from an official volunteer, at last

As some of you may have known, I was not officially a Peace Corps Volunteer until about 9:30 am, Oct. 23. Before that I was just a trainee. Apparently PC figures it doesn't punish you enough through the application process so you also have to endure a training which lasts too long in which all of you independence is taken away before they thrust you out on your own. No, no really, I'm not bitter. Actually I finally figured out why the people I've talked to who are returned PCVs (Conveniently known as RCPVs) have all said that PC is great if you can stay away from the administration. They are nice, nice people, but do have to keep track of about 140 of us, which makes them overly paranoid and parental. Ah well, I am now a real volunteer and get to start actually living in Morocco.

The swear-in ceremony is treated as quite a big deal by the administration, which seems unfair because after you complete your two year service, no one does anything for you. But, the ambassador was there and she administered the oath that everyone entering government service is required to take. We did lose 2 more people who decided not to swear-in, so we're down to 68. It's so funny (to me) that before I came I had thought there would be a feeling that those who don't complete service have somehow failed, but in fact going through it, I think many of us highly respect those who choose to go home. It's really difficult (living here, PC service, training...) so people who are "in touch" with themselves enough to make the decisions to leave are quite respected. Aack, I'm expressing myself badly, but there you go.

So, let's talk about toilets. There are none. That, of course, isn't true, but western style toilets are definitely a luxury to be enjoyed when encountered. Most of the toilets here are squats (such a picturesque name). I still find them very difficult because having the distinction of being moderately tall in Morocco, the [raised] feet in the squats [porcelain plate] aren't in the right position; they're too close together. For anyone who thinks this isn't a serious issue, try squatting with your feet about 6 inches apart and then try at shoulders width--trust me, it matters. Toilet paper is also not used here, instead water is used to wash, contributing to the belief that the left hand is unclean and therefore not used for anything else [especially eating]. Many bathrooms have a tap about a foot off the ground and a bucket under it for the purposes of both 'washing' and flushing, which you do by pouring a bucket of water into the opening. Most latrines [pipes] here are of the s-ban variety, which would make more sense if I could draw if for you; sorry. At any rate, the tap in the bathroom is obviously a problem in the bled where people don't have running water. Then, less water is used for both washing and flushing because it has to be carried from somewhere. I would really like to have running water.

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scrubbed and burned: adventures in cultural sensitivity

Really the subject line of this email is probably the most interesting part. It's funny how quickly your life becomes routine, and seemingly boring, which is really just a way of saying that I don't have much to tell this time around.

So, everyone should at some point have a hammam experience. A hammam is the equivalent of a Turkish bath; it's basically a steam room (like a sauna, I assume) where people go to get clean. The hammam is seperated by sex, because of course the possiblity for hshooma (shame) in a Muslim society is great and the female form is just too tempting for men (hence the veil). The hammam is linked to religious beliefs of cleanliness, and people who go to the hammam (its more important in the bled where water and private bathrooms are much more scarce) go once a week. I haven't actually been to a hammam, so I don't know what the steam room is like, but I have had the scrub.

The scrubbing is really important because it is how people get really clean. Everyone, or every family, has this cloth thing, that fits over the hand (sort of like a sock) and feels like an S.O.S. pad: it hurts. My host mom stripped me down to my underwear (which you leave on), poured hot water over my head (heated in a kettle over the stove) and then scrubbed away. I found it somewhat embarrassing and amusing. I was embarassed because I'm such a prude at home, anyway, but I also found it ironic because any bare female skin in Islam is such a shameful thing, but not between women. In the home, actually, women wear what I think of as nightgowns, but frequently have the hems tucked up at the waist into a belt so they can move more easily. In the home, really, anything goes. Which brings up another point. The word harem, actually means forbidden, and was the name given to the interior of the house, presumably because it was the space forbidden to men who were not related to the family. I felt the epitome of the Western stereotype of a harem occupant on Sunday when I got henna done.

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