. And when we woke up the next morning, sure enough...no rats, no bats!
While in Africa, I stayed in the home of some American friends who have lived there for something like 10 years. The husband was always busy with work, but the wife and kids would sit around and tell us stories that kept us rolling with laughter. We'll call the wife Jem and the son Vol.
I came downstairs around 7am one morning for some coffee. While this early hour may surprise some of you who know me, let me say this: call to prayer went off right outside our open window before 5am, which then sets off ALL the animals...donkeys, dogs, chickens... and then the sun comes up and the main path between the mountain village and the valley village was right beneath my window. It was a miracle when I slept until 7.
So, coffee. I'm curled up on their couch, ever so thankful to be in the home of an American, where I can wake up to brewed coffee and not Nescafe. Jem comes in, plops down, and says, "There's a rat in the house."
I think she expected a more shocked look to appear on my face. I had not shared the rat-in-the-ceiling-stories, but they appeared quite quickly in the front of my mind and memory. "A rat? Did you see it?"
"No, but we saw all sorts of evidence of him. And we've had them before." And she goes into the following tale.
One night, the whole family is curled up on the couch together watching one of the Star Wars episodes. They have all the lights out for full movie enjoyment. She sees something in the hallway, and says, "Oh look...a neighborhood cat has wandered into the house." Vol looks at the large creature and says, "Mom, that's no cat." She sees the give away tail and realizes it is a cat-sized rat, but her screams for her husband to catch it scare the unwanted creature away before Mr. Jem can catch it. Cute as Ratatouille may be, when they're live instead of animated, and in your home...not so cute.
So Jem is on the war path. The next morning, she is scrubbing and cleaning and trying to remove all evidence that this rat has ever invaded her home. She hears a noise and realises--it's in the oven. She runs up the stairs into Mr. Jem's office, and says, "It's in the oven! It's IN THE OVEN! Please go take care of it."
He tells her that he is busy with work, and he'll come down when he's finished. She goes and finds Vol, and says, "It's in the oven! Please come take care of it." He also comes up with some excuse for why he can't come that minute.
So Jem wanders back into the kitchen, stressing out over a RAT IN THE OVEN. When recounting this story to us, she admits she acted a bit out of culture shock. She decided to smoke him out. Yep, folks, Jem turned the oven on as high as it could go. She even spoke some sinister words to it as she imagined him starting to fry a bit. I must say, as one who has had to deal with rats in the home...I can relate. I talked to my rats once upon a time. And it wasn't nice or pretty.
So Vol comes into the kitchen ready to help Mom. She spins around, and with a sort of wicked gleam in her eye says, "I turned on the oven. I'm going to roast him to death." Vol looks at his mom, looks at the oven (from which there are coming high pitched screeching noises and scratching sounds), grabs his mom by the shoulders and starts shaking her.
"Mom! You've got to snap out of it! What if it explodes? Can you imagine the mess and grossness and ick that you will have to clean up AFTER you've roasted the rat in the oven?" She said it took several minutes of him shaking her for her to realize she must turn off the oven. The rat, after he'd cooled off, crawled back out of whatever pipe through which he'd originally entered, and was killed in a trap later that day.
So she shares her rat story, I share mine, and the day goes on. We see no rat.
Next morning, 7am coffee again. Jem comes in and says, "Well, you've missed all the excitement this morning."
"What?! It's only 7! What happened? Was it the rat?"
"Oh no," Jem says, "Not a rat. A BAT."
What!? Apparently, a bat had flown into the house helper's room, and fluttered around all night long. By 5am, she was ready to admit she was freaked out by it, and started making small shrieking noises while trying to shoo it still so she could catch it. Jem walked in, and the house helper showed her the captured creature: IN A BOWL. They kept the bowl upside down until Vol got up and could take it outside to let it fly away.
So our last night at the house, we three girls had to stay there by our selves. As we locked up, we kept muttering our motto to ourselves: No rats, no bats. And when we woke up the next morning, sure enough...no rats, no bats!
No plum for you!
July 27, 2007 (Africa story)
One of my friends from Paris is down where I was last week for the summer to learn the local language there. It was sort of a fluke thing that we ended up getting to see each other, but made it fun at the same time. On two separate afternoons, when I had time, we went for walks during the time of the day when the local village women are all out and about walking as well. Not only would that be an appropriate time for us to be out walking as women, but it would give my friend a chance to practise language with some local ladies as well. One day, Sue-Wee joined us too.
We walked and walked, I took a lot of pictures. We stopped a few times for A to practise talking. Right before we returned to our house, these two ladies sitting on the corner wave us over. We wander over to say hello. Sue-Wee and I offer all we really know, "a salaam alaykum," the traditional Arabic greeting that'll get you around most Muslim parts, whether they speak Arabic or not.
A gabs it up really well with them, and I just take in what they look like, since I don't understand a single word. One woman is about 30 (or younger), with two children hanging off of her. (Sue-Wee is great with kids and is hamming it up with one of the younguns.) She is wearing thick socks, several layers of clothing, and a wool poncho. (And of course her head is covered). I'm all about modesty, but I thought...she has got to be roasting!
The other woman, we learn, is the 1st woman's grandmother. She's not wearing as thick of clothes, but what she lacks in thickness, she made up for in color! I look at her eyes and see that she is wearing blue eyeliner. Her cheekbones are exaggerated and dominate, in a most beautiful kind of way. You can tell that she had the clearest of skin her entire life. I whisper to A, "She's the prettiest old lady I've ever seen." A nods in agreement.
Suddenly, the old woman pulls her shirt by the collar out in front of her so that she can look down it. Sue-Wee and I try not to get too wide-eyed or laugh. With her left hand holding the shirt way out, and her face stuck down in it, she plunges her right hand down into her shirt, feeling all around until she finds what she's searching for. She pulls out a plum and hands it with pride to Sue-Wee. She digs down for another another, searching deeper and deeper into her shirt through the neck hole. Out comes another plum, which she hands to me.
She makes a motion for A to hold on one second, and searches a third time. She can't find it, and so begins using both hands to search for plums that are hidden down her shirt somewhere. Finally, she looks up at us, shrugs her shoulders, and makes the universal hand symbol, of "I'm all out." No plum for A.
I really, really, really wish I'd had a secret video camera. It was hysterical. I have never--in my life--been offered plums out of a woman's chest before.
One of my friends from Paris is down where I was last week for the summer to learn the local language there. It was sort of a fluke thing that we ended up getting to see each other, but made it fun at the same time. On two separate afternoons, when I had time, we went for walks during the time of the day when the local village women are all out and about walking as well. Not only would that be an appropriate time for us to be out walking as women, but it would give my friend a chance to practise language with some local ladies as well. One day, Sue-Wee joined us too.
We walked and walked, I took a lot of pictures. We stopped a few times for A to practise talking. Right before we returned to our house, these two ladies sitting on the corner wave us over. We wander over to say hello. Sue-Wee and I offer all we really know, "a salaam alaykum," the traditional Arabic greeting that'll get you around most Muslim parts, whether they speak Arabic or not.
A gabs it up really well with them, and I just take in what they look like, since I don't understand a single word. One woman is about 30 (or younger), with two children hanging off of her. (Sue-Wee is great with kids and is hamming it up with one of the younguns.) She is wearing thick socks, several layers of clothing, and a wool poncho. (And of course her head is covered). I'm all about modesty, but I thought...she has got to be roasting!
The other woman, we learn, is the 1st woman's grandmother. She's not wearing as thick of clothes, but what she lacks in thickness, she made up for in color! I look at her eyes and see that she is wearing blue eyeliner. Her cheekbones are exaggerated and dominate, in a most beautiful kind of way. You can tell that she had the clearest of skin her entire life. I whisper to A, "She's the prettiest old lady I've ever seen." A nods in agreement.
Suddenly, the old woman pulls her shirt by the collar out in front of her so that she can look down it. Sue-Wee and I try not to get too wide-eyed or laugh. With her left hand holding the shirt way out, and her face stuck down in it, she plunges her right hand down into her shirt, feeling all around until she finds what she's searching for. She pulls out a plum and hands it with pride to Sue-Wee. She digs down for another another, searching deeper and deeper into her shirt through the neck hole. Out comes another plum, which she hands to me.
She makes a motion for A to hold on one second, and searches a third time. She can't find it, and so begins using both hands to search for plums that are hidden down her shirt somewhere. Finally, she looks up at us, shrugs her shoulders, and makes the universal hand symbol, of "I'm all out." No plum for A.
I really, really, really wish I'd had a secret video camera. It was hysterical. I have never--in my life--been offered plums out of a woman's chest before.
The Price is Right
July 27, 2007 (Africa story)
One of the main purposes of this trip for was for me, Sue-Wee, and our other companion, Svia, to learn the local culture and see what life is like in this particular country. Our boss set up several ways for us to do that, and one of them included us going to two different markets, called souq's.
The first one we went to was a local one, when we were still up in the mountians, the rural area. This particular souq is frequented 97% or so by men. The three of us girls were standing outside, wearing pants underneath ankle-length skirts, long sleeved shirts that were long enough to cover our bums, our heads covered, and sun-glasses. We were as covered and as modest as we knew how to be. But it was still obvious that we were women about to enter a man's world.
Out of the three of us, I am the one who loves cultural experiences the most. I figured, if I said that I didn't want to experience it, than surely the other two didn't either. I spoke up and said, "J...if this is a man's market, I really don't feel the need to experience this. I'm okay, really. We all know what markets look like." He insisted. He later told me he was surprised by my reaction. I told him, "I wasn't scared or anything. We had you with us, and it would be way too shaming for any of them to do anything to us. I just felt uncomfortable." Maybe that was part of the lesson.
I wish I could have had those secret sunglasses cameras like in Mission Impossible. Never before had I been somewhere so entirely a man's place. I'm glad we went in...but I prefer Parisian markets, where women are welcome and the norm.
We left that market and packed all 8 of us, and our luggage into a taxi (driver makes 9) to head to the next location. We were finally in the big city. We were going to the biggest souq in the country, of which I had heard many tales from friends. Oh boy, was I excited. It felt like too long since I'd gotten to barter for some good purchases.
We had only two hours to make our way through the gargantuan souq and make all our purchases. We raced through, got lost, spent nearly all our money, and stumbled back out into the hot African sunshine ready for some dinner. Sue-Wee looked at A, and said, "How much did you pay for those?" She groaned when she heard how much she'd overpaid. Svia decided she wanted some of the same thing, and could we go back in for just a little more shopping?
A's 13 year old daughter wanted a t-shirt that matched mine (my new Skype picture), and so I said I would take her to that store and we'd all meet back in the middle. It took no time to buy the t-shirt, so 13yearold and I decide to wander over to another shop.
I'd been wanting a traditional tunic, and this store had one hanging that I really liked. When the shop owner saw me eying it, he says, "Come in, come in." Turns out his "in" is really "up,"...we had to go upstairs. I already feel in over my head. I'd only wanted to look at the tunic.
He shows it too me, and says, "600 dirhams." Now we'd been advised on batering skills. It's all a game. Take the price they offer, and counter-offer 1/3. Don't pay more than half the originally offered price. I looked at the tunic and groaned inside. It was made of beautiful linen, with two separate colors of hand stitching. It was beautiful. I didn't want to insult him with a ridiculous price, but all I honestly had left in my wallet was 130 dirhams. And I knew that tunic was worth more than that.
I try to explain that I cannot afford this beautiful tunic, does he have something for less? I try on one that does not cover my bum. I explain that I want something modest, but that I only have 130 dirhams. He says, "One color only!" Meaning, I can't have a multi-colored shirt. I'm okay with that.
He pulls out a beautiful tunic that comes almost to my knees. It's multi-colored, but he'd pulled it out of his "one color only!" stack. I try it on and it fits great. 13yearold tells me it looks nice, but do I really think he'll give it to me for 13o dirhams? I shrug my shoulders and say it worth a try.
He says to me, "Beautiful shirt. 350 dirhams."
"I'm sorry, but I already told you, I only have 130 dirhams."
"Okay, okay. 250 dirhams. It is a good price. Nice shirt for you. 250 dirhams."
"Monsieur, really. I only have 130 dirhams."
"You tell me your price."
"130 dirhams." To which I empty my wallet to prove that's all I have.
"Okay...180 is the lowest I go. You pay 180 dirhams, you have nice shirt."
I spread out the 130 dirhams so he can see that it is really all I have. I know I went about this all wrong. I shouldn't have gone up the stairs. I shouldn't have tried any shirts on. I shouldn't have explained how much I had from the get-go. I'm much better at bartering than this. AND--I don't know that I even want the shirt all that badly...not enough to be making him so mad.
I pick up my money and say to 13yearold, "Let's just go."
"Wait! Wait! What is your price? You tell me, and you have the shirt."
"130 dirhams." I lay it back down on the counter.
The man picks up the money, grumbles, throws the shirt at me and makes it clear he is not happy with this price. 13yearold turns and runs before he throws more at us than just a shirt. I scurry down the stairs, and we get outside laughing.
We'd been told that batering is all a game. I guess I won that one.
One of the main purposes of this trip for was for me, Sue-Wee, and our other companion, Svia, to learn the local culture and see what life is like in this particular country. Our boss set up several ways for us to do that, and one of them included us going to two different markets, called souq's.
The first one we went to was a local one, when we were still up in the mountians, the rural area. This particular souq is frequented 97% or so by men. The three of us girls were standing outside, wearing pants underneath ankle-length skirts, long sleeved shirts that were long enough to cover our bums, our heads covered, and sun-glasses. We were as covered and as modest as we knew how to be. But it was still obvious that we were women about to enter a man's world.
Out of the three of us, I am the one who loves cultural experiences the most. I figured, if I said that I didn't want to experience it, than surely the other two didn't either. I spoke up and said, "J...if this is a man's market, I really don't feel the need to experience this. I'm okay, really. We all know what markets look like." He insisted. He later told me he was surprised by my reaction. I told him, "I wasn't scared or anything. We had you with us, and it would be way too shaming for any of them to do anything to us. I just felt uncomfortable." Maybe that was part of the lesson.
I wish I could have had those secret sunglasses cameras like in Mission Impossible. Never before had I been somewhere so entirely a man's place. I'm glad we went in...but I prefer Parisian markets, where women are welcome and the norm.
We left that market and packed all 8 of us, and our luggage into a taxi (driver makes 9) to head to the next location. We were finally in the big city. We were going to the biggest souq in the country, of which I had heard many tales from friends. Oh boy, was I excited. It felt like too long since I'd gotten to barter for some good purchases.
We had only two hours to make our way through the gargantuan souq and make all our purchases. We raced through, got lost, spent nearly all our money, and stumbled back out into the hot African sunshine ready for some dinner. Sue-Wee looked at A, and said, "How much did you pay for those?" She groaned when she heard how much she'd overpaid. Svia decided she wanted some of the same thing, and could we go back in for just a little more shopping?
A's 13 year old daughter wanted a t-shirt that matched mine (my new Skype picture), and so I said I would take her to that store and we'd all meet back in the middle. It took no time to buy the t-shirt, so 13yearold and I decide to wander over to another shop.
I'd been wanting a traditional tunic, and this store had one hanging that I really liked. When the shop owner saw me eying it, he says, "Come in, come in." Turns out his "in" is really "up,"...we had to go upstairs. I already feel in over my head. I'd only wanted to look at the tunic.
He shows it too me, and says, "600 dirhams." Now we'd been advised on batering skills. It's all a game. Take the price they offer, and counter-offer 1/3. Don't pay more than half the originally offered price. I looked at the tunic and groaned inside. It was made of beautiful linen, with two separate colors of hand stitching. It was beautiful. I didn't want to insult him with a ridiculous price, but all I honestly had left in my wallet was 130 dirhams. And I knew that tunic was worth more than that.
I try to explain that I cannot afford this beautiful tunic, does he have something for less? I try on one that does not cover my bum. I explain that I want something modest, but that I only have 130 dirhams. He says, "One color only!" Meaning, I can't have a multi-colored shirt. I'm okay with that.
He pulls out a beautiful tunic that comes almost to my knees. It's multi-colored, but he'd pulled it out of his "one color only!" stack. I try it on and it fits great. 13yearold tells me it looks nice, but do I really think he'll give it to me for 13o dirhams? I shrug my shoulders and say it worth a try.
He says to me, "Beautiful shirt. 350 dirhams."
"I'm sorry, but I already told you, I only have 130 dirhams."
"Okay, okay. 250 dirhams. It is a good price. Nice shirt for you. 250 dirhams."
"Monsieur, really. I only have 130 dirhams."
"You tell me your price."
"130 dirhams." To which I empty my wallet to prove that's all I have.
"Okay...180 is the lowest I go. You pay 180 dirhams, you have nice shirt."
I spread out the 130 dirhams so he can see that it is really all I have. I know I went about this all wrong. I shouldn't have gone up the stairs. I shouldn't have tried any shirts on. I shouldn't have explained how much I had from the get-go. I'm much better at bartering than this. AND--I don't know that I even want the shirt all that badly...not enough to be making him so mad.
I pick up my money and say to 13yearold, "Let's just go."
"Wait! Wait! What is your price? You tell me, and you have the shirt."
"130 dirhams." I lay it back down on the counter.
The man picks up the money, grumbles, throws the shirt at me and makes it clear he is not happy with this price. 13yearold turns and runs before he throws more at us than just a shirt. I scurry down the stairs, and we get outside laughing.
We'd been told that batering is all a game. I guess I won that one.
A Kid Named Lula
July 27, 2007 (Africa story)
Our hosts down there had a house helper we'll call Minnie. She was a sweet, sweet girl who we loved to have sit with us. She taught us how to wrap our scarfs, conquered the bat, and cook some good eats. One night, she needed to return up to her home way up the mountain to pick up some things. You know I'm always up for a culture experience, and so we all piled in the back of the off-road vehicle and held on tight as Mr. Jem took us up the mountain. It was about 30 minutes or so of non-paved, curvy roads, and cliffs down below us. Not for the week stomach. I rode in the back, where it's more bumpy! :)
We get to Minnie's house, and her family is so gracious and hospitable. They lay out blankets for us to sit on, bring in all their cushions, and heat up the tea. I lean over to Jem and ask, "I'm not being rude, I'm just curious...how do they pay for the electricity? I don't mean, financially...I mean, I'm a city girl. My electricity bill always comes in the mailbox. I didn't expect to see electricity up here, and surely they don't have a mail box. So how do they pay it?" She laughed and said, "A guy comes around on his donkey every once in awhile, and everyone just pays him a lump sum, which he puts in his pouch and takes back down to someone else, who will drive it off to the city." Amazing.
It was another one of those instances where we didn't have a lick of language, so I watched geckos catch moths on the wall while my friends all talked it up with Minnie's family, and we drank our tea. What I didn't know was that A was explaining her dilemma: her 13yearold daughter wants to have a pet goat for the summer while they are there.
A pet goat might seem a far stretch to all of you city folk, like me. But to a girl who grows up overseas, and dogs tend to be mangy...a request for a pet goat is equivelent to a "Daddy, can I have a puppy puuuuhhhhlease?"
So as we're saying our goodbyes, outside under a MILLION stars because there are no lights to still their glory, Minnie's dad starts getting all animated at A. She laughs and says, "No, thank you, that's okay." (I understood that much.) He insists again, and they go back and forth. He finally disappears and I ask what that was about.
"He's loaning us a goat for 13yearold. That way we don't have to buy one, only to have to try to get rid of it next month when we leave."
"What?! How are we going to get it home?" (Remember, we are a 30 minute drive up the mountain, in a village where only one or two houses have a little electricity...)
"We'll hold it in the jeep, of course."
I jump on it--"CAN I HOLD THE GOAT!???"
Sue-Wee gives me a look like I am IN-sane. A laughs and tells me it will have flees. It might pee on me. All the better. I want to hold the goat. Minnie's dad brings it out, and A points to me. They all show me how to hold it so that he won't (hopefully) pee on me.
We walk through the blackest of night. Each of Minnie's family is holding on to us to guide the way, because they seriously know every rock by heart and can see in the dark what we city folk would trip over in an instant. I'm holding the goat and he begins to "baaa" with all his might. He knows he's being taken away and he is not happy.
We climb into the back of the jeep and the goat begins to freak out--FREAK OUT--and makes it clear he does not want to leave. I laugh with each "baaa" at first. Then half way down the mountian, I become convinced he is going to get carsick and throw up all over me. He keeps turning his head to face me tete-a-tete, and I'm sure he's either going to hurl down my shirt or bite me in the neck.
The goat is three months old and named Lula. I make some bad pun about him being upset about being KID-napped. As we go down the mountain, all I could think was, "I'm in the back of an off-road vehicle, winding down a mountain on unpaved roads in the pitch black of night, in the moutains of Africa, holding a GOAT that is freaking out in my arms." It was surely a moment I will never forget.
We finally made it to A's house, and got the 13yearold out of bed to let her see Lula. Once out of the jeep, Minnie leaned over to Jem and said in the local language, "I don't want to embarrass her, but that girl will want to wash her clothes. It seems the goat poo'd all over her." Yep. The goat poo'd on me.
I love Africa.
Our hosts down there had a house helper we'll call Minnie. She was a sweet, sweet girl who we loved to have sit with us. She taught us how to wrap our scarfs, conquered the bat, and cook some good eats. One night, she needed to return up to her home way up the mountain to pick up some things. You know I'm always up for a culture experience, and so we all piled in the back of the off-road vehicle and held on tight as Mr. Jem took us up the mountain. It was about 30 minutes or so of non-paved, curvy roads, and cliffs down below us. Not for the week stomach. I rode in the back, where it's more bumpy! :)
We get to Minnie's house, and her family is so gracious and hospitable. They lay out blankets for us to sit on, bring in all their cushions, and heat up the tea. I lean over to Jem and ask, "I'm not being rude, I'm just curious...how do they pay for the electricity? I don't mean, financially...I mean, I'm a city girl. My electricity bill always comes in the mailbox. I didn't expect to see electricity up here, and surely they don't have a mail box. So how do they pay it?" She laughed and said, "A guy comes around on his donkey every once in awhile, and everyone just pays him a lump sum, which he puts in his pouch and takes back down to someone else, who will drive it off to the city." Amazing.
It was another one of those instances where we didn't have a lick of language, so I watched geckos catch moths on the wall while my friends all talked it up with Minnie's family, and we drank our tea. What I didn't know was that A was explaining her dilemma: her 13yearold daughter wants to have a pet goat for the summer while they are there.
A pet goat might seem a far stretch to all of you city folk, like me. But to a girl who grows up overseas, and dogs tend to be mangy...a request for a pet goat is equivelent to a "Daddy, can I have a puppy puuuuhhhhlease?"
So as we're saying our goodbyes, outside under a MILLION stars because there are no lights to still their glory, Minnie's dad starts getting all animated at A. She laughs and says, "No, thank you, that's okay." (I understood that much.) He insists again, and they go back and forth. He finally disappears and I ask what that was about.
"He's loaning us a goat for 13yearold. That way we don't have to buy one, only to have to try to get rid of it next month when we leave."
"What?! How are we going to get it home?" (Remember, we are a 30 minute drive up the mountain, in a village where only one or two houses have a little electricity...)
"We'll hold it in the jeep, of course."
I jump on it--"CAN I HOLD THE GOAT!???"
Sue-Wee gives me a look like I am IN-sane. A laughs and tells me it will have flees. It might pee on me. All the better. I want to hold the goat. Minnie's dad brings it out, and A points to me. They all show me how to hold it so that he won't (hopefully) pee on me.
We walk through the blackest of night. Each of Minnie's family is holding on to us to guide the way, because they seriously know every rock by heart and can see in the dark what we city folk would trip over in an instant. I'm holding the goat and he begins to "baaa" with all his might. He knows he's being taken away and he is not happy.
We climb into the back of the jeep and the goat begins to freak out--FREAK OUT--and makes it clear he does not want to leave. I laugh with each "baaa" at first. Then half way down the mountian, I become convinced he is going to get carsick and throw up all over me. He keeps turning his head to face me tete-a-tete, and I'm sure he's either going to hurl down my shirt or bite me in the neck.
The goat is three months old and named Lula. I make some bad pun about him being upset about being KID-napped. As we go down the mountain, all I could think was, "I'm in the back of an off-road vehicle, winding down a mountain on unpaved roads in the pitch black of night, in the moutains of Africa, holding a GOAT that is freaking out in my arms." It was surely a moment I will never forget.
We finally made it to A's house, and got the 13yearold out of bed to let her see Lula. Once out of the jeep, Minnie leaned over to Jem and said in the local language, "I don't want to embarrass her, but that girl will want to wash her clothes. It seems the goat poo'd all over her." Yep. The goat poo'd on me.
I love Africa.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
I LOVE AFRICA!!!
Thursday, July 19.
Just real quick, live from the big ole' continent.
I rode a camel, on the beach. (There's a video...)
I ate a cactus (I liked it, but the seeds are weird).
I got henna (of course)--and put some on myself!
I've been to two different beaches.
I've been in a thunder storm in the mountains.
I love donkeys. They make me laugh.
I learned how to count from one to ten in what I thought was the local language. Got back to the main place and found out that I'd learned one to five in the local language and six to ten in Arabic. That's how they count wherever I was.
Yes, I've been covering my head, and no--it doesn't bother me at all.
It's warm, but still not as hot as it was in Paris on Bastille day. And still nothing like the desert country that I lived in once upon a time. Very bareable here.
The food is YUMMY. I might become fat.
There's a big, big, big rat in our house. Haven't seen him...just heard there are signs of him, which I don't even want to see.
I love it here and want to put in a transfer request. Think they'll let me? Probably not. Forget Paris.
Just real quick, live from the big ole' continent.
I rode a camel, on the beach. (There's a video...)
I ate a cactus (I liked it, but the seeds are weird).
I got henna (of course)--and put some on myself!
I've been to two different beaches.
I've been in a thunder storm in the mountains.
I love donkeys. They make me laugh.
I learned how to count from one to ten in what I thought was the local language. Got back to the main place and found out that I'd learned one to five in the local language and six to ten in Arabic. That's how they count wherever I was.
Yes, I've been covering my head, and no--it doesn't bother me at all.
It's warm, but still not as hot as it was in Paris on Bastille day. And still nothing like the desert country that I lived in once upon a time. Very bareable here.
The food is YUMMY. I might become fat.
There's a big, big, big rat in our house. Haven't seen him...just heard there are signs of him, which I don't even want to see.
I love it here and want to put in a transfer request. Think they'll let me? Probably not. Forget Paris.
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