December 2005
Medical Adventures
After the first year of service, all volunteers have a midterm medical where they have to be checked out by the doctor. Mine was in the beginning of December and lasted about three days. The hard thing about the stage was not the actual medical part itself, but rather getting up to Rabat. I traveled with a couple of my friends but even though we were in a group, we still faced many problems with harassment and annoying people. But, we arrived safe and sound and where able to do a little Christmas shopping on the way.
The three days in Rabat where full of adventures, from trying to find all of the labs, to going to fun restaurants, to being culturally inappropriate with friends, and to hearing about everyone’s new experiences and challenges. But a particular adventure took place during my physical exam with the doctor.
The doctor on staff is the nicest man but it is hard to keep a straight face around him because his accent is just hilarious. He says things like, “Youa must bol z milk.” Meaning, you should boil your milk…it takes a while to translate.
When we all met together before our each own individual exams, he told us that we would each be seeing a dentist and that we would have to get x-rays of our teeth. He explained that we would be getting the “big” x-rays because “bigger is better.” He also told us that we all had to give a stool sample and that we had to deliver it to a lab no later than half an hour after it was given. For some it was harder than others.
During my exam, he diagnosed that I had “z allergies becaz you have z sand in the lungs.” I could only laugh…of course! That’s why I had been coughing non-stop for months on end, even after my bronchitis. I was lucky in that I was expecting to have at least 3 parasites but I didn’t have any…they must have already passed.
‘Baggage’ Check
At 7 o’clock in the morning on December 15th, my bags were packed and I left for the train station. I was so glad that two of my friends were also going to be on my flight. One of them was going home for a visit and a wedding, and the other was returning home for good because her daughter was diagnosed with cancer. It was very sad because she was a great volunteer with a big heart.
I didn’t have a lot of bags but for one person, it was hard to manage it all. Of course, I got some help from strangers pulling it up the stairs for me and loading it onto the train. You have to take two trains in order to arrive at the Caza airport. It was hard switching and it would have been impossible if I were by myself.
I checked in with the airline and had to go through the “oh my gosh you speak Arabic game” with everyone I met. That included the gendarmes who checked my bag. This game kind of goes like this:
Standing in the airport is an American girl, you can tell by her clothes and her expressions, and of course her nice baggage.
But then, she speaks Arabic, “Who could this girl be?” Whispered the gendarmes as their eyes checked her up and down. Pulling her out of the crowd, they decided they would check her instead of any other passenger traveling on board. They asked her to bring her bag up to the counter and proceeded to ask her some questions.
“How do you speak Arabic?”
“I live here.”
“Where?”
“In Morocco, same as you.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Do you want to get married?”
“No thank you.”
Since the girl would not give any of her information out, one of the gendarmes decided to ask her for her carte de sejour (national identification card) to see where she lived. She handed it to him and after he looked to see that she lived in the Sahara, he pretended to check her bags.
“Why aren’t you married?”
At this point the girl became upset. She was trying to act politely but had had enough. “Look, even though I would love to continue this conversation, frankly it’s non of your business. So, will you just check my bags and let me go?” she said to them. They just kind of stared and gave her the signal that she could leave.
But for the remainder of the line, they kept calling out her name and asking, “Can you cook couscous? Are you going to come back to Caza? When are you coming back?”
She could only ignore them.
This little game continued with the man at the passport check, the man at the café where I bought a soda before getting on-board, and all of the male passengers who heard me speak Arabic on the plane. It gets really old.
Berber in Country
When I arrived at JFK, the first thing I saw was a line. A LINE! (note, they don’t stand in a straight line in morocco. ) I hadn’t seen one of those in a long time. I stood in the line, feeling so proud to be part of one and looking forward to all of the lines I would be in during my visit home. I wanted to kiss the ground.
The only thing that ruined my perfect line was the man standing behind me, the same Moroccan man who had not stopped staring at me ever since he overheard my conversation with a Moroccan woman. This was typical behavior in Morocco but we weren’t there anymore, and yet, this man was still trying to hit on me…in my own country! How do you escape it? Right when I about turned around to say, “Listen. I guess that kind of behavior is ok in Morocco, but we’re on my land now so I would appreciate it if you would stop talking to me”…I had come to the front of the line and said goodbye to the last Moroccan man I would see in a long time.
My bags made it and that made me so happy. In the last 15 minutes, I had not only stood in a line, but I all of my bags had arrived and I could tell that other good things were on the way. All I needed was a Starbucks and I was home.
When I left the baggage claim, I all of a sudden became anonymous. I was just like everybody else and it felt so good. At least, I thought I was anonymous until a little old Berber woman wearing a scarf over her head and a jllaba reached out to me and asked me for help. She must have remembered me from the plane because she only spoke to me in Arabic. She was looking for her son and didn’t know what to do. I translated her story for her to someone at the airlines and they located him for her. The person at the airlines was like, you speak what?
I left the terminal and felt so free. I navigated myself through the JFK terminals and onto the shuttle with such grace. The only thing that scared me was that I realized that I could understand every conversation everyone was having, behind me, in front of me, across the room…it didn’t matter! What a concept to have everyone speaking and communicating in the same language! It took a little while to get used to.
My moments of release and grace drew to a quick stop when I came to the Jetblue terminal. Everything was electronic and it seemed as though everything ran so smoothly without anyone pushing one another or any gendarmes getting in the way…What was this place and could I ever fit in? The only thing that gave me courage was the line.
I made my way slowly to the gate, looking at everything and taking pleasure in eavesdropping on others’ conversations. I felt like I had no idea where I was nor what I was looking at. My language skills were not that good either, any English sentence took a while to put together.
My head was gazing at everything and all of the beautiful people. Had I stepped into an ultra universe? It was as though I was a deer in the headlights and didn’t know what to do. My eyes became huge when I came to a magazine stand. I took out a 20 dollar bill that I had saved for 15 months and felt honored to use it all, buying three beauty magazines, a sandwich, and a café.
I decided I would just sit and read my beloved magazines until my flight was ready. Thinking that there would be no more surprises, I was wrong. I looked around and everyone was holding their laptops on their laps…and I was guessing…was online! When did this happen? There’s wireless…in the…airport? I just sat frozen until my flight came.
On board, I made the mistake of telling my row partners that I was a PC volunteer in Morocco. So for the next six hours of my flight, I answered questions about my life in Northern Africa…and almost jumped out of the plane when the stewardess announced that they would be selling food. WHAT? Why would the airline make you buy food? Again…the question of the day was, “When did this happen?”
After the first year of service, all volunteers have a midterm medical where they have to be checked out by the doctor. Mine was in the beginning of December and lasted about three days. The hard thing about the stage was not the actual medical part itself, but rather getting up to Rabat. I traveled with a couple of my friends but even though we were in a group, we still faced many problems with harassment and annoying people. But, we arrived safe and sound and where able to do a little Christmas shopping on the way.
The three days in Rabat where full of adventures, from trying to find all of the labs, to going to fun restaurants, to being culturally inappropriate with friends, and to hearing about everyone’s new experiences and challenges. But a particular adventure took place during my physical exam with the doctor.
The doctor on staff is the nicest man but it is hard to keep a straight face around him because his accent is just hilarious. He says things like, “Youa must bol z milk.” Meaning, you should boil your milk…it takes a while to translate.
When we all met together before our each own individual exams, he told us that we would each be seeing a dentist and that we would have to get x-rays of our teeth. He explained that we would be getting the “big” x-rays because “bigger is better.” He also told us that we all had to give a stool sample and that we had to deliver it to a lab no later than half an hour after it was given. For some it was harder than others.
During my exam, he diagnosed that I had “z allergies becaz you have z sand in the lungs.” I could only laugh…of course! That’s why I had been coughing non-stop for months on end, even after my bronchitis. I was lucky in that I was expecting to have at least 3 parasites but I didn’t have any…they must have already passed.
‘Baggage’ Check
At 7 o’clock in the morning on December 15th, my bags were packed and I left for the train station. I was so glad that two of my friends were also going to be on my flight. One of them was going home for a visit and a wedding, and the other was returning home for good because her daughter was diagnosed with cancer. It was very sad because she was a great volunteer with a big heart.
I didn’t have a lot of bags but for one person, it was hard to manage it all. Of course, I got some help from strangers pulling it up the stairs for me and loading it onto the train. You have to take two trains in order to arrive at the Caza airport. It was hard switching and it would have been impossible if I were by myself.
I checked in with the airline and had to go through the “oh my gosh you speak Arabic game” with everyone I met. That included the gendarmes who checked my bag. This game kind of goes like this:
Standing in the airport is an American girl, you can tell by her clothes and her expressions, and of course her nice baggage.
But then, she speaks Arabic, “Who could this girl be?” Whispered the gendarmes as their eyes checked her up and down. Pulling her out of the crowd, they decided they would check her instead of any other passenger traveling on board. They asked her to bring her bag up to the counter and proceeded to ask her some questions.
“How do you speak Arabic?”
“I live here.”
“Where?”
“In Morocco, same as you.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Do you want to get married?”
“No thank you.”
Since the girl would not give any of her information out, one of the gendarmes decided to ask her for her carte de sejour (national identification card) to see where she lived. She handed it to him and after he looked to see that she lived in the Sahara, he pretended to check her bags.
“Why aren’t you married?”
At this point the girl became upset. She was trying to act politely but had had enough. “Look, even though I would love to continue this conversation, frankly it’s non of your business. So, will you just check my bags and let me go?” she said to them. They just kind of stared and gave her the signal that she could leave.
But for the remainder of the line, they kept calling out her name and asking, “Can you cook couscous? Are you going to come back to Caza? When are you coming back?”
She could only ignore them.
This little game continued with the man at the passport check, the man at the café where I bought a soda before getting on-board, and all of the male passengers who heard me speak Arabic on the plane. It gets really old.
Berber in Country
When I arrived at JFK, the first thing I saw was a line. A LINE! (note, they don’t stand in a straight line in morocco. ) I hadn’t seen one of those in a long time. I stood in the line, feeling so proud to be part of one and looking forward to all of the lines I would be in during my visit home. I wanted to kiss the ground.
The only thing that ruined my perfect line was the man standing behind me, the same Moroccan man who had not stopped staring at me ever since he overheard my conversation with a Moroccan woman. This was typical behavior in Morocco but we weren’t there anymore, and yet, this man was still trying to hit on me…in my own country! How do you escape it? Right when I about turned around to say, “Listen. I guess that kind of behavior is ok in Morocco, but we’re on my land now so I would appreciate it if you would stop talking to me”…I had come to the front of the line and said goodbye to the last Moroccan man I would see in a long time.
My bags made it and that made me so happy. In the last 15 minutes, I had not only stood in a line, but I all of my bags had arrived and I could tell that other good things were on the way. All I needed was a Starbucks and I was home.
When I left the baggage claim, I all of a sudden became anonymous. I was just like everybody else and it felt so good. At least, I thought I was anonymous until a little old Berber woman wearing a scarf over her head and a jllaba reached out to me and asked me for help. She must have remembered me from the plane because she only spoke to me in Arabic. She was looking for her son and didn’t know what to do. I translated her story for her to someone at the airlines and they located him for her. The person at the airlines was like, you speak what?
I left the terminal and felt so free. I navigated myself through the JFK terminals and onto the shuttle with such grace. The only thing that scared me was that I realized that I could understand every conversation everyone was having, behind me, in front of me, across the room…it didn’t matter! What a concept to have everyone speaking and communicating in the same language! It took a little while to get used to.
My moments of release and grace drew to a quick stop when I came to the Jetblue terminal. Everything was electronic and it seemed as though everything ran so smoothly without anyone pushing one another or any gendarmes getting in the way…What was this place and could I ever fit in? The only thing that gave me courage was the line.
I made my way slowly to the gate, looking at everything and taking pleasure in eavesdropping on others’ conversations. I felt like I had no idea where I was nor what I was looking at. My language skills were not that good either, any English sentence took a while to put together.
My head was gazing at everything and all of the beautiful people. Had I stepped into an ultra universe? It was as though I was a deer in the headlights and didn’t know what to do. My eyes became huge when I came to a magazine stand. I took out a 20 dollar bill that I had saved for 15 months and felt honored to use it all, buying three beauty magazines, a sandwich, and a café.
I decided I would just sit and read my beloved magazines until my flight was ready. Thinking that there would be no more surprises, I was wrong. I looked around and everyone was holding their laptops on their laps…and I was guessing…was online! When did this happen? There’s wireless…in the…airport? I just sat frozen until my flight came.
On board, I made the mistake of telling my row partners that I was a PC volunteer in Morocco. So for the next six hours of my flight, I answered questions about my life in Northern Africa…and almost jumped out of the plane when the stewardess announced that they would be selling food. WHAT? Why would the airline make you buy food? Again…the question of the day was, “When did this happen?”
posted by AEW @ 2:09 PM
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