Sean the Teacher

You know that saying “Stick to what you know”? Well, generally, I disregard this expression. I try to keep one foot squarely planted in unfamiliar territory, and I avoid sticking to anything except my loved ones and my convictions. That said, I will admit that my recent African adventure has me uncomfortably submerged in the unknown with a short snorkel and few opportunities to surface. So when I was approached by the town pharmacist regarding the possibilities of me teaching an English class, I seized the opportunity, and slathered on the proverbial glue. A few days later, I brought him a schedule of times in the week when I was available, and we came up with a tentative schedule. "I've only found two or three others who are interested so far", he warned, "So it might be a small class". "Mashi Mushkil" (No problem) I said. The fewer the people, the easier this will be, I thought.
The plan was to meet at the local association building the following Tuesday evening. Luckily, I had already read a book on teaching English as a second language, so I went home and diligently looked over the notes I had taken. Besides the pharmacist, I didn't know who my students were, so first I would have to assess the student's current skills and expectations for the course. But, people would be disappointed if that’s all we did, so I prepare a short lesson in addition. I struggled for some time with the logistics of teaching unknown students and varied skill sets, but finally, I settled on an exercise called "The False Story". In this exercise, the teacher reads a story to the class, and within the story there are some statements that are not true. The students must identify these falsehoods and correct them. In case we still had time left over after that, I also brought along Bananagram (a spelling game with tiles like Scrabble).
That Tuesday, I arrived at the center of town near the classroom about half an hour early and watched for students. At 7:25pm, just five minutes before class, nobody had arrived and I began to prepare for a one on one session with the pharmacist. As the clock struck 7:30pm, however, people mysteriously emerged, collecting outside the classroom door. In all, I had five students ranging in skill level from total beginner, to one gentleman, who has a B.A. in English. I introduced myself and asked for everyone to introduce themselves as best they could in English. Then I asked them some basic questions. Why do you want to learn English? How do you use English now? How do you want to use English? Etc. But these were odd questions to be asking. Morocco is a country whose education system regularly forces foreign language upon its pupils without thought to what the pupil wants or needs. The teacher is supposed to know best. My student's answers reflected this cultural phenomenon plainly. "We just want to learn everything about English". "We want to know it all; as much as we can; as soon as we can". They looked confused and a little concerned. My apprehension was palpable. Everyone in the room, myself included, was wondering the same thing; "Does Sean know how to teach"? Ironically, in my haste to "stick to what I knew", I had neglected to ask myself this question. But it was too late to turn back. So with a manufactured smile, I steadied myself, handed each person an empty notebook, spun on my toes, grabbed a piece of chalk, and began my lesson.
On the blackboard I wrote, speaking, listening, reading, writing, and grammar. Above that I wrote beginner, intermediate, and advanced with the number one over beginner, connected by a line to the number five over advanced. "These are the five elements of language" I said. After translating all the words I had written into TashlHite, I continued, "In the notebooks that I have given you, rate yourself from 1-5 for each element." My ability to answer the students’ questions in their own language was confidence building. My students were now the ones out of their element, and as I moved on to "The False Story", my poise improved.
"There is a souq here every Friday" I announced, writing the words on the board as I spoke. Smiles cracked among the classroom and a couple of the students yelled out, "No, souq is on Thursday". "Good" I said crossing out Friday and replacing it with Thursday on the board. "So when do we have souq"? Answers rang out freely. As the story continued, it occurred to me that the classroom dynamic had shifted again. Now we were all having fun, and the students were engaged and learning. When the story was complete, I assigned everyone a bit of homework, and announced that we had arrived at the end of our class. With a sigh of relief, I accompanied my new students out into the dim twilight of the desert.
The next class came the following Friday, which was enough time for me to start doubting my success in the previous class. I prepared for the class as if the same people would attend, but worried that nobody would show up because they didn't like the last class. First, of course, I prepared a short review of the previous week’s lesson. Second, I decided to try a new exercise called "What am I Describing". In this exercise, the teacher describes something with simple sentences and adjectives, until the class can guess what they are talking about. Also, I prepared a short exercise, similar to the "Telephone Game", where each person must tell one other person an English phrase, and it is passed along until everyone has heard it. Then you compare what the last person heard to what the sentence was in the beginning. If anybody showed up, I thought, it would be a good lesson.
Very curious about the attendance, I biked into town that Friday a little before class to see if anyone had arrived. Before I could assess the situation, the pharmacist invited me back into his office for a quick snack of cake and apple. Finally at exactly 7:30pm, we exited the pharmacy to go to class. As he locked the pharmacy doors, I looked over to the classroom across the road. Waiting for the doors to open were ten or more people. By the end of class that night I had fifteen students of all ages and skill levels. Standing in front of a class that had tripled in size, my nerves briefly got the better of me. Like last time though, I worked through it, and like last time, the class was a success! So successful in fact, that I may have to begin another class to accommodate all the people. That's what happens when you stick to what you know (or when you offer free language classes to Moroccans).

Independance Day

So we’ve moved into our new place, complete with mattress, butane oven, “agurteel” (plastic woven floor mats) and refrigerator (it makes ice!!). Aside from getting used to a healthy population of co-inhabiting insects and reptiles, things have been wonderful. We love and miss our two gracious host-families, and cherish the valuable time we shared with them, but we also miss our privacy, our freedom, and our cuisine. So for our first Moroccan July 4th, this was the independence that we celebrated.
I began by perfecting my favorite drink; the iced-Americano. The key was replicating ½ and ½ with chilled, densely mixed powdered milk. Next, it was time to re-introduce peanut butter into my diet. After toasting peanuts in a pan, and carefully removing the skins, I managed to produce extremely chunky but acceptable peanut butter with our “mskeen” (sad/pathetic), underpowered blender. Peanut butter and coffee checked off, next it was time to christen the oven with some good old-fashioned chocolate-chip cookies. Ovens in morocco are not the ovens you are used to in the States. Ovens here come in three sizes; very small, kinda small, and medium. Made from bent steel sheeting by local welders, these ovens attach to large tanks of butane, piping gas into multiple flame holes running along the underside of a thin middle shelf. When turned on, the result is a very hot little metal chest. We keep our metal chest, which we call “the Bunsen burner”, tucked under a cement kitchen counter. Our stovetop sits on the counter just above and shares the same gas tank, so therefore cannot be used simultaneously. With no measuring cups and no way to know the temperature of the oven, baking cookies proved to be a difficult task. By the fourth batch, though, the cookies were approaching edibility and I was only mildly embarrassed to present them to our host-family later that night. “We’re not used to the oven yet, but they’ll be better next time”, I promised in broken TashlHite, as thin brittle cookies crackled in the mouths of my friends during “caskerroot” (afternoon tea). I could hear their thoughts, “Didn’t you say you used to be a baker”?
The next day, perhaps out of sympathy, I received a call from my host-father inviting us for the couscous meal traditionally served after midday prayer on the holy Friday. Though we had 4th of July travel plans for that afternoon, and though I received the invitation just as my own delicious lentil salad was nearing completion on the stove, I accepted the offer and carefully packaged up my meal for later. We arrived at our host-family’s house at 2pm as requested, and proceeded to wait on the doorstep of the empty house while the whole family prayed at the nearby Mosque (Random cultural side note: Although some women pray in Mosques daily, it is not required by their religion. Many women- our host-mother included -make a point of praying in the Mosques only for the midday Friday service. Mosques often have a special room for women for this purpose). After waiting 30 minutes, our growling stomachs were pleased to see people trickling out of the Mosque. Passersby must have been intrigued by the sight of two hungry Americans sweltering in the midday sun on a Moroccan doorstep, but some gracious “Salaam’s” and an occasional double-take were their only response until two unusually large Moroccans walked by. After almost passing us by, one of the men turned and said with a perfect east-coast accent, “Where you guys from? Are you lost or something?” I was speechless. I was thinking “What do you mean where are we from? Who the hell are you and where did you come from?” Instead I stammered, “d..d…the united…uh…ameri..um..New Mexi…I..I mean the southwest“. Then his friend chimed in, “What are you doing here?” By then I had regained my bearings. Though they wore “jalabas” and looked Moroccan, I could tell from their accents that they both lived in America. “We work with the Peace Corps. What are you doing here?” I spouted. As it turns out, the first man was born here and was visiting his remaining family. His friend was originally from Casa Blanca. They both currently live the D.C. area. When our host-mother Katuma returned from prayer this improbable English discussion switched to a mixture of Arabic and TashlHite and ended hurriedly. We did after all have couscous to enjoy. As is tradition, the couscous was delicious and served later than expected. Luckily, it is also tradition for guests to leave abruptly after a meal, so we didn’t feel too bad rushing to the taxi stand with the food still fresh on our tongues. Ensha’ allah, we were going to spend the 4th of July with other Americans!
Our 4th of July plans formed organically out of necessity. Our house had all the basic furnishings, and even some extra frills, but it lacked an important Moroccan element: carpets. Moroccan carpet weaving has an immense history and is still an important industry for Moroccan economy- especially for rural Moroccans. Tapestries from Morocco are shipped and sold all over the world, and are one of the major goods purchased by tourists. As a result, the industry is adapting. Middle-men sprout up everywhere trying to pocket the hefty difference between what foreigners are willing to pay and what local Berber artisans are willing to charge. These middle-men, who set up shop in all the major tourist locations, make access to these rugs effortless. Unfortunately, they also force the artisans to work for unfair rates. To combat this, some Peace Corps volunteers work with local women’s associations called “neddi”s to encourage a business model that brings the buyer and the artisan back together. Our goal was to meet up with some of these volunteers, buy some rugs, support some local artisans, and enjoy our independence day weekend as a group. And as it happens, the “neddi”s we planned to visit are located in the beautiful “Dades Gorges”, so we also planned to do some sight-seeing.
After our couscous meal, we traveled to Kelaa Maguna (about 80k away), where we cooked dinner, compared experiences, and spent the evening with a couple volunteers from the area. The next morning we slowly made our way to the Gorges with three sweaty taxi trips. We finally arrived around 2pm and met up with the two volunteers that live in the site and some more friends visiting for the weekend. After making some lunch and chatting, we took a Moroccan up on his offer to drive us through the scenic Dades Gorges canyon. The canyon is marked by its impressive transition from a river valley, to a deep and narrow canyon with chiseled rock walls. At a spot near the river where the walls begin to open away from each other, we stopped to take pictures and observed a man with a rifle shooting pigeons perched on the rocks far above. The gunshots echoed down the canyon walls, followed by the sound of flapping as wild pigeons temporarily flew to attention before resettling on the cliffs. The gunman, having hit his target once already, walked along the mountain road looking for his next opportunity with his rifle in one hand and a dead pigeon in the other . Each time he took a shot, he would carefully put the bleeding bird down on the pavement and pick it up again post-shot. The pigeon, of course, would become a tajine dinner.
When we returned to the town, we headed to the house of a local acquaintance of one of the volunteers, whose family had offered to serve us dinner if we brought them the materials. We brought over some bags of vegetables, and sat with the men of the house having tea as the food was prepared. Dinner came very late, but we were pleased to see that they had prepared grilled chicken-date tajine topped with golden fries (this is a very common meal to serve to special guests and absolutely one of my favorites)! More impressive than the food though, was the generosity of the hosts. Not only had they offered to host, serve, and cook for a large group of American strangers, they had also swapped our bags of cheap vegetables with dates, almonds, two full chickens, and even a variety of beverages. The most unusual of the beverages was type of moonshine made from the locally grown “tazart” (figs). Generally, alcohol in Morocco is a big “hshuma” (shameful) because it is forbidden by Muslim faith. In fact, until that night, I hadn’t met a Moroccan who would even admit to drinking. Nevertheless, here we were, sitting in a Moroccan salon watching Moroccans pass around shot after shot like just another glass of tea. Meanwhile, the American guests, who had grown accustomed to the negative cultural innuendoes of drinking, were timid and mostly abstained from the potent concoction as if fearing its bite. “What a strange juxtaposition” I thought to myself. But this is the allure of Morocco. With a rich and mystifying culture that reaches out to the modernized west, while simultaneously supplementing itself with other cultures and religions, and reaching as far back as it can into the ancient history of the Moroccan mountains, there is always an element of surprise. Each day in Morocco unfolds in unexpected ways, lending significance to the Moroccan tendency to preface any discussion about the future with the term “En sha’allah”, which means “if god wills it”. As a Moroccan dweller, you learn to expect the unexpected, to enjoy the inconsistencies, and to embrace your inability to control those aspects of your life that cannot be controlled.
Late in the night, on the roof of the house where we had dinner, I pondered these ideas. I looked out on the sleepy village and up into the bright stars, squinting my eyes to replicate fireworks. I thought about my friends and family back home watching fireworks and having barbeques to celebrate the birth of America. A sense of profound gratitude washed over me. It took being far away from my country to truly appreciate it, but on this 4th of July, I was earnestly willing to celebrate America; a country that has offered me the opportunity to experience, understand, and “en sha’allah” help another beautiful culture.