Please...just shower!

To many, travel is a tool for self-discovery, finding your purpose in this world, getting to know yourself after a crushing relationship, figuring out what the hell to do with your life after your “five year plan” has come to an end. And it seems I’m no different. However, rather than discovering my true calling or my soul mate, I’m discovering more and more about hygienic habits with each passing country. My first lesson was in Morocco (please refer to “Shower With Your Pans On,” DATE). In Thailand, however, my bathing self-awareness was a bit more poignant and pungent.

I have been attending this yoga class quite regularly for the past couple of months and take a certain amount o pride in the fact that I am the only “farang” (white foreigner) in a class of about 20 Thai women. I think this sense of pride comes from the fact that many expats like to think they’ve crossed cultural barriers, broken down their foreignness into something that appears “local”…especially to the locals themselves, but that’s for another entry. Actually, I really enjoy the class. Not only for it’s physical benefits, but thus far it is the only Thai I know with any amount of certainty. I can now confidently say “in and out” and “other side” and “breathe” in almost perfect Thai! But these minor feats are nothing compared to how this class has helped me along my way down a path of self-discovery.

So one day, I go to class and the only lady who has pretty good English hurriedly approaches me and requests that I meet her in the bathroom. I politely oblige to this simple request, but then got a sudden sense of urgency as I passed the yoga instructor excitedly waving me in to the bathroom. What could all this excitement be about? Did someone need a tampon or an extra pair of hands to assist them in pulling on their skin-tight spandex? Or maybe they just wanted to compliment me on my insane flexibility and shear strength. Okay, it was probably the tampon, but I soon discovered that I was wrong on all accounts. So once I was successfully ushered into the restroom alone with Dao (the English speaker) everything became quite clear…

Dao: So….(nervous laugh)…..sometimes before we do yoga….we like to shower.

Me: (perplexed)

Dao: (Nervous laugh continued and actually kept going for the entirety of this conversation. So, I’ll spare you the repetition and let you insert it at your leisure for the remainder of this dialogue) Well, I mean….it’s just nice to be clean before yoga.

Me: (Light bulb flickers) Oh! Oh my god….do I smell?

Dao: Well, there have been some complaints…

Me: (Now, I’m the one nervously laughing) Oh my god, I am so so sorry….I….of course I’ll shower….but I don’t have a towel.

Dao: Oh….no problem. We have everything ready (as she motions to a chair with a neatly folded bath towel, topped with shampoo, soap, deodorant, and baby powder—the Thais love their powder).

Me: Oh. Well, it looks like you’ve really thought this through.

Dao: Well, we have been discussing it for a couple of weeks now and I just decided, ya know what, I’m gonna do this today.

Me: Uh…thank you…I really appreciate it.

So, I showered and believe you me…I showered like I’ve never showered before. The brilo pads from the hammam had nothin’ on the ferocity with which I was scrubbing my epidermis. After my full body sanitation, I went to the changing room and began putting my yoga clothes back on. Well, Dao had other plans. She presented me with a “gift” from the entire class consisting of a little pink and black sports bra and spandex to match. Now let me remind you, that I would normally not be caught dead in such a fashionable workout ensemble, but I had been enjoying this yoga class so much that I relinquished all wardrobe boundaries and slipped into the color coordinated clothing.

Once I finished powdering every crevice of my body, applying my new stick of deodorant, and dressing up for yoga, it was time to get to class and exercise. Now mind you, class usually begins promptly at 6PM, however all 20 women or so had been ever so kind to wait for me to finish my bathing bonanza to begin. So at 6:15, I entered a room full of patiently waiting Thai ladies seated in lotus position, and I got the sudden feeling of being on one of those makeover stories on the Lifetime channel, making my grand entrance. This feeling was only accentuated when my fellow yogis turned to evaluate the fruit of their labors and greeted me with broad smiles and about 40 thumbs up. Their work was a success! The smelly, foreign, hippie had been transformed into a jasmine smelling, powdered-faced, dress to impress bathing butterfly. All I needed to do was….just shower.

Burma Byte #2

So I'm sitting in Burmese class, in which I am the only student, learning about my fruits and vegetables, so I can go to the market and ask for an orange, rather than hold my hands up as if I'm holding something small and spherical, and then proceed to get frustrated with the vendor because, for some reason, they can't discern that this means "orange" and not apple, or potato, or small desert mole. So, I find this lesson very valuable, but I was never prepared for the insight it would give me into the world view of Jews.

My teacher is writing each vegetable in English, and the phonetic translation of that word in Burmese. He goes down the list...spinach, carrot, tomato, cabbage, cucumber, Jew's ear, lett--Wait! What? Jew's ear? What the hell is that and why would I ever want to add it to my stir fry? My teacher goes on to enlighten me that this is what the Burmese call mushrooms...you know...because they look like a Jew's ear. I'm wondering if this guy has ever met a Jew and if so, feeling sorry for the poor chap who had a fungus like that of a mushroom sprouting from his ear. So, Burmese class ends and I a little more confident with my grocery shopping a little bit more perplexed by what it is the Burmese could possibly have against the Jews.

Burma Byte #1

My students are obsessed with a computer game to practice their typing skills; however, I think it's the fact that you kill zombies by making their heads explode the faster you type a word that really draws their attention. Anyway, I was talking with a few students in the computer room one day and they told me a bit about their computer class in university in Burma. Apparently, there were 3oo students in one class with one computer. Yes...one computer. So, the students would file behind the sole computer in a line that wrapped around the room, out the door, and into a surrounding field. The teacher would stand next to the computer, monitoring, as each student passed the computer, sticking out their forefinger, and pressing one key. The students would file through the line, typing one letter each, until class was finished. I asked my students if the teacher would tell you a specific letter to type and you had to find it on the keyboard. They said no...you just typed any letter you wanted. The reality of this story became evident as we looked around the room at the other students playing the zombie slaughtering typing game...everyone with one forefinger, erect and strong, frantically trying to type the words flying towards them on the screen.

Culture Shock Therapy

This transition from Morocco to Thailand has been smooth for the most part with an occasional rough tuk tuk ride. But mostly it has been therapeutic. Let’s just say, leaving Morocco has been akin to a bad break-up. And with any bad break-up comes the over sized, over weight, break-up baggage. It wasn’t always easy to see the baggage I was accruing during my two year stint in Ifrane, but after a couple of months in Thailand, it seems I have found the baggage claim and spinning around on the conveyer belt are some slightly damaged goods. I tend to travel light, but for this move from Africa to Asia, I toted one professional briefcase, a social duffle bag, and a personal carry-on. For starters, let’s finger in the combination on that professional briefcase and unpack.

I learned quickly, albeit slightly painfully, that at Al Akhawayn University in Morocco, hierarchy dictates everything. There’s the expected stratification of administration, faculty, and staff and the anticipated, but not so easy to accept prestige of the “old boys club” and the astonished faces as if a woman giving her professional opinion was similar to watching a dog speak. I can’t count the number of times I heard the joking remark “she just needs to get married” while discussing a female student having difficulties in class, and witnessed a bright female colleague of mine get hammered with inane questions as she presented her own research. And while fortunately not all of these hierarchical haps were gender-based, unfortunately I saw foreign colleagues of mine bow their heads, seal their lips, and look away when I was looking for support on a grievance we all shared. And now what does this all amount to in my new working environment? A sometimes overbearing presence when giving my opinion in a meeting (where shockingly everyone’s opinion is not only heard but valued), and an unnecessary dose of questioning and skepticism in an organization that has proven many times to be quite flat and transparent. So, I continue to shuffle through the professional paperwork I lugged with me from Morocco, but am grateful to have received the memo that reminds me of the happier and healthier work environment I now find myself in.

Now, we can unzip that social duffle bag. It wasn’t uncommon to wander through the medina of Fez or Marrakech in search for a traditional woven rug to bring home to mom or the leather slippers Rainbow Bright might have donned had she been Moroccan, and get charged ten or even twenty times the amount a local would pay. This we expected and personally, I often accepted if I was willing to pay that price. This blatant form of trickery (as some tourists would say) or economy (as Moroccans would put it) was so common that I often found myself bartering over a kilo of cherries until I had “successfully” talked the guy down a whopping 80 cents. But that’s just the way things were and well, after two years, I had it deeply ingrained in my head that everyone was out to rip me off. So, of course, by transitive logic, the market men and women of Thailand were out to get me for every last Baht. But I wouldn’t let those smiling faces pull one over on me. Nooo sireee! They had no idea that I had just come from the land of bartering boot camp and knew all the tricks. So, it all started and pretty much ended when I was biking about in search of bananas.

Bananas in Thailand are as common as stray dogs with mange. So as I biked past a dozens of stands, I was looking for the perfectly ripened ones (for me, that means just starting to brown). I pulled over to a small stand manned by a little old Thai lady and asked her in flawless Thai, “These, how much?” She replied, “Ten Baht.” Then, true to my Moroccan training, I gave her a gasp clearly indicating that I know those bananas are 8 Baht and that she’s trying to squeeze a whole 2 Baht (6 cents) outta me, but that I aint no lemon and won’t just pass over the extra cash cause I’m foreign. Then (as also learned in training), I turned on my heal and “showed her” by walking away and going to the next shop. Same thing happened there and eventually I went home with no bananas, only later to be informed by a friend that green bananas are 8 Baht and ripe bananas are 10 Baht. It seems the Thai don’t have quite the same “business sense” as Moroccans. Good for me, but maybe bad for business.

Finally, let’s see what the x-ray detected in my personal carry-on. So, one day I’m leaving the office on my bike when I hear a motor bike slowly approaching form behind. Now, I know some have compared me to Lance Armstrong on the bicycle, but it’s just fact that motorbikes can go faster and pass me. However, this guy was just lingering until he pulled up beside me and dished out my favorite pick up line, “Hello, how are you?” and this is how the conversation ensued…(please not that my personal thoughts are italicized)

Me: Yeah, I know where this is going “Fine.” (rolling my eyes)

Him: “Where you go?”

Me: Uh huh. Just as I suspected. Burmese men are just like Moroccans. Next he’ll be asking where I live. “Home.” (said curtly)

Him: “Where you live?”

Me: Yup…case in point. So, now I’m supposed to offer you a fun night with me in my home. Is that how you see this playing out? “I’m not telling you.” (while giving a mean laugh)

Him: “Oh…sorry. You work for World Education, right?”

Me: Now, this is a new turn??? How does he know this?

Him: I did Wide Horizons Program two year ago.

Me: Oh crap…the program I teach! He’s just like one of my students.

Him: “I just wondering how your classes is going this year.”

Me: Oh my god, I’ve turned into one of those women who thinks that every time a man says hello, it means he just wants to get her in bed. And here he’s just trying to be nice and welcoming and I’ve acted like such a b---- and perpetuated that stereotype of the “cold American woman” and… “What’s your name?” (said as sweetly as I possibly can at this point while sounding sincere)

Him: “George.”

Me: “Nice to meet you George.”

So, morale of the story…I need to abandon the personal defenses I have put up in the battle field of horny Moroccan men looking for visas, and just answer the man politely, “I’m fine…really, I’m going to be just fine.”

There's an elephant in the room and no one wants to talk about it.

I visited a refugee camp today. It was my first. Not sure if this is mathematically possible, but the learning curve since I have come to the border has been so vertical I feel like I’m hanging from the ceiling by my nails. Processing what I hear, what I see, what I read is almost too much right now. And on top of that, do I learn Thai? Burmese? Karen? I can’t even order noodle soup in any of them, but right now that’s sort of the last thing on my mind.

Mae La refugee camp has about 55,000 Burmese refugees primarily from the Karen hill tribe, and is growing everyday. It is one of the fastest growing refugee camps on the border because of its easy access from “inside” (Burma) and the limited control the Thai and rebel armies have over the flow of people in and out of the camp. All the people coming to these camps are from many ethnic tribes in Burma: Shan, Karenni, Mon, Chin, to name a few, but they all seek refuge from the oppressive militaristic government of Burma, weather it be in the form of safety in the camp, illegally migrating into Mae Sot in Thailand, or the possibility of resettlement in a third country (the US, Norway, Ireland, etc). You can read about this situation much more extensively and accurately in books and possibly the news, but what you may not read about is what surprised me most.

Our purpose in visiting the camp today was to look at a new model of education being implemented in the Mae La camp and four other surrounding camps. Before arriving to the camp, I got a brief summary of the dynamic border situation from my boss and its ever-changing role in the lives of the people of Burma and in Thai politics. I heard about the various rebel armies from each ethnic tribe and their role in smuggling drugs across the border and human trafficking, the symbiotic relationship between the Thai and rebel armies, the illegal Burmese migrant workers living in Mae Sot, and the NGOs that have rooted them selves there in response and all their contributions to Thai economy. Corruption and fear run rampantly through all these facets of border reality, and is evident on a daily basis. But we don’t talk about these things. We can’t because these relationships are so delicate and interdependent that the shift of one has a butterfly effect on all the others. But this is not what’s surprising. As I listen to my boss give me the brief, watered-down version of the situation here, I have this picture in my head of the school as a small bamboo hut, possibly with a tin roof if they're lucky, and a large group of children from every age, with a range of prior education, and various tribes and language backgrounds learning from the one teacher in the camp who may speak one of these tribal languages (most likely Karen) and possibly a little Burmese. The picture in my mind was well… rather depressing. But upon arrival, and after a muddy hike up to the school, I met the director of the high school and the hopeless situation pictured in my head dissolved. She was a young Karen woman, fluent in English, Burmese and Karen (true of all the teachers in the camps), and took the time out of her unbelievably busy work to explain to me the new model of education they had created for the five camps. She had been educated in India and was replicating a credit-based system of high school education used there, here in the camps. The first two years of school, students would receive general education in various courses: math, science, social sciences, history, Karen, and English. Once completed, they would specialize in one of five areas (i.e. community management, business, political science), each specialty located at one of the five camps. The educators within the camps and Mae Sot had created an Institute of Higher Education to oversee the program, train teachers, and develop a curriculum that would have merit once the students and their families returned to Burma. She was extremely hopeful of this, and the aforementioned “elephant” of corruption and conflict did not seem to deter her. In fact, one issue the camp faces is Thai locals from nearby villages, entering the camps just to be educated. It was known that the education in the camps was superior to most education received in rural Thailand, and legal Thai residents were trying to get in to the camps to have a piece of this rare learning opportunity.

My preconceptions about camp life were rather droll and dreary. And this is not to say that everything is mangoes and mathematics, but really good things are happening and they’re not coming from the UN, or even entirely from NGOs….they’re coming from within. But if the metaphorical elephant has not been clearly communicated, let me end with the literal interpretation. As some colleagues from the organization and myself were feasting on cashew chicken, cat fish salad, and coconut soup at a small restaurant in the local night market, I stopped mid-slurp to stare at the gigantic elephant passing two meters from our table. But I was obviously the “newbie” in the group because no one else wanted to talk about it.

Pop Quiz Hotshot!

It's been almost two years since I moved to Morocco, and as my biological restlessness clock would have it, it is time to move on. Next stop--Mae Sot, Thailand. While I look forward to challenging work, a warm climate, and pomegranate iced-tea, I look back on the things I've learned during my time in Ifrane. Some things were expected, others, not so much. So, just what have I learned? Well, let's see if you can guess. True or false...and don't look at the answer key below.

1. How to make sushi
2. How to belly dance
3. That I'm happiest in water
4. How to milk a camel
5. Yoga
6. That I wouldn't mind being someone's second or third wife
7. That there are just some things about foreign cultures I refuse to tolerate . . . and I'm okay with that
8. That I'm okay living in a country that prohibits drinking beer outside
9. How to be incredibly accurate with a sling shot
10. Where to find brown sugar in Europe
11. My family is more liberal than they care to admit
12. Enough Darija to make me proud and enough French to make me ashamed
13. To master medium difficulty of Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Road" on Guitar Hero
14. To salsa dance better than I ever could in Latin America

If you answered false to 2,4,6,8 and 10...then buy yourself a beer and give yourself a pat on the back. If you got some wrong...then well, I guess you overlooked Morocco's diverse culture of latin dancing and Japanese cuisine. Better luck next time in the Thailand test...you got two years to prepare.

It's my party and I'll . . .

...eat a live cow if I want to. Some like cake, others prefer live livestock, and no, there is no redundancy in that phrase. Yesterday was the the celebration of the Prophet Mohamed's birthday, known as Eid-al-Mawlid. And other than being a day off work, it's a rather important time for families to get together, eat special food, sing, dance, pray . . . and eat a living cow. Now, I wouldn't want you to get the wrong impression. This practice is not characteristic of Islam as practiced by most Moroccans, but rather a Sufi tradition that is honored in celebration of the Prophet's birthday. So each year (this year it fell on March 9th) Sufis gather in a particular city here in Morocco, Meknes, which lies particularly close to where I live, Ifrane, and therefor gave me a particularly good reason to travel to Meknes and check out the festivities. Now, I have to admit that my interests were beyond pure cultural intrigue. No, I was ready to see some action, blood, and all the calamity this celebration is notorious for. In fact, what sparked my interest, was the experience of a colleague of mine the previous year. Here's how his story goes:

• French colleague goes to Meknes with his Moroccan wife.
• Couple takes all cultural precautions by not wearing black, red, or green, the forbidden colors on this particular day.
• Couple goes to Sufi procession to witness their wild dance, self-torture, and of course, rhythmic drumming.
• Tranced, whirling Sufis mistake French colleague's navy blue jacket for black and pounce on him.
• About half a dozen Sufis tear off his clothes, exposing his chest, biting and scratching, eating his black wallet, and ripping the hair off his frantic wife's scull. Maybe they mistook him for the cow.
• Moroccan bystanders break up the fight while the police watch.
• Couple leaves Meknes immediately.
• French colleague shows war wounds to me at work on Monday.

So, you can see why I was interested. But in all fairness, and for PC disclaimer purposes, this experience cannot be applied to all sects of Sufism.

Anyway, so my friend and I went to this same celebration, witnessed the same trancing, dancing, and drumming, but to our dismay, no livestock feasting. What we did see, however, were groups of 30-40 Sufis, whirling around each other in a circle, when suddenly a fight breaks out between two women. One woman actually rips out a clump of hair and throws it into the riled crowd. Then, as if on cue, the entire group stops their drumming, halts their dancing, and makes a sprinting dash towards the mosque entrance. Even men older than my grandmother were running like gazelles towards the arched doors. Later on, we discovered the reason for this hurried procession. They were simply hungry. The live cow that was to be eaten was inside the mosque, and if anyone can empathize with the severity of hunger pangs, it's me. So, next time you're planning your birthday, try to think outside the conventional box of ice-cream cakes and candles, and consider a more carnivorous concoction.

Morocco prepares for the Winter Olympics

SNOW DIVING

The enemy has taken the bridge

The Charlie was everywhere and me and my squad mates were still about 300 meters from safety and provisions. We huddled close together as we scrambled through the maze of exploding landmines. Sergeant Ansmann was in the lead followed by myself and Captain Ana. As Ansmann blazed the trail, a landmine exploded just next to her left leg. She jumped out of the way only to be barely nicked by a passing enemy tank. There were so many explosions and so much confusion that you couldn't tell who was who anymore. Everything just became a sea of screams and colorful bursts. We were about half way over the bridge when I saw a little boy igniting yet another missile from the middle of the street. Those inhumane bastards! Using child labor to set off their weapons. What kind of war was this? I almost ran over the little tyke as he was heading for cover. He looked at me right in the eye and yelled something in a foreign tongue, "Prosit Neujahr," or something of the sort. We finally found our base camp along with the other soldiers in our platoon. Pheew! Safety at last. I drank some of the bubbly liquid my platoon commander handed me. I suppose it was the only drink we could find in these foreign lands. Suddenly, everyone started counting backwards in that same foreign tongue, "FUNF! VIER! DREI! SWEI! EINS! PROSIT NEUJAHR!!!" More bombs were exploding now and my commander was passing around the bottle of bubbly to everyone, even the Charlie! "Happy New Year!" Srgt. Ansmann said to me as she gave me a big hug. Happy New Year? But what about the war? What about the child soldier on the bridge? Have I gone crazy or have I just drunken too much champagne? I think it must be the latter.