Morocco a Go-Go!

Shut it down.

2009-06-27T13:55:00.001-04:00

Well, the internet has apparently melted, and with it any access I
have to this website (I'm posting via email). Google in Morocco is
slow and unreliable at the best of times, and the other six days of
the week is slow to the point of uselessness.

So I've moved shop! I'll be posting here from now on:
http://moroccoagogo.wordpress.com/

If you head over now you can read all about my adventure on Toubkal,
with pictures!

I think its pretty cool so far, and I'm hoping to add some other fun
stuff in the future, like audio or even video.

Stay tuned, true believers...

I Find You Strange and Off-Putting

2009-06-26T11:14:00.001-04:00

It's strange to see yourself through the eyes of a non-PCV. Like
peering through a disconcertingly clear looking-glass, you begin to
see not only how much you've changed, but just how simple and
downright embarrassing many of your pleasures in life are. Also, you
should probably shower more.

During our week in Rabat another PCV, Phil, had two friends visiting
from the States who tagged along on many of our group outings. He
ended up apologizing to them on more than one occasion. "I'm sure the
last thing you guys wanted was come to Morocco to eat pizza," he said,
sheepishly. They were good sports and game for just about everything,
from pizza at Fast Pizza (second best pizza in Morocco!) to pizza at
the Goethe Institute (best pizza in Morocco!), to endless stops for
juice and ice cream and long meandering walks through the medina in
search of knitting supplies and guitar strings. The joy on our faces
as we sampled each and every flavor of frogurt was, evidently, highly
entertaining.

When we stopped en masse for makouda sandwiches from a vendor tucked
away in the medina they sat back, asking diplomatic questions skirting
the issue of food safety. A year ago I likely would have shunned it
as well for fear of food poisoning – now it took all my willpower not
to go for seconds.

Most of the time, though, they eagerly asked us question after
question about Morocco – the culture, the people, the languages – they
were restless to put Rabat into some sort of context. We happily
obliged, realizing just how savvy we were about everything from cabs
and dress codes to pop-culture and slang. At once it occurred to us
that women in veils, the call to prayer, haggling for a pair of socks,
bread baked into flat circles, too much sugar, and utterly wee cups of
coffee have become not only normal but downright mundane.

Sometimes I forget that I live here.

Also normal: texting five people at once to ask for the Arabic word
for 'ministry' when my cab driver speaks no Tashlheelt and my French
sounds like I'm Charlie Brown's teacher and the fare is growing by the
minute and the cabby is like, "Seriously, why do you not even know how
to do this?"

It's 'wazirat'.

Bill Paxton is Rarely the Answer

2009-06-24T16:24:00.002-04:00

Psyching yourself up to climb a mountain by watching Vertical Limit may not be the most sound strategy, particularly if said strategy leads you to ignore a possible case of low-grade altitude sickness because hey, its not like its pulmonary edema or anything.

Occasionally I lack good judgment.

Full Toubkal report coming soon.

Relativity: A Silly Concept Surely to Be Disproven!

2009-06-23T13:13:00.003-04:00

While traveling through Agadir last week I got a call from another PCV. She was downtown, about to eat dinner with a representative from an American NGO she hoped to work with, and invited me to come along. Curious (and hungry), I obliged and met up with them shortly
thereafter.

The rep was from an organization that donates medical supplies to needy and under-funded clinics. They'd spent the past few days visiting sites in and around my friend's area to assess the needs of health centers she'd identified as potential beneficiaries. Now they were traveling north to a larger meeting with ministry officials to report on their observations and recommendations.

I listened to their tales of desperate nurses and frustrated doctors, travel mishaps, and even one truly weird/hilarious story from the rep about medical practices in Uzbekistan.

When we made it back to the hotel I asked my friend how she'd thought it had gone so far. She paused, searching for the right words. "I guess," she sighed, "That I just hadn't considered the relative situation." Compared to conditions in many of the countries the rep had visited, the clinics they'd visited were almost posh. "There are places that still need a lot of help," she went on, "but I guess I just hadn't considered the larger picture."

Had he been unimpressed with the needs expressed or the conditions they'd seen? Not necessarily, she said, "But it affects him a lot less."

This is one of the more sticky aspects of international development and aid work. When funds and supplies are divvied up, there's no real formula (well, I'm sure someone has a formula, but that's really not the point because quantitative is Not The Point) for how they are distributed, but the natural inclination is to give more to those with less. This is good and proper. But what about those who have a little?

Having no supplies or infrastructure is bad, but in many ways a little can be worse. To paraphrase Lyle Lanley, it's like a mule with a spinning wheel – nobody knows how he got it and dang if he knows how to use it. And if, like many in Morocco, they have a little already, they are overlooked by many agencies that would otherwise be ready to offer support. And then the monorail crashes.

This will likely lead into another, larger discussion of Peace Corps proposed expansions plans (hi-O!), but for now lets keep it simple.

Monitoring and evaluation of development can be the single most important aspect – beyond needs assessments and community outreach, implementation, and planning – of any project. If no one is there to make sure things run smoothly, chances are they won't (you can apply
this to anything, obviously, not just development – chocolate chip cookies won't bake themselves). But neglecting situations because the relative need is insufficient is, I think, deeply stupid.

Just because you punched me in the face doesn't mean I'm allowed to punch you, it doesn't equal things out. It just means we both punched someone in the face, which is wrong. And if a clinic needs beds, even though it has a blood pressure monitor, it still needs beds.

So far this has been the major problem I've seen in Morocco - there is just enough that need does not come out sirens blaring, arms all akimbo, but there isn't nearly enough to be effective. Be it medical supplies, project funding, or technical know-how, it's just not quite there. How to fix it is, like most things, beyond my area of expertise, but it does pose some unique dilemmas when the question of aid is raised.

We parted ways the next morning. I wished them luck and happy travels, then got in a taxi headed for home, where we have running water…that's improperly treated.

I also enjoy pastry.

2009-06-23T10:20:00.002-04:00

"Somebody told me about a juice place down the way," he said, holding the door as we stepped out onto the street. "Want to check it out?" He knew better than to wait for a reply and lead the way down Rabat's main boulevard. A few blocks later we found ourselves gaping at the menu hanging from the wall, six feet high and four across, speechless. Good juice place.

Juice bars are ubiquitous in larger towns and cities, but most of them serve the same basic menu – seasonal fruits, nuts, and the ever trendy avacado juice (which tastes like vanilla pudding, weirdly). There was a small place near our training center in Ouarzazate that became ou de-facto hangout. We practiced our pronunciation on the bemused waitstaff, who always seemed confused by the combinations we dared try, as we settled into Moroccan culture. We've been on a collective hunt for good juice ever since. This place, though, left us in awe. There was carob and plum and raspberry and banana/coffee and starfruit and mango. There was even walnut. Rabat, again, was proving itself awesome.

I glanced down at the deli counter where one of the chefs was working on a couple sandwiches when I caught sight of them. Blueberries. Honest to god blueberries.

I gracefully tripped over a chair and flagged down the head waiter. "How much are those?" I asked, pointing to the packs a little too eagerly. He gave me a concerned look and consorted with the head chef. "For juice, 20 dirham". He wasn't going to let me walk out of there with a box, I
could tell, but I happily settled for a strawberry/raspberry/blueberry juice and took a seat. It was magical.

I sat, savoring every bit, watching Rabat go by. Half an hour later I finally went back in to pay. Which is when I noticed a picture on the wall. Of a juice. With cranberries.

"How much is that one? Do you really make this?" I again needed to, perhaps, take a breath.

"Of course," he answered, pointing to a high shelf above the blenders. There were three huge bags of Craisins. He smiled at me. "They're from America."

I got juice seven times in four days. I have very little in the way of shame.

Hey, You Kids!

2009-06-22T10:37:00.003-04:00

The Peace Corps lawn in Rabat. I picniced. I sat. I napped.

"Thank you for getting my Mall Rats joke."

2009-06-22T10:15:00.006-04:00

I sat in the food court watching teenagers giggle at boys, moms buy their toddlers happy meals, and one guy pick his nose while munching on a burger. I'd just finished a plate of nachos and beside me Jon was working on the last remnants of his hot dog. Across the table Alex took a deep, happy breath. "So," he said, smiling, "are we ready for bowling?"

Rabat is many things. It's easy to navigate, largely hassle-free, and with so many foreign officials and ex-pats running around there is almost zero harassment. There are spots everyone knows and loves and shares, and secret places people call their own. It's a place where volunteers can drop the affectations they put on in their sites and simply be for awhile, which is a more powerful thing than you can imagine. But it still looks and feels very much like Morocco; from the calls to prayer and immense minarets to the medina and kasbah by the sea, you'll never forget where you are. That is until you hit Mega Mall.

We'd only recently learned of its existence, and while we'd heard any number of stories about the wonders it held, none of us really believed what we were being promised as we entered the place. The security guard waved his metal detector over us and, with a glare, let us loose inside.

I can only describe it as a mall. Three floors, though its total footprint could have been only 100 yards long, with escalators and elevators and high-end stores left and right. It's assumed the only people coming here would be those with cash to burn. Just to the left of the entrance is a lingerie store.

We hurried down to the food court and soaked it in. There was a Domino's, sushi, Italian, Tex-Mex, gelato, and in the far corner there was real live honest to goodness ice rink. I rushed over but was quickly turned away by security. If I had no ticket, I could not enter. I explained how I just wanted to peek, but they held their ground. A small child carrying a hockey bag walked past - he played for the Rabat Capitals, he explained, and had practice soon. Aieee!

I pleaded with the guard one last time, begging for the chance to smell the ice and Zamboni exhaust and coolant that means, well, home. They still said no, and I slunk off.

Everything felt tempting, but I finally settled on a plate of nachos and, after putting down the same amount of money I usually spend on a week's worth of food, dug in. It was glorious.

We made our way to the bowling alley, and again were turned away. It was league bowling time, and the lanes wouldn't be free for two hours. Could we just go in and peek? No. We turned back towards the food court and puzzled over which gelato to try. Then we sat down and people watched. We were in Morocco, yes, but this was the first time I'd ever truly felt I could be somewhere else. The teenagers and couples and families around us were dressed in largely western style, toted shopping bags and baby strollers and take-out dinners, and made us feel utterly, completely relaxed.

There's an episode of This American Life that opens in a food court with a bunch of teenagers sitting beside a Sbarro's, and when I first heard it I was hit with one of my few true moments of homesickness. I don't much like malls or food courts or Sbarros or even teenagers. I didn't want to be there. It was simply the reminder of this wholly common, ordinary, American place that hit me in an unexpected way.

My life is so detached from anything even remotely 'normal' in the States that any reminder of the truly mundane hits in a strange, piercing way; the notion that such a thing exists at all is jarring. The Peace Corps office has a huge grass lawn to picnic, lay, or simply frolic on. It reminds you of America in a very deep, weird, almost subconscious way. And its feels wonderful.

But what was even more odd (to us) was that of the many influences American culture has had on Morocco, this is one of the things that got transported. And not just the concept; there's a mall, fully replicated, in Morocco, seemingly picked up and shipped wholesale to Rabat. As Jon said, taking a last look around before we left, "You guys, we did this."

"Well, obviously not very well," replied Jeremy as we made our way back out, "There's not even a Starbucks".

Mountaineering, Medical Checks, and Mega Mall

2009-06-21T06:59:00.002-04:00

I'm settling back in after two full weeks on the road. When I return
you'll hear all about how I conquered the tallest peak in North
Africa, hung out in the capital for a week embassy spotting, and
the best damn juice place in Morocco. Then there was Mega Mall (and
Go-Karts - on ice!).

But first: a nap.

And, You Know, That Too

2009-05-25T05:19:00.002-04:00

Road accidents went down by 1.06% in the first quarter of 2009, according to a report from the Moroccan Minister of Transport.

This drop is due to a good "coordination between the different players at the level of implementation and the follow-up of monitoring, communication and education projects," said Ghellab, who was chairing the 51st general assembly of the national commission for the prevention of road accidents (CNPAC).

He went on to cite the modernization of commercial trucks and delivery vehicles, improved road maintenance, and education campaigns as contributing factors.

I might also point out that there was a transit strike, but you know, details.

Road Accidents Down 1% in 2009 Q1, Minister - MAP

It's My Scene and I'm Down With It

2009-05-22T14:03:00.002-04:00

Its very rare that a PCV feels in-the-know. Even those of us with TV or internet can’t pretend to understand everything happening in the States; I’m only two days behind on Idol and I still don’t know what a Jonas Brother is. We can only hope to keep up, and to be ahead of the game is unheard of. Or, that is, until today, when the New York Times greeted me thusly:

I got a little bit excited. Sriracha and ginger ale are, with Reeses Cups, DVD sets, and free rides, Things We Get Excited About. People who take trips home usually carry at least a small bottle back with them, because in a land of largely bland and basic foods, spices are everything, and Sriracha is made of every single one. Ginger ale also doesn’t exist, but rather than carry an afternoon’s worth across an ocean, we make our own.

I eagerly clicked through to the recipe, hoping to compare it with the basic one we use and maybe get ideas for a new technique or ingredient to play with. The first step: 4 tsp fresh ginger juice, which can be purchased at “most health food stores and juice bars.” Said the PCV reading over my shoulder, “I’m writing a letter.”

Not only is adding ginger juice to tonic water boring, but the assumption that anyone need track down something as boutique and silly as ginger juice is ridiculous. (It should be noted I now make my own biscotti, hummus, and ginger ale, and generally think that anything that removes 12 steps from a process is against the point, but have you honestly ever heard of ginger juice before this?)

And so, in the spirit of cultural exchange, I give you the PC Morocco Ginger Ale recipe (all credit to MF).

Here’s what you need:
1 ½ L plastic water bottle
½ - ¾ cup sugar
1 – 1 ½ tbsp freshly grated ginger root
juice from ½ lemon
¼ tsp active dry yeast
pure water (let tap water sit uncovered 48 hr to remove chlorine)

Funnel sugar into bottle. Fill with water, leaving 2 in or so at the top. Screw on the cap and shake well until sugar is dissolved. Remove the top and add the ginger, lemon juice, and yeast. Now screw the cap back on – make sure it’s tight.

Let the bottle sit in a warm place 24-48 hours. In colder weather it may take 3-5 days. (Pay attention! The bottle may explode if you aren’t careful.)

The ginger ale is ready when the bottle is firm and no longer ‘gives’ when pressed. The bottom of the bottle may now be convex rather than concave. Stop the fermentation by placing the bottle in the fridge for a day. It can be kept for about a week until you are ready to drink it. Open it slowly (its quite bubbly), and pour it through a sieve or cloth to catch the ginger bits. Extra points if you add a couple springs of mint to your glass.

Best enjoyed with a scrambled egg, onion, and pepper pocket sandwich, heavy on the Sriracha, and the flavored popcorn of your choice. I recommend curry.

Sriracha - NYT
Ginger Ale - NYT

It's Curtains For You!

2009-05-16T17:04:00.004-04:00

...and me. < /horrible pun> Made from two re-purposed scarves.

And Then the Bus Caught Fire

2009-05-16T09:14:00.002-04:00

Last year the rear wheel came off my taxi. Understand; this is a fluke no matter where you are, and has gotten me plenty of mileage (woka woka!) at PC gatherings. I also thought this was going to be my Big Travel Story, that losing a wheel on a windy mountain road was as good as it was going to get. Please see the title of this post for what comes next.

Earlier this week I was in a bus heading to Tiznit for a meeting. The trip would take about 30-40 minutes, depending upon how many people we dropped off along the way, and I happily sat down and zoned out. About ten minutes or so into the trip I began to smell smoke. I glanced around the cabin – no one seemed to notice anything, or if they did they weren't all that worried.

We pulled over to let someone unload their bags, a few extras piling in as the bus idled. Moving forward, the bus had trouble getting into gear, and a nasty grinding sound came from the engine. The driver shut it down and rebooted, taking a peek at the engine well beside his chair and exchanging a few words with the assistant nearby.

I inspected the bus again – it was by no means new, but I'd certainly seen worse. Most of the interior paint was gone, a few windows cracked. The hard plastic chairs had all been worn smooth, even the graffiti rubbed away. The ceiling panels were thin, faux wood-grained plastic, warped. I thought of the Partridge Family.

About ten minutes later, the smell came back. I ignored it a moment, then glanced up to the front of the bus, which had filled with thick black smoke. Oh dear.

We pulled over and a few people near the door hopped out. No one seemed all that concerned, more annoyed than anything, but realized we wouldn't be moving anytime soon and began to move out to get some fresher air.

The back of the bus (represent!) was last, and by the time we made it near the doors enough smoke had cleared to see the open engine access panel beside the driver, and thus the engine, which was now sporting tiny flames.

My brain then said, "Holy Jehosaphat, the bus is on fire! Move move movemovemovemovemove!"

But the brain of the old man in front of me said, "Huh, fire. An area of my expertise! I should give them advice as to how best to approach this problem and perhaps solve it."

The man listened to his brain, as you do, and began to tell the driver and assistant (who at this point looked like they were ready to jump ship themselves) how they should attack the engine fire before them. It involved sand, I believe. He was also standing in the aisle, blocking access to the exit.

Not wishing to be rude, I tapped his shoulder, hoping he would take the hint or at least let me pass. He ignored me. Thinking fast, I began hopping up and down. My brain was now freaking out, calculating the probable blast radius and how the Bruins really were going to win the Cup now that I was dead. Finally noticing my apparent distress and/or need for the bathroom, he moved aside and I rushed out.

We were in the precise middle of nowhere (helpfully illustrated by the mile-marker beside us) without a single structure in sight. Most people sat down on the hillside, a few others walked up the road hoping to hitch a ride. I squatted beside an anthill, watching a small army dismantle a stray fruit peel as men rushed in and out of the smoky bus. A pickup truck eventually stopped and offered the driver a jug of water.

He doused the engine, the water instantly hitting the pavement beneath. He came out a few moments later to tell people the bus was, indeed, dead. We figured.

About 45 minutes later another bus arrived to shuttle us the rest of the way into town. After my meeting I met up with a few other PCV's for lunch. I completely forgot to tell them about the bus.

Pack Light

2009-05-11T15:56:00.004-04:00

Because your bag is going to be full on the return trip.

Travel is often slow, exhausting, stressful, and if you are in a grand taxi reliably cramped. But it does have its benefits.

Maybe They'll Go Away

2009-05-05T10:49:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago I was on a bus when a woman tapped me on the shoulder. She pointed at my pack on the seat beside me, asking if she could sit down. I obliged, taking the bag and offering her the seat. She smiled and disappeared. A few moments later she came back with her bags. Her many large bags. Her many large bags filled with toys and clothing and other luggage and lunch and probably dinner for the next three weeks. I counted seven in all. Two were the size of those jumbo plastic bags you get at Toys R Us when you buy a Play Mo-Bil pirate ship and filled to capacity with other bags and boxes.

She started stuffing her bags beneath her seat and overhead, then handed me a Toys R Us bag to keep on my lap. I sat up a bit and looked around the bus. At least a third of the aisles were completely empty. She finally squeezed in, three bags on her own lap, and gave me a “Hey, what can you do?” smile as the bus started to roll. I tried to helpfully point out the many empty, fully functional seats behind us, but she ignored me, focused on keeping her stack upright. No one said a word.

One of the things you pick up on after coming to Morocco is the lack of personal space. People happily hold conversations inches from one another’s face and lean into and over one another to get points across at the dinner table. Those who live alone are regarded as both unfortunate (they have no one to talk to) and weird (why don’t they want someone to talk to?).

This same mentality follows in modes of transport. Six passengers squashed into a cab is the standard, which means you get to know your neighbors pretty well by the end of the ride.

You could ascribe a lot of this to the cultural significance of family and neighbors, and the focus in schools on conformity and group work. But what about a place where you get to choose your own seat surrounded by strangers?

Imagine you get on a bus. There is someone already on board. Where will you choose to sit? You’ll probably pick a seat that gives the other person a wide berth, but if you’re curious you might stay within earshot in case they pull out a cell phone. This pattern will more or less hold with every new passenger so the bus fills evenly. Now lets do this in Morocco.

Someone is on a bus. The next passenger chooses a seat directly beside or in front of the first passenger. So does the next person, and the next. No one wants to sit alone. Pretty soon one half of the bus is full while the other half is empty (except for the lone tourist or PCV, who is lounging across their very own aisle in their very own wing). It’s one of those bits of culture so ingrained that no one thinks to question it, even when it leads to seven bags and two people sandwiched together on a half-empty bus. If you asked a person from the States, I’m fairly certain they‘ve never given much thought to why they give a few aisles cushion. It’s simply what you do.

About an hour and a half later the woman disembarked. I smiled and said goodbye and set my pack on the seat beside me. I put on my headphones and stared out the window. A few minutes later someone tapped me on the shoulder. I pretended to sleep.

The Thrill of Victory

2009-05-02T07:07:00.003-04:00

Happily, the transit unions decided not to hold another strike. Not so happily, the post office picked up their slack.

Even Though We Ain't Got Hats Or Badges...

2009-04-27T06:20:00.006-04:00

Transport unions in Morocco staged a nine-day strike earlier this month to protest proposed changes to national traffic laws.

Citing the damage the strike had done to the national economy, the unions decided to suspend the strike for 15 days, hoping the government would take the time to repeal the proposed changes. It didn't work. The unions will be going back on strike this Wednesday.

...transport professionals have, since its presentation, voiced concern over many of its provisions that place hefty fines of between 200 and 4,000 US dollars, along with imprisonment terms in cases of road accidents causing deaths or serious injuries. -MAP

Imagine you live in Gunns Corners (or better yet Depauville). No one in your town has a car, and for transport to the grocery store, pharmacy, doctor, and gmail, you need to rely on taxi drivers whose job it is to shuttle people back and forth between cities and towns. Once the taxis are taken away you have little to no access to just about anything, and once you get to town prices have shot up so high that you can't buy half the things you meant to in the first place.

Morocco is considered to have some of the most dangerous roads in the world. The statistic I usually see is 10 deaths per day. Whether or not the new laws are a positive step, the strike is making things hard enough for most people that they'd be more than willing to see the new proposals go out the window.

But most of the time I just think of this:

They Wanted Scarves

2009-04-27T06:03:00.002-04:00

Two of the kids in my Environment Club working some tandem friendship bracelets.

Makin' Bagels

2009-04-26T09:24:00.005-04:00

If you ever miss America, make a bagel. It helps.

(Note the creative use of quick dry camp towel).

Hiking to Erin's House

2009-04-20T06:20:00.003-04:00

I'd Never Dream Of It

2009-04-20T06:13:00.001-04:00

Duck and Cover

2009-04-20T06:08:00.002-04:00

All cooking in Morocco is done on stoves powered by small propane gas tanks, meaning said tanks are available everywhere you look. Even the smallest shops have walls of them hidden away in the corners. And since people are so used to them, they tend to treat them a bit more freely than someone who still sees them as cylinders of highly pressurized, highly flammable gas.

Whenever I see someone toss a buta tank, I cringe. Then I take a deep breath and repeat the mantra I’ve held since training, when our cook tested a tank for leaks using a lighter held inches from our quivering faces:

“It’s only a small bomb.”

If You Can Read This, You Are Literate

2009-04-20T06:02:00.002-04:00

I came across this sign on a recent hike. I know the Arabic alphabet, so I could sound out bits and pieces, but the only word I knew for sure was mamnua: forbidden. Since I was standing next to a small reservoir I figured out I shouldn’t go for a swim, but none of the words seemed close to what I know means ‘to swim’. Or ‘enter’. Or even ‘water’. Maybe it’s written in Modern Standard rather than Moroccan Arabic. Or maybe its something else entirely– a warning against climbing an unstable slope, or to watch for a man-eating Yeti. If so, I was totally unprepared for a possible rockslide caused by a rampaging Yeti as I swam in the reservoir. This leads to a TRUTH: Being functionally illiterate is not good times.

Transport unions in Morocco just ended a nearly two week long strike against a proposed change in traffic laws. I was in Agadir the day before it started, trying to get home. It was late in the afternoon, and I knew making it all the way would be a stretch, so I decided to go halfway and stay with another volunteer for the night. Had I been able to read the signs plastered around the taxi stand, I’d have tried a bit harder to make it home. But I couldn’t, so I didn’t know there was a strike beginning the next day. A strike of indefinite duration.

I was able to figure out a way home after three days, but I know more than one volunteer stranded away from home for over two weeks. And none of us had a clue, because we can’t read.

Did I mention I’m a teacher?

We Will Be SO HAPPY

2009-04-14T10:10:00.000-04:00

Excellent.

Tagoudiche

2009-04-13T07:43:00.003-04:00

More photos here.

"I am a librarian!"

2009-04-13T07:12:00.003-04:00

Last week I created a small library in the village community center. Here’s a peek:

With any luck we’ll get more books soon, but for now I’m having fun devising some type of card catalog system so the books can actually leave the building. Right now I'm mostly trying to convince people the books are indeed not for sale, but free!

Don't TashlHate the Tarumit

2009-04-13T07:07:00.002-04:00

Standing out like a sore thumb is stressful. Outside my village men often harass me. Simply being female is enough to elicit stares and calls. I once saw a crowd of men, happily chatting, fall silent as a women passed them driving a car. They tracked her down the street, staring and dumbfounded, until they broke into palpitations over the fact a woman had just passed them driving a car. Were I a blonde it would be even worse.

Cheesy pickup lines and shouts of ‘gazelle’ and ‘zwina’ are standard. Occasionally there are folks that follow you attempting to hold a one-way conversation. One day in Agadir I was followed for eight blocks by a guy who wanted to chat me up, and then just started talking at me. Some people just stare.

And then there is the non-pickup line-y side of it, the part where you know people are talking about you but you’re not sure exactly what they’re saying, which in many ways is even more uncomfortable than that ‘zwina’ business, because at least there you know what the game is. I can’t get too wigged out, though, because whenever I pick up the signals that I’m being gabbed about I just space out and grin. It’s not every day people call you a Roman. Unless you’re a foreigner in Morocco, that is. Then they call you a Roman every day.

I’ll back up here a minute. In both Tashlheet and Arabic, the word ‘arumi’ means either ‘foreigner’ or ‘christian’, though 95% of the time its meant the first way. In Tashlheet, as with most words, you feminize it by adding ‘t’ to the front and back, giving you ‘tarumit’. When I hear it being batted about as I sit down for coffee or kick an errant soccer ball back to a pack of kids I know I’m the object of discussion. But ‘arumi’ is derived from ‘Roman’, as in the Romans, who had an empire, and what good did they ever do for us besides the aqueduct and sanitation and the roads and irrigation and medicine and public order and all sorts of crazy things that all seem far too abstract until somebody calls you one. And then I just think it’s about the coolest thing ever.

So there are these rifts between men and women and Moroccans and foreigners, which have always been plainly visible to me. Then there are these other rifts you hear about but don’t quite believe in until one of them hits you in the face.

There is, we are told, a constant low-level animosity between Arabs and Berbers that has a tendency to boil over, but I honestly never thought it was real. Sure, I live in a place that’s probably 90% Tashlheet, if not more so, but I’d never seen or heard evidence of anything one way or the other. Yes, people would give a little fist-pump when I said I was learning Tash rather than Arabic, but five seconds later they’d ask if that was really the smartest thing to do, because can I even watch tv that way? It honestly seemed a non-issue.

Then one day another volunteer in my market town recounted a story from her recent trip north. As the baggage man at the bus station asked where she was going, she smiled and told him Fes. He sighed as he lifted her bag. “Arabs,” he said, and walked away.

This was weird, but one man does not a schism make. This next story, however, does.

One day last summer, two other volunteers (call them M and H) and I took a weekend trip to Agadir. We were days away from moving into our own homes and eager to pick up all the last minute items we knew we couldn’t live without. On our last night in town we walked along the beach, taking in the scenery and looking for dinner, when we came upon a Lebanese place. It should be noted that, unlike Lebanon, Morocco does not do hummus, baba ghanouj, or falafel. We were excited.

We sat down on the patio and after a few moments a man approached. We greeted him in Tashlheet and he burst out laughing. “That’s hilarious,” he grinned, speaking in slightly accented English, ”why on earth do you speak Berber?” We chatted with him a few moments and he giggled some more. He turned out to be the owner and head chef, and explained that, though he may speak five languages, as a Lebanese guy most of the time he had no idea what Moroccan Arabic speakers are saying, forget about Tash, but good on us. With one last laugh he gave us kudos and went inside.

A few moments later our waiter, obviously sent over by the chef who was gauging our language needs, walked up to our table. We happily greeted him in Tash but were stopped short. “Don’t you speak Berber at me,” he said, putting down a menu. H and I locked eyes. This could not be good. M, however, decided to poke. “Oh, why not?” she asked sweetly. “Because the Koran was written in Arabic,” he replied, placing down the last napkin, “not Berber.”

We were silent. What had just happened? And what on earth were we supposed to do now? This fellow had just said something wholly inappropriate to us (and in perfect English, make of that what you will), but in some strange way we felt at fault. What horrible injustice had this man suffered to cause him to hate Tashlheet people so?

We were petrified of angering him further, and all through dinner (it should be noted he was a very large man) we tried to be as polite as possible. We were the post professional trio of diners a waiter could hope for. Throughout dinner he not once smiled or broke his curt facade. After hoping, fleetingly, that he would notice we were finished, we waived him over (courteously!) and asked for the check. As he set down our change he paused, seemingly weighing the pros and cons of whatever it was he was about to do. Finally, he spoke.

“I have some information for you,” he said. Oh, no. “Just so you know,” he began, pausing long enough for us to run through the thousand different diatribes he could launch into on religion and race, “we are open until 3 am.”

Ha!

H and I locked eyes across the table. Was this real? M, again, decided to play this for all she could. “So, if I wanted a falafel at 2:30 in the morning I could come here,” she started, glancing back at us, “and I could come back again for breakfast at 10:30?”

He stood there a moment, looking past us. Surely he caught the twinkle in M’s eye, or at the very least the fact that H was hiding her face and I was trying not to let my giggles escape my napkin. Then, as if to himself, he nodded. “That is entirely possible.”

And then he walked away.

Now if we’re honest, an ornery waiter and a bored, pretentious baggage handler do not a culture war make. But they do lend some credence to the notion that tensions still exist between Arab and Berber populations here in Morocco – and probably in Algeria and Mauritania as well. The Romans conquered the Berbers, then the Arabs conquered the Berbers. Then the French and the Spanish conquered both. And now Morocco is a single country, not conquered by anyone (save the two Spanish enclaves – we call them ‘Fake Spain’), but still sniping about things that happened ages ago. Like pockets of the US South where you still find the Confederate flag, or when some Hatfield decides post something stupid on a McCoy’s blog, or when you fight about the superiority of Star Trek over Star Wars.

Its conflict for conflict’s sake, so far removed from the original cause that nobody knows what their actions mean anymore, only that it seems like the thing to do, so we might as well carry on doing it, because it makes me feel better about my own situation. It doesn’t matter that at one point we all got conquered, because you conquered me first. And you conjugate things silly.

The Arab/Berber divide is just one of these rifts, like male/female, Moroccan/foreigner, rich/not so much, white/back, that I’ve seen here firsthand. At one point there may have been a real grievance, but now it’s the Springfield/Shelbyville feud, only I’m not sure there’s even a lemon tree.

It’s this kind of animosity that makes development more difficult, because there’s nothing you can do to fix the problem. People have to take the step and get over themselves before they can get on with things. This holds for most of life, really, not just socio-linguistic and cultural relations in southern Morocco, but is one of the major blocks to progress and productivity I’ve come across in my projects and those of other volunteers. It’s the same thing I saw in my hometown between local and summer people, those with college degrees and those without, the moneyed and not so much so, and the two people who happened to hate ice hockey and everyone else in town. Just because you think a certain group of people are annoying or out of place has no bearing on whether you should fix the pothole on Main Street. There is still a pothole that needs to be fixed, so just fix it.

I don’t want to get all senior thesis on you, so I’ll stop it here. I just wanted an excuse to show off the cross-stitch we believe will bring peace, love, and understanding to the souss.

We are planning t-shirts.

XOXO

Maggie Introduces an American Holiday to Her Host Family, pt. 5

2009-04-13T07:04:00.002-04:00

Easter! This was a fun one to keep secular. With Christmas I could easily remove the religious bits and still be left with plenty of gift giving and togetherness and cookies. Take out the churchy bits and all Easter has left is a man-rabbit holding a basket of fluorescent eggs. Which, along with the purple tinted egg salad that sits in our fridge for days after holiday, is the reason I love it.

I got an egg-coloring kit in the mail last week. After nixing the idea of somehow bleaching my brown eggs for fear of later poisonings, I set to work. They came out well, if I do say so myself. The yellow was rather understated, but the orange and greens were pretty spectacular. I brought my bounty to my host family’s house for brunch the next day. They were expecting me, but what they weren’t expecting were the amazing Technicolor tiglay (eggs, in Tash – isn’t that a good one?).

My thirteen year-old host sister opened the door first. She greeted me, excited, and became even more so when she spotted the gift in my hands. “Candy!” she squealed.

“Nope,” I smiled, lifting the lid, ”eggs.” Her face fell. Then contorted. Her mother came up behind her and barely said hello before she caught a glimpse of them. “Are those eggs?” she asked, trying hard to keep smiling.

“Yeah, I made them,” I said. “It’s a big holiday tomorrow, and this is what we do.” This made her smile. Most of my holiday talk does.

“Well happy holiday, then!” She ushered me in, where I helped set the table and make the last preparations for brunch. Then we sat down to eat.

There was some hesitant nibbling while we all stared at the eggs. I was curious to see who would reach for one first. I think they were nervous that I might want them to do just that. My host mother finally broke the silence.

“So show us what you do with these,” she said, picking up a bright red egg.

“It’s just like a normal egg,” I explained, choosing a small blue one. My host sister asked if there might be chocolate inside, and was saddened when I explained that only golden eggs laid by golden geese are chocolate, which are besides very hard to come by so close to the holiday; these were normal. The eyes of the room were on me as I cracked the shell and rolled the egg on the table, removing the skin. My host granny giggled. Then I took a bite, and with a breath everyone relaxed and started in on the eggs.

As people began eating I explained that, technically, a rabbit hides the eggs at night, and when children wake they are supposed to search for them in and around their homes. It’s a game, and whichever kid finds the most eggs wins. That no one asked for clarification is a testament either to my high level of Tashlheet (so, not that), or the fact that at this point nothing that comes out of my mouth startles anymore. The troubled looks of pity I got, though, were enough.

“And what’s this holiday for?” someone asked.

“Oh, its kind of religious,” I answered, squishing my egg and bread into a makeshift sandwich. “But mostly it’s about being with your family and all that.”

“Oh, good heavens,” mumbled granny. She turned her egg over, holding it up to the light. “Can I still eat it if the color got on the inside?”

From Maine, to New York, to Morocco, to You

2009-03-24T08:53:00.003-04:00

When the subject of desserts came up at a recent PCV gathering (as it often does), I naturally brought up blobs, perhaps the finest cookie/cake hybrid known to man. Nobody had any idea what on earth I was talking about. I described them, drew pictures, and I threw out every name I could ever remember hearing for them. Nada.

Thankfully, blobs (never call them whoopie pies, please - it just makes me think of baby diapers, for some strange reason I'll never understand) are gaining popularity. And it must be true, for the New York Times says it is! With any luck by the time we get back to the States, people far and wide will be singing the praises of the blob.

And after I made some last week, they may even catch on in Morocco.

Eat Like I Eat!

2009-02-13T11:18:00.002-05:00

My neighbors think I’m pretty strange. There’s the whole being a single woman thing for one. The part about living alone is also pretty weird. I wear pants, refuse to toss my garbage in the riverbed, sit outside reading who knows what, and get a wee bit excited when there is snow on the mountains. The part they really can’t get about me, though, is what I eat. Most conversations about food go something like this:

“Hey, Maggie! You eat lunch yet?”
“Of course!”
“It’s only noon – wow you eat early. So what did you cook, dwez?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, so couscous then.”
“No, not today.”
“…Then what on earth did you eat?”

If you come to Morocco, you will eat dwez. It’s tagine, but in a regular old soup pot rather than the iconic clay bowl. Think of it as a super thick stew of vegetables with a large chunk or two of meat in the middle. It’s served onto a large communal dish, from which everyone scoops up their portion with bread (bread as utensil also means that you are required to keep a very large supply in your home).

Couscous is eaten every Friday for lunch (and occasionally when the mood strikes), and is served, again, in a huge communal dish with veggies and meat poured overtop. This one gets eaten with your hands, balled into your palm before being popped into your mouth. I can eat tagine/dwez with the best of them, but to my eternal shame I still have to ask for a spoon with couscous.

These two dishes make up 90% of meals (not counting breakfast, usually just bread and jam), with the occasional lentil or rice dish mixed in. People simply don’t have other recipes in their vocabulary. It’s what you do. So when I say that I made a sandwich, or burrito, or Chinese noodles, or spaghetti, or fruit salad for lunch, you can see the moment when their brains default on the standard if/then algorithm and spit out ‘script error’. Confusion then turns to pity, as they think I simply don’t know how to cook, and offer to help.

But, all this has begun to change. Once I bought an oven (why did I ever wait so long?), I started baking cookies. And since even I can only eat so many snickerdoodles, I thought I’d start bringing my bounty around town. I’ve brought cookies to the cooperative and my host family, scones to the ladies at the neddi, and popcorn and pizza to one of my English classes. The result? People now think I’m one of the greatest cooks ever.

It still does not deter the die hards, though. After sharing my scone recipe with a group of ladies I was walking home, brainstorming curried chickpeas, when an old neighbor stopped me.

“Maggie! It’s almost dinnertime. Do you have bread in your house?”
“Um…nope, not right now. But I usually don’t eat it anyway.”
“But you need bread! Why don’t you have it?”
“I just didn’t want any today.”
“Oh my goodness, she has no bread – wait here. I just baked some, I’ll give you a loaf.”
“Oh, thank you! But it’s really all right. I honestly don’t eat bread much.”
“I won’t have you starve on my watch.”
“I – “
“Here you go.”
“Thank you. This smells great.”
“If you ever need bread, you just come here, understand?”
“Yes, thank you.”
(overheard as I walked away)
“…tsk tsk. Poor thing. Didn’t even have any bread.”

It Will Eat You!

2008-12-30T06:35:00.003-05:00

Or maybe just rough you up a bit. Weird plant, yek?

A Christmas Necessity

2008-12-24T05:18:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas, guys.

The Utter Despair of Loneliness

2008-12-24T05:02:00.003-05:00

I took this picture in Agadir last weekend. An idyllic scene, no? Couples spread along the beach, taking in the sunset before retreating to their homes or hotels, maybe exploring the city and grabbing a bite to eat. So cozy and conte....hey, wait, look at that guy!

I felt sad for the man. Then I realized he may have simply wished to disrupt the otherwise symmetrical scenery. And for that, I salute him.

I Ate A Liver

2008-12-16T09:04:00.006-05:00

Remember that episode of Doug, where Doug has to go to some kind of party (was Party Mayonnaise having a birthday?) and he freaks out when he realizes he is expected to eat liver and onions, which he has never had but is convinced is disgusting, and in the end tries it and likes it and realizes that pre-conceived notions are silly and that trying new things is awesome? Remember that?

I played this episode in my head a couple hundred times last Tuesday. Well, that, and the Sesame Street song about being a 'Cereal Girl'. Because it was Eid, and I was about to eat liver.

Eid Mqqorn is the biggest holiday in the Muslim calendar. Each family is expected to slaughter a ram (in remembrance of Abraham doing the same), and the rest of the day is spent visiting family and feasting. Its a lot like Thanksgiving in that families travel from across the country to get together, enjoy one another's company, and eat massive amounts of food. The slaughter itself is a very big deal, and most of the family takes part in some way. I went to my host family's place in the morning, bearing chocolate chip cookies, and hung out for a while before it all went down.

Once things got started I'm pretty sure I went into catatonic shock. First the men cut the ram's throat. The ram bled to death within 5-10 minutes, at which point they removed its head and began skinning the body. They then hung it upside down and proceeded to remove the internal organs, often intact (actually quite fascinating!), and cleaning the meat for cooking.

After about an hour most of the work was done, and we went back inside. I hung out with the kids watching Noor (a Turkish soap opera - more popular here than Melrose Place back in the day) while the men cleaned up and the women started cooking. The veggies had been going all morning, so they quickly cooked the meat and soon the tagines were brought out, overflowing with everything you could imagine. My host mom knew I'd eat the veggies, but since there was so much meat she also made me a little salad. I heart her.

Once the tagines were finished off the small barbecue was brought inside and my aunts and uncles started putting together shish-kabobs of liver wrapped in stomach fat. I'd heard these were the important bits to eat, per tradition, and so far had staved off any real inquiry as to whether I'd give it a go, but pretty soon people were starting to ask if I would do it. I started saying no, but a few folks seems truly stung that I was refusing the liver, so I finally gave in and agreed to try it.

I kept Doug in mind as I sang under my breath, "I said I'll taste it, I'll give it a whirl, and now I am a cereal girl....". When the kabobs were ready I took mine, studied it for a moment, then slid off the first chunk and popped it in. It was the most meat I'd eaten at once since going veggie at age 11.

I'm not a cereal girl. At all.

I ate another piece, then passed my kabob off to my host sister. I got points for the attempt, but I'm not sure they didn't all come from the technical portion rather than style.

The rest of the day was spent visiting with other relatives and eating all sorts of cookies and cakes and drinking lots of tea. It was great to be a part of, and within hours anyone I passed in town was running up to me to incredulously fact check the rumor I'd eaten meat.

It was an experience I won't soon forget, and I'm grateful to my host family for letting me take part. I really do feel like part of the family, and even when I'm weird (which is often) they go out of their way to make me feel welcome, whether making a place for me at family dinners or explaining for the fifth time that Noor and Mohammad are destined to be together in the end, but things are just so complicated!

I also appreciate them letting me take pictures.

To quote 1776, when offered the goat head tagine the next day, I declined.....courteously.

UPDATE:

Fantastic.

Christmas in a Box

2008-12-16T08:42:00.004-05:00

My mom is kind of the most fantastic mother on earth.

I've seen Elf and The X-Files and Scrooged and baked yummy Christmas cookies and pumpkin bread. Now I just need to see The Christmas Toy and Gremlins, rock out to a little Mariah Carey, and create some sort of Tibetan burrito dish on Christmas Day. And if anyone can make The Muppet Family Christmas happen, I'll count it as a Christmas miracle!

Since we just had Eid Mqquorn here (literally, the 'big holiday'), I've tried to explain that next week will be America's big holiday. People are excited for me, but rather confused when I explain Santa.

"Yes, you give presents to your friends and family, and you eat lots of food and candy!"
"Sounds nice!"
"And if you are a nice person, a man with a beard and a red coat comes to your house at night and gives you things! And if you are bad he gives you rocks."
"Oh....sounds....nice?"

Actually, he does sounds a bit ruthless. Its hard not to make him seem like a jerk. Or a vengeful demon. Or human, for that matter.

Candy canes go over much more smoothly.

To the Beach!

2008-12-16T08:34:00.005-05:00

Where do you go when life is making you lonely (and there are no movie shows)? Well, you just go to the beach and have a lunch of veggie soup with your pals! Your pals will be eating squid, of course, and wonder at your vegetarian ways. Then you'll all just gaze at the water for a while. You'll wrap your scarf a little tighter, and in the end you will all wonder why it took so long to find this place.

Then you will brainstorm ways back inland after the driver laughs at you for trying to board his broken down bus.

I Made A Brunch

2008-12-16T08:29:00.003-05:00

It was 47ºF in my house when I woke up. I could see my breath in the air. Action needed to be taken.

That action was omelet. It was highly delicious, if slightly sad looking.

Snow in Tiznit? The Heck You Say!

2008-12-05T05:18:00.006-05:00

It's true! After a cold, dreary, rainy day last week the skies cleared and revealed a fresh dusting of snow on the mountain.

It even stuck around overnight.

It was of course gone by lunchtime, but people were still amazed by it. Apparently it never snows that much here.

In other news, I made Thanksgiving decorations:

The Northern Tour

2008-11-25T05:56:00.005-05:00

The new batch of volunteers have just sworn in and are now at their sites, which means one thing to my cohort - we are no longer the least informed! In fact, we might even know a little. And as such, we had a conference to attend. Hem hem hem.

The first week of November was set aside for our In-Service Training seminar, which was held in Azrou, a small city in the northern portion of the Middle Atlas. Two full travel days away, Azrou is night and day from my region, complete with snow, thatched roofs, and a delightful snack called makouda.

I’d never been to the area and took every opportunity to explore. My travel itinerary was fairly simple: a cheap bus to Marrakesh on Day 1 (I’ll use any excuse to stay in Kesh – I’m not the city’s greatest fan, but the DVD stalls and ice cream draw me in without fail), followed by another bus north to Kenifra on Day 2.

Lovely Tiznit province.

COOL CLOUD! On the bus between Marrakesh and Kenifra.

From Kenifra I caught a series of taxis to my friend Tory’s house (this routine, if time consuming act, was made all the more interesting by the fact that almost no one north of Marrakesh speaks Tash – its all Darija or Tamazigt…thankfully wild gesticulation and the batting of eyelashes is effective no matter the language). A small group gathered at her place that night for a mini reunion and rather spectacular curried vegetables.

Tory’s site is...not like mine. Green year round, there is a river that flows no matter the season and innumerable grazing herds. Yes, in some parts of the country ‘river’ means ‘water’, rather than ‘that rocky patch over yonder’. She is also one of the few Moroccan volunteers without electricity. We did everything by candlelight, ate too much candy, and then huddled under our blankets for some much needed sleep. It was the first real cold spell of the year, and we could see our breath in the air as we one by one conked out for the night.

It was here I realized I may not have packed properly. (It was 80ºF in Tiznit province, come on!)

The next morning we squashed into a transit van and made our way to Azrou. The city itself is small but spread out, centered around the ‘azrou’ (literally ‘rock’), in the center of town. We found the seminar site, threw down our bags, and crashed in the lounge. As everyone else arrived the mood got downright giddy. Many of us hadn’t seen one another since swearing-in, but we all seemed to pick up where we left off.

Azrou and the Middle Atlas.

As the week progressed we went through sessions on project planning and design, grant writing and opportunities, and lots of general de-stressing. The highlight of the week, though, was election night.

My pal Meredith and I made a map.

Our map.

Around midnight we began getting the first projections from CNN and started coloring-in each state. We also kept track of electoral-college votes on our handy-dandy whiteboard. And because we were getting the CNN feed from the states, we got the results in their wonderfully Anderson Cooper/Wolf Blitzer flavored glory.

That hologram. Holy hell.

It was also kinda chilly.

Then, at 4:30 in the morning, we went positively nuts. I will refrain from much commentary, but I’ll say we sang patriotically while the California kids filled in the clinching state (you’ve seen Team America, yes?).

The moment of victory.

After IST, a few of us went to stay at our friend Logan’s site for the weekend. There was snow! And water! And thatched roofs! The Middle Atlas are purty, I must say….

We spent a pretty mellow few days hiking and enjoying one another’s company. We also gorged ourselves on makouda sandwiches. Makouda is something we don’t have in the south, but its basically garlic mashed potatoes, breaded and fried into patties. Street vendors then stuff them into pouches of bread and add onions, tomatoes, hot sauce – it sounds disgusting but is in actuality rather amazing.

I was reluctant to leave, but finally shoved off towards Marrakesh, through the Middle Atlas and on towards the High.

The High Atlas from Logan’s roof. Dang.

My friend Amy and I got into Kesh around dinner time and met up with Alex, another member of the Team Tash CBT group traveling home from IST. We went for dinner at ‘The Jungle’, a place overlooking the pedestrian zone beside Jemaa El-Fnaa dressed to look like….a jungle (think of a half baked version of the Rainforest Café, but in Marrakesh. And yes, it is that fantastic).

Marrakesh. The Jungle is just off-screen to the left.

After picking up a few DVD’s (and by a few I mean two seasons of television and three films – all for the equivalent of 15 American dollars) and nabbing some exceedingly tasty ice cream, we went back to the hotel for the evening. Alex and I then took to the roof, where there were some couches and tables set up, and watched Batman Begins. It was like a drive in!

That movie is really good.

The next day I finally made it back south, catching up with a few region-mates in Agadir and then heading home. Once back in town I learned that it had rained almost from the moment I left to the moment I came back. I could believe it. It had turned green!

I even found an almost tropical looking frog.

Things here are going well. With English classes, trash projects, and marketing programs on my mind I’ve even been keeping pretty busy. Later this week I’m planning to visit other volunteers for Thanksgiving, and a plan of action for Christmas is taking shape (it involves snow).

I would like the briefly thank the Boston Bruins for playing so well… after I left the hemisphere. Jerks. And now, because I can, here is your superfluous geology shot:

Till Next time, true believers.

At Night, He Comes

2008-10-15T07:53:00.002-04:00

I hadn't seen him in weeks, but last night marked the reappearance of the lizard who has taken a liking to my front door. He eats the moths that crowd the window.

I named him Reptar.

Sunday Hike

2008-10-08T12:10:00.004-04:00

A few people from my village and I struck out last weekend on a 7 hour venture into the southern hills. The weather was cool and we brought way too much food. It was spectacular.

We also came across a very sad sack tractor. The motor was at one point or another employed with the task of powering a water pump that sent water from a (very deep) well to a small tower that then sent it to the taps in a tiny family compound. The compound and well were long ago abandoned, but the tractor remains.

When we stumbled upon the tractor I had but one question for the man beside me:

"Can I borrow your hat?"

Fact!

2008-09-30T07:14:00.001-04:00

Al Jazeera International’s anchors are extremely attractive.

BBC and CNN: Pick it up.

Tim Curry appears in this post.

2008-09-30T07:13:00.000-04:00

I’ve developed an apple habit. They’re cheap, tasty, and always available on market day (key), but selection is limited to a single variety. If I call it a basic apple you get the drift. But not last week. No, last week as I rounded the corner to the main square I saw a bushel of beautiful green granny smiths calling out from across the walk.

I approached with caution. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks. Maybe they weren’t apples at all. They could be unripe pomegranates. Or that odd citrus I’d seen a few weeks ago – what the hell was that thing anyway? But there they were. Green apples. Huge, shiny, beautiful green granny smith apples. I must have stood there gaping for an unseemly amount of time, because after a few moments the vender tapped my shoulder and handed me a bin to weigh out the fruit I was obviously about to take off his hands.

I’d already gotten a kilo of my regular apples, but what the hell - these were special! I filled my bin with a kilo of the shiniest, happiest, most candy like apples I could find, paid the rather bemused fruit guy, and started for the taxi stand to head home and enjoy my bounty.

After rinsing and bleaching all my fruits and veggies (Dysentery: NEVER AGAIN), I picked the largest green apple from the bunch, sliced it, threw on some granola and took a big bite….of deception. It wasn’t sour. It wasn’t tart. It wasn’t a green apple at all! It was a regular apple masquerading as a granny smith. J’accuse!

I cannot tell you how crushing this was. Disproportionately so. I actually scowled through the remainder of my snack. Then I wondered what sort of consumer advocacy group I could contact. Or create. What right does a perfectly ripe apple have being green if it isn’t going to provide a different experience from the red ones? I demanded justice!

I looked in my fridge. I had two kilos of apples. Two kilos of regular, run of the mill, Moroccan apples. Half red, half poseurs. I toyed with the idea of baking a pie, but the lack of both oven and vanilla ice cream put the kibosh on that dream quickly. Besides, if I were going to somehow bake a pie, you’d better believe it would be pumpkin, the finest food known to science. Which of course made me think of pumpkin chocolate chip muffins. Which made me think of my birthday. Which made me think of holidays in general. Which made me think of our recent tradition of cooking Tibetan burritos for special dinners. Which made me think of curry, then Tim Curry. Which made me think of….you get the idea.

This might be where the cute moral of the story generally appears, but unfortunately there were no lessons learned from my venture to the fruit stand (aside from the fact that apples are dirty liars). Instead I submit to you just one of the many unexpected moments throughout the day that lead to…I won’t say homesickness. I didn’t stand in my kitchen and suddenly wish I were anywhere but here, cursing the lack of well-marked produce. It was just a simple moment where I paused and thought happily of the random and mundane elements of life in the States I’ve grown to appreciate and, perhaps more significantly, recognize.

I still have seven apples in my fridge. And I really want a pumpkin pie.

So, if you are Elmer Fudd...

2008-09-30T07:05:00.000-04:00

Most people think of the internet as an echo chamber; users establish habits and tend to visit sites that reinforce what they already believe. While you may be absorbing more information than you could with newspapers and cable news alone, in neglecting opposing viewpoints the level of discourse is brought down. Pretty soon all you can argue is ‘rabbit season’, while the other guy can only shout back ‘duck season’.

I’m Daffy in this metaphor.

While I have any number things to do throughout the day – washing and hanging laundry, grocery shopping, visiting neighbors, teaching classes, exploring the valley, attempting new and exciting variations on the pancake – I would be lying if I said Peace Corps volunteers don’t have a good amount of free time. We all have books, some have movies, and the fortunate even have tv. But few of us share the same media (at least concurrently – wow have I gotten some fun books from other PCV’s), which means that I have no one to debate with over the latest John LeCarre novel or the six month old episode of LOST I finally got off itunes and my friends on the other side of the country can’t call up and ask my opinion on Christopher Hitchen’s latest opus. So all our accumulated information just sits in our brains, congealing without any real challenge to our understanding or assumptions. See where I’m going with this?

I’ve felt academic withdrawal before (let my nerdiness be noted for the record!), but now its like my mind is being dulled, especially as I lose my English vocabulary to my growing command of Tashlheet. Couple this with the fact that most of my daily interactions lean towards the simplistic, and the net effect is that I feel rather dumb.

And so I would like to try something. Since I’ve entered stasis mode here (the lack of posts isn’t blog neglect, but the fact that the most exciting news I generally have is village gossip, which I won’t air here…but man you would not believe what went down last week!), I thought I might open things up a bit more to non-PC Morocco topics. Like what I read. Or maybe more Morocco in general. Perhaps we can discuss!

In any case, don’t be surprised if I start getting all existential up in this here blog. I may be picking apart a six-month-old Fareed Zakaria thesis, but its news to me. Feel free to email or comment. Or call! I love phone calls. My cell phone ring sounds like the X-Files theme (triple nerd score!).

And I apologize in advance if all I’m shouting at you is ‘rabbit season’. With any luck and a little practice I can get back to talk about hunting licenses.

Did you know it took me five attempts to spell license before I gave up and asked the computer to just tell me how to type? “Me fail English?”

Exciting Things, Let Me Tell You

2008-09-02T08:14:00.001-04:00

The past month has been a bit…well I can’t really say busy, but there’s been a lot going on. I discovered the reasons behind my extended illness, moved into my house (!), took my first trip/vacation, and got a chance to attend a couple local festivals. I also hid from the sun a lot, because ohmygodaugustishothere. I’ll try and wrap things into a tidy sort of package, but this will likely be a rather long entry. You’ll want to grab a coffee now.

So first in mid July it got hot. Like 120ºF in the shade hot. That’s not something I know how to handle very well, so there were a few days I just admitted defeat and tried not to overheat. I quite often wound up Florence Nightengaleing myself to sleep in front of the fan, but by the end of it all my body figured out how to function semi-normally. It’s still super hot, but comparatively rather lovely. I’d like to think that by next summer I’ll be a total pro, but I’ll probably just spend all my time concocting the perfect iced tea.

While all this was happening I was also starting to get sick again, which was frustrating for a number of reasons – most of all since I’d been supremely cautious about food and water since my last encounter with dysentery. But the mystery was solved when my host family had relatives visit for a week. When they learned I was sick they asked if I boiled my drinking water.

“Well, no. The village treats the water and no one here boils it. It should be fine.”
“….”
“Its fine, right?”
“If we don’t boil our water when we come here we get sick.”
“….”

Long story short, I now know that while treated, the water supply here is not exactly clean. I boil all my drinking water and I’ve been feeling pretty good, so with any luck I’ve discovered the smoking gun – I’ve actually heard from a lot of people in the village since then that their doctors have advised them not to drink the water without boiling or treatment. This may be something I can try and work on in my time here. (Raise your hand if you enjoy clean water!)

August is of course vacation month in Europe, and Morocco seems to be on the same schedule. Everyone in my village was either coming or going, and the vacation homes in the valley were suddenly full. There were a bunch of festivals that were fun to scope out. They also coincided with the arrival of ice cream bars(!) to local shops.

While all this was happening I also worked to complete my first site report for Peace Corps – basically a quick summery of what we’ve been up to in our sites and our plans for the next three months. This was my first report, so I also completed an environmental assessment. Since we got to our sites we’ve been taking note of local environmental practices/beliefs and the health of local ecosystems, as well as cultural norms and traditions. We synthesize this information into a single report on the environmental situation and begin to brainstorm what sorts of educational activities might be beneficial in our areas. I’ve been assigned two projects already – one a plant survey in my local protected area and the other assisting a local argan coop with marketing materials – that I also gave a quick write up.

Towards the end of the month I took advantage of two national holidays and a weekend to take an extended trip north to Essaouira, a seaside town midway up the Atlantic coast. It was the first time since swear-in that I’d been able to see other environment volunteers, and it was great, to say the very least. I would more likely say it was spectacular.

The city was beautiful and chill – though since its August the entire population of France was also there – and even kind of cold! Its kind of a café scene, and the old medina is full of cool places to check out. You know that Scene in Kingdom of Heaven when Orlando Bloom is looking out on the sea from the ramparts? That’s Essa. Orson Welles also filmed parts of Othello here (there’s an Orson Welles park near the beach).

I ate way too much pizza and ice cream (and crepes and Mexican food…and pastries) and spent an inordinate amount of time simply gazing at the ocean, and by the time I got back it was time to move into my new house! I’ll post pictures of the house separately, but it’s glorious. I like my host family, but I can’t tell you how nice it is to finally be own my own timetable for sleep, outings and meals. And I can cook! So far I’ve made mac n cheese, pancakes, ramen, spaghetti, iced coffee, vegetarian tuna, and spicy egg sandwiches. Next on the docket are tortillas.

And this is the first time in six months that I was finally able to unpack my duffel and just….spread out. Its amazing how much I’ve accumulated through care packages and general shopping, but I’ve also been here for six months, so I’d have to have picked up at least a bit.

I’ve unpacked and started to decorate (a prominent portrait of Anderson Cooper? I have one!), and now I’m set for Ramadan. My neighbors have been asking for weeks if I plan to fast, and so far I’ve said yes. I’ll give it a go, both out of respect and as a chance to bond a bit more with people. (Though on a super hot day I may have to cheat and take a swig of water….).

So that’s what’s up here.

….and do you also love watching field reporters try not to fall down in hurricane force winds? Rob Mariciano, I heart you.

The Heart Wants What the Heart Wants

2008-08-12T09:38:00.003-04:00

...can anyone explain to me why my most viewed photo on flickr is that of a Michael Bolton concert poster pasted to a bin on a sidewalk in Reykjavik? Its not an accusation, its just...curious.

Spotted

2008-07-22T07:13:00.002-04:00

Outside my host family's front door: a cat eating a scorprion.

In a tree: a goat grazing.

Under the stone walkway over the irrigation canal: adorable puppies!

That's all for now, you trendy cats walking the Souss. Till next time, you know you love me.

XOXO

(yes, I have totally been reading gossip girl.)

A Heartfelt Reminder

2008-07-22T07:09:00.003-04:00

Dear Maggie:

In the future, when considering dysentery, please avoid engaging this ailment when the temperature is above 100F. This pleases no one. Also, quit leaving your wet towel on the floor.

Hugs!
Yourself

"Hot Today, Hot Yesterday....Gonna Be Hot Tomorrow." "I Reckon."

2008-06-24T07:13:00.001-04:00

I have my very own 95 Thesis coming your way on the existence and creation of self outside known cultural contexts (see what happens when I sit down and think for like five minutes?), but I figured for now we might talk shop about other things. Like the weather.

It's June. I'll give you that its mid/late June, but its still only June. And it was 98F in the shade. Twice. It will only get hotter. Much hotter. I take some solace in the fact that everyone here thinks its hot as well - if they never made a comment I'd really feel like a baby. But it goes without saying that when we come in from a walk, I'm the only one sweating profusely and guzzling my nalgene. Though I can tell I'm getting acclimated; the first super hot day we had I was almost non-functional, but the second day, as I came back from a hike around noon thinking it was only kinda warm I looked at the thermometer to see it was almost 100 in the shade...I felt superhuman.

The weather puts a minor crimp in my style, but mostly it dictates my schedule. I know if I want to see anyone outside I have to get up and out the door early or I'll be waiting till the sun starts to go down. During midday people are in their homes. It also means I’ll usually wait to wash my hair or shower until after lunch, when there is no need for me to boil water on the stove because the tap is running hot (I kid you not).

When I first got here I would try and strike up conversation with the old standby, "Wow! It's hot today, yeah?" All I got was a pitying look, "Oh, sweetie. It ain't hot yet." This was when it was in the high 80's. I explained to people that my village in the US is never hot, that we have lots of snow and only a little sun. They laughed. A lot. Now I know - it's not hot yet.

So it’s in this spirit that I've been doing a lot more walking. 'Cuz hey, it's not hot yet. And in August I might be prone on my floor in front of a fan, which will cut down on hiking time. A few days ago I struck out on a road that leads from my village to one further up the mountainside. I wasn't sure exactly how far I'd be walking, but I'd seen a few kids coming along in the other direction, so I knew it couldn't be too far. I was right - about a mile outside of town around the corner and up a hill was the other douar. Its absolutely tiny, but filled exclusively with new homes, which struck me as a little odd. It also has a very small area of irrigated, super green cropland.

As I ran into people I got looks of surprise and a few tentative "bonjour"s. They, naturally, don't know me and thought I was a French tourist. I'd say a few words of greeting back in Tash and they'd smile. As I got back to my town, though, everyone greeted me in Tash (something I generally don't even register - they're just saying hi).

Near my house I passed an old man who lives a few doors down. Since I arrived here last month he has greeted me exclusively in French, even when I initiate in Tash. As we passed one another I gave him a nod. He replied with, "Salaam."

TashlHeet! He spoke to me in TashlHeet! For the first time! Not even at my prompting!

It goes without saying I said hello right back, beamed the rest of the way home, then treated myself to maple sugar candy. Because finally, the old man down the road knows I'm not a wacky tourist.

Did You Know Pomegranates Have Really Pretty Flowers?

2008-06-17T08:18:00.004-04:00

Because I just found that out. I may live in the desert, but I gotta say when I walk in the fields I feel like I’m somewhere else entirely. Along with argan (natch), my village grows almonds, pomegranates, apricots, figs, dates, olives, and I’ve seen at least two orange trees and one plum tree. Right now people are also growing corn, just harvested the barley (or possibly wheat? I don’t know cereals – project!), and I’ve spotted somebody with a huge amount of chive in their plot. Not to mention the rather ubiquitous mint.

Let’s take a walk, shall we?

Ah, the argan. Hardy, versatile, and a pain in the ass if you want to crack open the nut (seriously – my fingers are killing me).

These are the fruits, with the nuts hidden away inside. They’ve started falling to the ground, and I’m told in August they’ll be collected in earnest for drying and storage. Suckers are everywhere.

The canopy shades too much for anything to grow beneath the trees in the fields, but in open patches you can find plenty of people taking advantage of the irrigation canals.

You can also see the difference between the irrigated portion and the soil left to its own devices. Guess which is which?

Not a blade of grass grows on the dry side. And with water like this I’m surprised it grows at all.

This water was seeping from a portion of the irrigation canal down through a retaining wall. It’s full of soap, as you can see, as many people do their laundry where the canal opens onto a terrace. Someday I’ll tell you about Tide.

Speaking of irrigation, I wondered why people sectioned off their crops into individual rectangles. It looks very cool, but I highly doubted function followed form. Yesterday as I came upon this plot I found two women I know from the co-op watering their newly sprouted corn. Turns out the rectangles are individual pools the water can be directed to through raising and razing earthen dams. So cool!

And the pomegranates…

Pretty! And really such a novelty to me. It’s a pomegranate! In a tree! Hee!

And as we exit the fields, we find some other favorite plants of mine…

I love these cacti. Town is full of prickly pear, but these grow on the extra rocky, extra arid hillsides outside the village proper. They look like coral.

And these are some of the terraces where, prior to the drought (see post below), you could actually grow things. Before doing so you would tie an onion to your belt, as was the style at the time. Ahem.

And finally, a quick shout out to the irrigation canal, without which much of this would not be possible. Dandelions grow just beyond this bend in the stream. I visit every few days to pick them for my room.

Dandelions make me happy.

Today’s Tash:
ar iyyi aitejAAbn ijdiggin – I like flowers.

So That's What a Drought Looks Like...

2008-06-17T08:15:00.001-04:00

I’ve talked to a lot of PCV’s from my stage who, in their first days at site, wondered just what work they had. They surveyed their community’s well-organized health center, irrigation canals, and active community organizations and doubted whether their village needed them at all. Wasn’t there someplace else they might be more helpful, more of use?

One of my pals, a health volunteer, wasn’t sure she’d have anything to do in her next two years. Her sbitar (health center) seemed well run and everyone she met maintained good health practices – what contribution could she make? We met for coffee last week, and where she first had her doubts, in the past month at her site she’s seen enough to know that there is, in fact, a mountain of work to be done.

She said her moment of revelation came when, ill herself and requesting bread and tea for dinner, her family presented her with misnmn and butter with milk, insisting it would cure her stomach ailments. Oh-ho. (Think of misnmn as a crepe, but deep-fried. It’s usually served with jelly and butter. Absolutely delicious, but the last thing you’d ever want on a weak stomach). After that she took real notice of community health assumptions – like mothers prescribing milk and eggs to treat their children’s diarrhea – and realized just how much she could do.

My moment came a few days ago. We learned in training that Morocco is in the throes of a major drought, one that has had real impact on the way people live. In CBT we interviewed community members who lamented the lack of water, but with running taps and lush fields it was hard to imagine times were really that tough. Here in the south the change in weather patterns over the past decade has been even more pronounced, though without hard data (and rather weak Tash), I had no idea just what sort of impact these changes may have had on my community.

I was at a neighbor’s house drinking tea when she offered to show me her family photo album. I paged through, smiling as I picked out familiar faces and homes. I came to a photo, maybe ten years old, of the family standing on the terrace in front of their house. Only this looked nothing like the terrace I walked that afternoon. It was green. Lush. With grass standing waist high. In the distance the mountainside I see every morning as I walk to the road, barren but for the occasional fruitless argan, was green with short grasses and shrub. I wasn’t smiling anymore.

As I left that evening I looked again at my town. Where I’d initially seen green fields I saw the stark demarcation between irrigated and non-irrigated crops. I saw dusty barren terraces cut into mountainsides. My first day here, thinking it impossible there was ever enough water to grow crops (pashaw, it’s the desert!), I assumed they were meant as a type of erosion or rockslide barrier. Now I knew otherwise. I even looked again at the dry riverbed – just how much water used to flow here? And when? Am I really assuming correctly that there’s a trickle in winter, or am I in for a surprise? I kicked a stone on the terrace outside the house. The breeze blew dust and sand out over the road. What the hell happened?

I still don’t know what I’m going to do here. I have a lot more to learn about my community before I can even think about project proposals. But that photo was my misnmn and milk.

Climate change sucks, yo.

It Rains in the Desert Sometimes!

2008-06-10T05:10:00.003-04:00

And I've got the pictures to prove it!

You see that? Rainclouds! In the desert!

This unexpected (and most welcome) thunderstorm brought wind gusts, gorgeous grey clouds, and an evening of temperatures in the mid-60’s. I enjoyed it very much indeed.

So what’s up? Things here are going swimmingly – I got my carte de sejour receipt, which means I’m a legal resident in Morocco (yay!), and I may have a lead on a house to rent once my two months of homestay end in August. I’m meeting lots of neighbors and kids (who school me in soccer on a nightly basis), and I’ve also started teaching a weekly English class at the local women’s center. Yes, things are going quite well indeed.

Some things are certainly tough – the language barrier most of all (see other post) – but by and large, things are moving ahead. So far I've been meeting people on a very informal basis, but in the next few weeks I'm hoping to begin actually 'meeting' with people and local organizations to try and find out more about what they want and what they need (hopefully).

So what do I do, you might ask? I’m so glad you asked!

If it’s a day I go into town (let’s say once a week – twice if I have a special errand) I’ll wake up to catch the transit at 8 am. I’ll hit the cyber café (holla!) and the post office, buy a recharge card for my cell phone, visit with other PCV’s who either live in town or are visiting for the weekly market, take care of errands, buy candy (snickers and mars bars), soda (my one soda a week), and tp, and I head back to my village sometime in the afternoon – whenever I can find transit.

If it’s a regular day in my village, I’ll wake up and take a walk in the fields while its still cool, chatting with the women I run into and saying hello to the shopkeepers as they set up their stores for the day. Then I come back home for breakfast/brunch, chill out and study or read, and help around the house with dishes. We have lunch, after which I read/hang out with the kids/do laundry or other chores (basically I don’t go outside…its too hot) and wait for the sun to go down a bit. The rest of town does the same – no one is out on the streets between 12 and 4. It’s eerie. And really hot. Later on I’ll go for a walk or help prepare snack at 5-ish. Afterwards I walk around and chat with people, play soccer with kids outside the community center, and usually meet up at dusk to gab with a group of gals from the women’s center on some rocks overlooking part of town. Then I head home, hang with the family, and read/study. We eat dinner at 10 or 11, then we hit the hay.

You can break up the daily schedule above with visits I make to the women’s center or argan cooperative, which usually end up with me staying for a few hours and chatting/listening/observing how things work.

But yeah – that’s how my days have been going so far. Weather wise its been uneven – highest so far was 106, but that was followed by a day with a high in the 80’s. Plus there was that thunderstorm, which really had no business happening in the first place.

Other Happenings:

“Yeah, there are tons of scorpions here when its hot.”
“Oh? I haven’t seen any…”
“That’s because its not hot yet.”

The Milky Way!
“Maggie, how do you say, ‘Where is my husband?’ in English?”
Wild boar!
Mars Bars!
My growing text-message bill…I think I have a problem.

Today’s Tash lesson:

butHanut urta inkr – The shopkeeper isn’t up yet. (Said in conversation to a woman who pointed out the shop down the way wasn’t open. She burst into hysterical laughter and told me this was not only a perfect sentence, but an utterly Tash thing to say. Score! And…really?)

Things I've Learned in Morocco

2008-06-10T05:05:00.002-04:00

There are few things better than a shower, a cold bottle of water, and a clean white shirt. This fact held throughout training, but after three weeks at site I believe it to be a universal constant. (Much like the continued awesomeness of Battlestar Galactica and Gossip Girl).

They call Peace Corps the toughest job you’ll ever love, and throughout training I never understood why. Not the love part, mind you – I had the time of my life during PST – but the tough part. When were things supposed to get tough? The people were fabulous, the food delicious, and even if I felt unmoored in a new environment I knew I had a million and one people, from staff and other PCT’s to the juice guy down the way, that were willing and able to help. Well, I just found the tough part.

Life at site is very different from PST. The people are still fantastic, the food is still delicious (I’ll be damned if my host mom doesn’t make a mean misnmn), and there are still a million people I know I can ask for help. It’s the asking for help part that’s tough. Or asking in general…make that communicating.

Tashlheet is hard, yo.

Strike that – Tash isn’t hard, but its very unlike any other language I’ve studied. And right now it’s the only way for me to express myself on a daily basis. I was amazed how quickly I was able to commit words to memory during training – after all, I was using them almost every day – and even here at site my language skills have grown immensely. Three weeks ago I would trip over myself asking if I could take a walk (rirh ad zigzh, is waxxa?). Now its comes out easily. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve only been speaking Tash for three months, which means there is still quite a bit I can’t say. And a lot I’d like to ask my new friends and neighbors (who, I’ll say it, are absolute saints as they listen to my Tash and wait for me to remember the verb ‘to sell’…its znz) that I just can’t.

My mother called me last week and she couldn’t get a word in edgewise – I was so carried away simply being able to talk that I’m not sure she got out more than a few sentences (hi, mum!).

But I know that the language will come. It just takes time – something I have plenty of. But while I study language, meet neighbors, play soccer, explore my valley, and figure out just where I fit into my new community, I know just what to do if the language barrier and the heat begin to take their toll:

I’ll take a shower, pull my water bottle out of the fridge, and put on a crisp, clean white button down.

PS – I also sometimes buy a snickers.

I Take Walks

2008-06-04T06:33:00.004-04:00

I realized the other day just how high in elevation we are here when we got our first clouds in two weeks. I glanced up at the mountains above town and they were hidden behind some lovely cumulus. Later I had to travel two hours to a meeting. My taxi actually went through the clouds as we made our way along the road, coming out the other side into a dust storm kicked up by the wind.

'Twas awesome.

Guess Who Just Took A Government Oath?

2008-05-29T10:39:00.007-04:00

This kid! Which means that, as of May 19, I am a Peace Corps Volunteer. Crazy, no? I mean look at us (those were totally supposed to be Moroccan M’s…we got confused).

I can’t believe they let us swear in either.

But seriously, this is quite the experience – and let it never be said that PC skimps on expenses. We were brought to an über-swanky hotel filled with film props (if you want the picture of me sitting on Ramses II’s chair, just ask) for swearing in, which was a lovely ceremony. The provincial governor, US deputy station chief, and the PC country director all spoke, and the top language learners in each of the three dialects taught gave short speeches.

Following that we all took the oath of service and just like that we were volunteers, with all the honor and responsibility it entails.

Our CBT host families attended the ceremony, which was fabulous. It was great to get a chance to see them one more time and to let them finally meet the people we’ve been talking about for the past two months. I’m fairly certain my host sister thought I was just making up friends who happened to know Arabic and Tamazight.

After lunch (with pizza!), we had free reign of the hotel pool and wireless for the afternoon. I am happy to say I now have a small trove of Gossip Girls to make my way through in the coming days (thank you, wi-fi!). We hung out, ate lots of ice cream, and began to think ahead to life at our sites. We’d be leaving the next day, which gave the evening a different energy. Some (many) of us likely won’t be seeing one another until IST (In Service Training) in another six months, which is hard to imagine after spending two and a half months straight with the same group of, I’ll say it, spectacularly cool people. As one put it, “Why’d they make us like each other so much?”

The consortium will be missed indeed.

We watched X-Files a lot.

Ahem.

The next day we said our goodbyes and were on our way. There was plenty of excitement on the road (who ever heard of a wheel actually coming off a car? I mean seriously), but I made it safe and sound to my site…all my luggage in tow. I’ve got plenty of things to keep me busy the first few weeks – from PC paperwork and applying for a carte de sejour (think green card) to finding a house – but my time now is largely my own, which is exciting and intimidating all at once. So far though everyone has been super friendly and welcoming, and I really can’t wait to see what happens in the next two years.

Home again home again, jiggity jig…

My valley is awesome. Though I may be impaled on a cactus sooner rather than later. Stay tuned, true believers…

Tell Me I'm Funny....

2008-05-14T13:19:00.002-04:00

For the purposes of this story, please note the Tashlheit for 'cat' is 'amush', and that 'no problem' is 'mashi mushkil'. Ahem...

So the last evening at my host family's place was going swimmingly - we were chatting and watching tv, talking about the future and the definition of ice hockey when we moved to the main room for dinner. The family cat was especially jumpy this evening, and refused to leave the tagine alone, evading every attempt we made to shoo it away. We dropped our guard after a few moments, and that's when the cat swooped in for the kill...landing square on the main dish.

My host family was horrified, and quickly shooed it away and out the door. The following exchange is verbatim:

Mom: Samhiyyi! Samhiyyi bzzef! (I'm so sorry!)
Me: aMUSH? mashi MUSHkil! (ba dum BUM!)

...and nobody laughed.

I Have A PO Box!

2008-05-12T10:19:00.008-04:00

Well, technically it’s a boite postal. But it’s a mailing address.

Yep. I know where I’m going to be living the next two years. And let me just say…its very different from anywhere I’ve ever been before. Not to give it away location-wise, but I’m in the south. Seriously south. There isn’t much in the way of vegetation, but I’m in the anti-atlas mountains surrounded by jagged brown peaks and sandstone cliffs. The sky is ridiculously blue. It’s crazy gorgeous. Its also crazy hot (I’m told up to 130 F in the summer...ha!).

I’m super excited about it, but I’ll admit I freaked out a little bit when I got there for my weeklong visit. It was the first time since we arrived in Morocco that I was without another English speaker more than a few hours, so the three solid days I spent with my new community were definitely a reality check that the summer camp that is PST is coming to a very quick end. Then we are on our own to make this work. Which is intimidating, but thrilling.

My town has a very active Argan co-op (goats in trees? We got ‘em!) and Neddi (women’s center), which is fabulous. I definitely hope to work with them in the future. Plus I’m close to a small tourist burg, so I have easy access to email and cheese, which pleases me greatly.

Would you like pictures? The answer is yes.

That final one is from the beach in Agadir, where I ate silly amounts of ice cream and cheese.

So yes. Site announcements were the major happening the past few weeks. Other than that we’ve been continuing with language and culture sessions, spending time with host families, and acquiring a taste for trashy novels (have you read Prep? Amazing.). I also got sick, which was not great, but that lead me to seeing a camel spider (long story), which was both horrifying and awesome. (Seriously – google it.)

In closing, I’ll leave you with a brief tashlHeet lesson, sure to come in handy on July 25:
Rirh ad amnrh – I want to believe.

Hilarity Ensued

2008-05-12T10:16:00.002-04:00

Rebecca and I rolled into the Bab Doukkala bus station just past 6:30 am. We were due on a bus bound for Ouarzazate at 7:00 and had arrived early to buy our luggage tags and snacks (essential). It was already a successful day by any measure; we’d wound our way out of the labyrinthine Marrakesh medina and bargained down our taxi fare with two particularly ornery cabbies (ana mashi tourist, dude). Once on the bus our victory would be complete. We’d have made our way back from field trip without a scratch (and one particularly awesome bottle of olive oil richer).

So it was with an air of confidence that we strolled up to the CTM window and asked in our very best Darija for baggage tags for the 7 am to OZ.

“Sorry, that bus is already gone.”
“Haha, yeah. Seriously, its 2 DH, right?”
“It’s 6:40. The bus left ten minutes ago.”
“…what?”
“The bus is gone.”

Ruh-roh. We pulled out our tickets to prove to him the bus left at 7:00, not 6:30. He said it was a printing mistake, and that he’d told us yesterday that it was 6:30. It was here we began to freak out. We spent the next five minutes speaking in particularly broken Darija and French, trying desperately to convince him (and ourselves) that he was wrong. Waloo. We checked our tickets, we checked our phones, we pointed at bus schedules and repeated what few words we knew that would convey just how much we needed our bus not to be 15 minutes down the road.

Desperation had set it. “Oh my god, does Morocco do daylight savings?” “That’s it. I’m calling Julia. I have no idea what just happened.” Then the CTM man smiled and in perfect English replied, “No, no. Safi. Here are your tags. It’s 7:00 am on platform 10.” He looked at our expressions and laughed again. “No, its ok. Your bus has not gone.”

We had been punked. Our rage was very likely tangible, and had it not been for the pane of glass between us I’m not sure CTM man would have lived to see second breakfast. We silently took our tags, forcing weak smiles. “Thanks.” We turned to leave when he tapped the glass.

“I’m sorry. But you know why I say this? It’s because you were here yesterday, and you were very nice and you spoke to me in Arabic. This is why I said this to you. You are very nice.”

We thanked him with a smile, then made for our bus. Looking back later on, we laughed. Our first exposure to what we’ve since learned is ‘Moroccan humor’ had left us no worse for wear. And we had been pegged not because we were easy target (which, lets face it: yes), but because we’d made a good impression. We were touched.

But we still don’t think its funny.

*Note: This entry written in tandem with my pal and fieldtrip-mate Rebecca for the PST newsletter. That we will be placed 16 hours from one another is but a small hurdle to our one day cornering the Moroccan ice cream/coke light market.

And then I found five dirham...

2008-04-13T06:42:00.003-04:00

“Oh my god, its Easter.”
“What, really? No way.”
“Dude, its totally Easter.”
“How did we not know this?”
“Did none of us know?”
“Oh my god we missed St. Patrick’s Day!”

And this is why I haven’t really had time to check in.

Hello! How are you? Things are good?

My ~~third~~ ~~fourth~~ ~~fifth~~ (oh my god) sixth week in Morocco is about to start, and it definitely feels like I’ve been here a lot longer than that (though in a good way). I’ve already traveled across the country; I’ve touched the Atlantic, baked in the desert, scrambled up the highest mountain (or at least a tiny piece of it), even crossed the perilous(!) Tichka pass. Three times. The third time I brought Dramamine.

But first! To recap the story so far: we flew in to Casablanca early in the morning. We were met by local PC staff and bussed to Rabat, which served as base camp for our first three days in country. In Rabat we began our first round of shots (typhoid, rabies….Oregon Trail jokes abound), attended sessions on basic safety and security, survival Moroccan Arabic, the PC mission and strategies, and diarhhea (an hour alone on diarhhea). We wandered around the city a bit and found the Kasbah, the old medina, and the ville nouvelle. We also had an amazing view of the Grand Mosque from the top of our hotel.

Then we caught another bus south, to the small city we’ve called home since. I’m not allowed to give names, but give me a call (on my Moroccan cell phone!) if you want all the details. It was an 8 hour trip, and the landscape changed dramatically. We started in lush green plains, then we hit the mountains. These are some serious mountains. We quickly gained altitude, winding our way up switchbacks and through narrow passes. The moment we crossed into the southern side the green was gone, and by the time we left the peaks we were on Tatooine.

After a week spent getting to know our new hometown, attending classes on Morocco’s environment and legislative structure, and playing crazy amounts of Frisbee with small children in the square outside our hotel, we began to our first CBT phase.

CBT stands for Community Based Training, and is a tactic Peace Corps uses to help volunteers learn their new language and culture. I’m learning Tashelheet (other groups are learning Moroccan Arabic or Tamazight), a Berber dialect spoken in the southern half of the Atlas Mountains, so my group and I were placed in a Tash speaking village for the week. We stayed with host families, spent every day in language and culture classes with our LCF (Language and Cultural Facilitator), interviewed people in town, and ate bzzef cake. The evenings we spent with our host families, which was a blast (though often very awkward).

After CBT week we were split into new groups for field trip. Another trainee and I went back over the mountains to visit with a volunteer for a few days to see what they’re up to and how they’ve integrated into their community. It was great to spend so much one on one time with someone who just last year was in our shoes came through with amazing success. I got to spend some transit time in Marrakesh (which: hot, also: awesome), saw a beautiful area of Morocco, and oh my goodness you would not believe the olive oil we bought. It tastes like an olive. In oil form.

After another few days back at the seminar site we returned to CBT, where we worked on learning more about our communities, improving our language, and chilling with our host families.

So that’s the super fast version of the past few weeks. Other happenings:

Playing Frisbee with the kids in the courtyard (and hearing ‘Maggie! Maggie!’ every evening when I step out to play)
Mastering the Turkish toilet
Not really mastering the bucket bath
Bargaining in the souk
Eating couscous by hand (not so good at that)
Eating tagine with bread as utensil (I’m awesome at that)
Buying a Moroccan cell phone (and getting it to work! Take that, Maroc Telecom!)
Learning three languages at once, and using all of them to talk with small children
Washing clothes by hand on the roof of the hotel
Sandstorm!
Getting messed with by the CTM ticket man
Tourist spotting on the terrace
Scorpion!
X-Files parties

That’s the basic wrap up – it’s been a crazy few weeks here, but things are going really well, and I love it. Unfortunately there’s a stigma attached to taking pictures of people round these parts, so I haven’t got many street level shots, but here are some landscapes for your enjoyment:

Please send this month’s Vogue.

The Final Countdown

2008-02-29T13:39:00.002-05:00

I'm headed off to Philly tomorrow for staging (that is if the incoming snow storm doesn't delay things at the airport), and I wanted to give one last update before things get going. I'll do my best to update when I can, but I'm not sure what the communication situation will be like until I get to Morocco and have a chance to look around.

Even if I don't get to update too much, with any luck I'll be able to IM or Skype on occasion, so if you notice me online, say hi! (If you need my screen names, just ask my parents [or facebook]).

And as for parting words, just know that I am unbelievably excited :)

Boom boom boom...

A Word to the Wise

2008-02-29T13:20:00.005-05:00

Packing everything you're going to need for the next two years into two medium-sized travel bags is, as an intellectual exercise, awesome.

As physical reality, however, not so much.

From My Assignment Booklet

2008-02-25T10:44:00.006-05:00

Country: Morocco
Program: Community Based Environmental Education and Awareness
Job Title: Environmental Educator & Community Development Agent

Your Primary Duties:
Working with Water and Forests Department counterparts and community partners, Volunteers' major duties and responsibilities include: promotion of environmental education (EE) outreach programs sponsored by the Water and Forests Department,the Ministry of National Education and other national and international organizations; coordination of community participation in environmental research and stewardship programs; and conducting environmental education programming for learners of both genders and all ages.

Specific Duties May Include:
- Designing and co-facilitating formal and informal EE lessons and activities designated for different audiences including elementary and secondary school students.
- Co-planning and facilitating EE training workshops for school teachers and Water and Forests Department technicians.
- Co-planning and facilitating project development and management workshops and training sessions for community partner organizations.

Opportunities for secondary projects include, but are not limited to:
- gender and development related activities, HIV/AIDS awareness and education, information technology education, and youth development initiatives.

This Thing Looks Like That Thing

2008-02-20T14:25:00.008-05:00

You guys, John and Cindy McCain are totally Saul and Ellen Tigh!

If only John McCain had an eyepatch...

Morocco a Go-Go!

2008-02-15T20:30:00.002-05:00

Hello! Welcome! Sit, sit. You've found my website. Perhaps you have some questions? Well, here's the story: as of March 2008, I'll be joining the Peace Corps. I'm headed to Morocco as a volunteer in the Environmental Education sector, where I'll be holding environmental education sessions and helping promote national conservation programs. I'll also be teaching basic health and English lessons, assisting with youth and women's groups, and basically lending a hand with whatever sorts of projects my community has an interest or need in.

Needless to say, I am pumped. I found out officially not too long ago, and just finished sending off the last of my secondary paperwork. I've been devouring anything I can get my hands on about Morocco, and everything I see just makes me more and more certain that this is exactly where I want to be.

I also know, though, that I'm going to miss a lot while I'm gone - my family and friends most of all - and I won't know my communication options until I'm assigned my final site a few weeks into training. That's why I thought a website might be a good idea. I can keep people updated on what I'm doing, and with any luck they can keep me abreast of all the happenings at home (not to mention Boston's conference ranking and who did what on Gossip Girl. Seriously, you're going to have to tell me about Gossip Girl).

So...yeah.

I'm moving to Morocco.