Vaw-zee

Rissani: The ancient capital of Tafilalet and former major...

Mon, 15 Apr 2013 13:38:00 +0300

donkey parking lot

Rissani: The ancient capital of Tafilalet and former major caravan center, but also home to the famous “Moroccan Pizza” or mdfouna. The bread comes in three sizes and a variety of fillings such as meat, eggs and even almond paste. We went the traditional route or the American pizza equivalent of a “supreme”. It tasted a lot like intensely spiced, extremely fatty taco filling stuffed into two pizza crusts. We ordered from a restaurant owner who proceeded to fill a plastic bag with about two kilos of ground meat, fat, onions, cilantro, and spices. He then took us to the large oven where several hundred mdfounas were being made. The identity of our bread was made known buy filling out a small ticket and placing it into the dough before it was baked. It was then removed (hence the giant hole in the top of the bread) before we devoured it. Rissani also boasts a large souk with specialty items from the Western Sahara such as beautiful hand dyed fabrics. Before we returned home I ordered a large mdfouna to go for my host family and they even put it in a box. It weighed about three kilos but smelled amazing the whole ride home.

Its wedding season again which means playing dress-up, henna...

Sun, 14 Apr 2013 20:48:57 +0300

Its wedding season again which means playing dress-up, henna parties and dancing into the wee hours of the morning.

Yes, I will miss Morocco.

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 00:44:00 +0200

While concentrating on French and Darija these past two years, my English has become progressively worse, in some cases my own English students have helped me think of vocabulary words that I could only express in Darija or French. Relearning my native language is just one of many struggles I think I’m going to encounter having to readjust to American life. There are so many things I’m going to miss about Morocco, but the following are some I honestly don’t know how I will live without:

1. Souk: Sometimes I forget what an amazing experience going to the open-air market is here, especially when it just becomes a weekly chore. At some point during my service, I stopped thinking like a foreigner and just lived to survive—like everyone else. Before you enter, you’re automatically caught in a crowd of people—women wearing traditional embroidered Amazigh cloths or jilabas, kids running around stuffing their faces with freshly popped popcorn or strawberries, bikes, motors, transits are all zig zagging throughout the crowd, effortlessly avoiding pedestrians. Immediately upon entering, you are stuck with an overwhelming amount of sensations. Smells of fresh cinnamon, cumin and cloves. Merchants yelling prices of their goods in riyals, dirhams and francs, in Arabic, French and Tamazight. Women kissing eachother’s cheeks, happy to greet each other in the market. There are several stalls under a large collaborative space which forms the “souk” itself. Each stall may sell the same thing but it is important that the shopper can find everything they might need in souk. There are shops for plastic shoes, pajamas, seeds and gardening materials, dates, nuts, spices, couscous, olives, fruits and vegetables and everything in between. Prices are not advertised and products are not always visible, so there is a lot of communicating the form of shouting that goes on in souk. Merchants push their wooden carts of brown country eggs, garlic piled mile high or whatever else might be in season. If it’s summer there are fruits galore, sun ripened and smelling sweet; peaches, nectarines, casaba, and giant watermelons that people tote on their shoulders. In autumn you will find piles of yellow and pink skinned pomegranates, 30 pound pumpkins, mandarins and fresh fennel. The winter months at souk yields a lot of root vegetables, beets, squash, turnips and a seemingly infinite amount of oranges. Once the spring months arrive you’ll begin to see spring onions, leeks, strawberries and fresh sweet carrots. When the months get warmer and summer approaches cherries and apricots make their debut and the cycle begins all over again. The most dreadful month (because it is the hottest in this region) is August, but it is also my favorite because figs as sweet as candy are inexpensive and overly abundant, I’ve never tasted a fruit more delicious.

One of my favorite parts of souk besides the seasonal variety and intoxicating smells of fresh spices is sampling things. If you ask the vendor he is obliged to slice you a sample of whatever he has available—it goes without saying the buyer is able to sample anything in Morocco—from dates to perfume.

I also can’t mention souk without mentioning all of the friends I have made there. It is a very social place. Twice I met someone in souk and had lunch at their house the same day. This would never happen in the States—mostly because people are wary of strangers but going to the market becomes a chore in a very full day with little to appreciate under the glaring UV lighting, shiny white floors and the absence of smells other than chemicals that were used to clean the floor. Usually, to top it off, there is some sad song playing in the background such as Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On”. With such a morgue-like environment why would you appreciate the experience of going to the market, let alone the other shoppers? I am proud to admit I am a regular customer for anything I might need in souk—I have established a “nut guy”, a “fresh ginger and barley guy”, “fruit guy”, “vegetable guy”, “date guy” etc. I have faithfully (for the most part) bought products from them consistently for two years. Although our interactions are brief, they are so frequent and they have been such a routine part of my service I am going to miss them very much.

Although farmer’s markets are wonderful in the states, there is nothing quite like my neighborhood Moroccan souk. Words cannot begin to describe what it is truly like to be apart of such an experience; I will miss it very much.

2.Hi, Stranger! A lot of RPCV’s say one of the most difficult parts to returning to the states is not feeling like a celebrity anymore. Everyone in your town knows you are “the American” and most people want to interact with you unless you are in a larger city. Although I don’t think I’m going to miss living under a microscope, especially because I find myself to be quite timid, I will miss the friendly nature of it all, it seems cold and unusual to me now that we can live in a state where we barely know our neighbors. You mean my neighbors in America won’t invite me over for lunch everyday? I can’t say hello to everyone I pass by in the street and expect the same?

3. What is this “personal space” business and what do you mean I can’t hold your baby? Personal space really doesn’t exist here. I’ve gotten so accustomed to this style of interaction it is rare that if I’m talking to one of my female friends we don’t pat each other on the back, shake one another’s hand multiple times or latch arms when walking down the street. When you are forced to be in such close spaces with everyone (i.e. six people in a four seated vehicle) you just get used to it, plane and simple. I am so terrified I am going to invade everyone’s personal space once I return and I won’t even be aware of it—this concept simply does not exist here. Further, and I think they are linked is it’s completely acceptable to pinch a random babies cheek’s, tickle them or just plain grab them. In fact, sometimes parents might just walk up to you and hand you their baby if they have something they need to do. One of my favorite part of going to the clinic was being able to hold people’s babies while they spoke to the doctor. There is such a sense of community that babies are often passed around the waiting room and it’s perfectly fine if this strange four-eyed white girl with a terrible accent comes up to your child and just starts snapping her fingers and pinching her cheeks. I’m pretty sure Americans are very protective of their offspring and I’m a little terrified I might forget one day and just start holding someone’s baby…this might be a problem.

4. What do you mean I have to be invited? Weddings, baby-naming ceremonies, lunches, teas, parties, random appreciation ceremonies and everything in between does not really require an invitation. I can’t express how many weddings I’ve been to when the person on either side of me claims to not know the bride. How many baby-naming ceremonies (sort of like our baby showers but after the fact) in which the guests don’t know the mother or whether she had a boy or a girl, let alone the name of the baby. One of the best ways I have integrated here is randomly showing up at people’s houses and celebrations. It took me a while to get used to this, since this would be extremely rude by American’s standards and I think one of the reasons being that we only prepare enough food for the expected guests. Most Moroccans automatically assume there will be unexpected guests at all times of the day, everyday, so there is always enough to go around. The amount of food and preparation that goes into celebrations is incredible. Again, there is such a sense of community that the formality of an invitation seems so cold and unnecessary to me at this point, I think it would not be unlikely that if I hear music walking down the street in the States I might just walk into someone’s house to see what kind of celebration they’re having.

5.How do I know what time it is if I don’t hear the call to prayer? Even though I am not a Muslim, there is something so beautiful and sacred about the call to prayer. I’ve become so accustomed to the sound, eventhough I live across the street from a mosque and the 4AM call happens twice, vibrating my walls and ceiling. (I think he does this on purpose, to wake people up). People generally do their daily activities according to the prayer times, which changes from season to season. I know when things will open and close and learned to adjust my daily schedule according to prayer times. I have heard that there is a “Call to Prayer” application for this thing called the iPhone and I’m seriously considering acquiring this technology, but I have to learn how to use an iPhone first.

6. Wait, you mean I don’t have to say bismillah? Religion and culture are so intertwined here it was absolutely impossible to interact with people without using God Phrases. (l’Humdullah, Llai Etik ShhA, llai sehel, llai hamu…etc). I was reluctant to use them at first, but they are such a part of the Darija dialect and daily life here that I can’t help but say them regardless of what language I am speaking in. I can’t say anything in the future tense without saying “inchallah” afterwards, I say “bismillah” either in my head or out loud automatically now before eating something, even when I’m by myself. I actually said “bismillah” when paying for a coffee in the Chicago airport on the way home to the States last summer. (The cashier gave me a confused look and I pretended I was coughing). I’m sure people found me very strange before I left for Peace Corps but if I go around saying “lHumdullah!” everywhere I’m afraid people are going to think I have a mental illness of some sort.

Other things I’m not sure how I will live without:

Delicious, high quality, local olive oil straight from the press, the smell of freshly baked clay oven bread, freshly squeezed juice with anything from avocado to papaya for about $1 USD, bargaining for prices (when I’m in a good mood, it’s like a theatrical performance and can go on for several hours) buying things on “credit” for anything from Tide to bus tickets. There is such a sense of trust in these small communities that some people can buy groceries for a month on “credit”, paying it in full, interest-free whenever they can. Moroccans: For all the complaining that I’ve done I really have grown so close to so many people here, regardless of cultural, language or religious differences. The kindness and generosity, humor and overwhelming sense of community I’ve experienced with so many families has truly been an unforgettable experience and I’m so sad to say goodbye, especially knowing that there are some I will never see again. Most people in rural areas don’t have mailboxes and many women are illiterate. Internet communication is out of the question. Thankfully most of them have cell phones but I know it’s just a matter of time before I begin to forget Darija, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget some of the moments I’ve shared with them. I’ll miss the hours we’ve spent squatting outside mud houses, joking and laughing, calling each other fat donkeys. Sometimes I’ve laughed so hard my belly hurt and I admittedly cried when I said goodbye to my first host mother. I had no idea that in just two years you could share so many overwhelming experiences with people, both amazing and terrible but all the same unforgettable.

OH YEAH, that place called "AMERICA".

Thu, 21 Mar 2013 22:00:00 +0200

After two years, I think I’ve had an appropriate amount of time to reflect on some of the things I don’t know how I will live without, and some I’d prefer if I never had to experience again.

HOME SWEET HOME(S).

“Does hot water come out of the sink in America?” –Actual question, I asked another PCV about six months ago.

Get me out of here (for these reasons, in no particular order):

1. HOT WATER. Bucket baths suck, plain and simple. I love experiencing hammams (public bath houses), so much that I think I’ll continue to seek them out in the States. But when you’re living on a Peace Corps budget and have an addiction to baking like I do, those visits are few and far between. It’s not that I mind all that much, most of my Moroccan friends only bathe once a week. Hot showers with water pressure (emphasis on that last part sense water pressure doesn’t really exist here) are just so relaxing. There’s something dreadful about dumping a bucket of hot water on your head while standing in a cold, closet-sized room in 30 degree weather.

2.The variety and ease of…everything.Sometimes you can find a light bulb, shampoo and balloons all in the same place. Sometimes you can’t find anything you’re looking for or you simply don’t know how to say it and the store owner doesn’t understand what you’re trying to act out for him—sort of like a really bad game of charades. In the beginning of my service it could take well over two hours at souk to find something I’m looking for and after two years I’m still discovering where and how everything can be found. I’m simply struck by the variety and ease of finding items in the States—essentially anything you want, anytime you want it. It might be nice to know exactly where and how to find things again and effectively communicate what you’re looking for.

3. Family and friends. Despite how close I’ve grown to some of my Peace Corps and Moroccan friends, there’s just something about your close friends and family that is so important. They understand you, I mean really understand you and I miss the ease that comes with being around them. I’m impressed with my tolerance of avoiding home-sickness over two years but on Moroccan Holidays seeing friends and family come together as we do in the States, it’s been difficult. Although Peace Corps-style Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations (i.e. improvised pumpkin pie and plastic bag stockings) have been wonderful experiences, I’m looking forward to an effortless gathering with loved ones again.

4. SCHEDULES, SYSTEMS AND FORMALITIES: If you’re coming to Morocco forget everything you know about time. Ryszard Kapuscinsk describes the differences between “Europeans” and “Africans” and the concept of time of time in his book, The Shadow of the Sun. Although stereotypical, and I am by no means saying every Moroccan or every American feels this way, his explanation of different perceptions of time relates to what I have experienced, especially in rural areas in Morocco:

“In the European worldview, time exists outside man, exists objectively, and has measurable and linear characteristics…The European feels himself to be time’s slave, dependent on it, subject to it…He must heed deadlines, dates, days and hours. He moves within the rigors of time and cannot exist outside them…

Africans apprehend time differently. For them, it is a much looser concept, more open, elastic, subjective. It is man who influences time, its shape, course and rhythm…Time is something man can create outright, for time is made manifest through events, and whether an event takes place or not depends, after all, on man alone…Time appears as a result of our actions, and vanishes when we neglect or ignore it. It is something that springs to life under our influence, but falls into a state of hibernation, even nonexistence, if we do not direct our energy toward it.

In practical terms, this means that if you go to a village where a meeting is scheduled for the afternoon but find no one at the appointed spot asking, ‘When will the meeting take place?’ makes so sense. You know the answer” ‘It will take place when people come.’” (pp.16-17)

It’s not uncommon for projects to take ten times longer than you would expect them to take in the states, in addition to filling out a ridiculous amount of pointless paperwork and traveling to another town just to have them stamped or signed then misplaced shortly thereafter. Sometimes people are late for meetings or decide to not show up at all. The problem is that I’ve actually grown accustom to this concept of time, I really schedule my day around the call to prayer and by American standards I’ve been anywhere between a half an hour and an hour “late” to some things before, depending on the importance. I can’t seem to stop taking my work seriously, however, which I am usually on time for even if the participants are not.

Furthermore lines do not exist here. Whether you’re waiting for a bus ticket, a bank transaction, purchasing food or at the post office, whoever is the loudest and pushiest gets served first. I’ve learned to adopt this way of aggressiveness but the best part is that no one gets angry about it, just me. I’m only really bothered by it at this point when I’ve taken a 17 hour bus ride and I’d really just like to get my bag and be on with my life but people first all need to line up in the aisle and get on and off the bus at the same time and everyone pushes their way to the luggage. Need some nuts? Just push your way to the front and shout how much you want. Need a bus ticket? Just hand someone your money and tell them “one, please”. Although standing in line and first-come-first serve can be annoying and unbearably painful sometimes in the States it seems much less likely to give you a heart attack and greatly reduces your risk of being trampled.

5. Gender Interactions, dressing like an “American” and anxiety-free exercise: I think one of the most challenging parts of my entire service was dealing with a completely different perception of both women and foreigners, altering the way I dress, talk, walk and interact with men. I could write paragraph upon paragraph about the perception of gender in Moroccan society according to my personal experiences, the perception of women and the extreme discrepancy and contradiction that exists from village to town to city, but I will save this exhausting essay for another entry. I didn’t expect to change myself so completely, to hide certain aspects of my life just in order to maintain my integrity to my community, to avoid what I already came here labeled as—“A western floozy”. I’m not saying that every volunteer has done this or should, I’ve just grown to accept interacting and dressing in certain ways and for the respect and response that I’ve gained from making those few sacrifices for just two years, it has been worth it to me. It is entirely unacceptable for me to wear anything above my elbows or my knees and I can’t remember the last time I saw my bear legs. My daily outfit usually includes a long sleeved shirt or cardigan that covers my butt, pants or an ankle-length skirt and a scarf. I have never covered my hair, unless it’s for sun or wind protection. I’ve never felt the need. I’ve had many women emphasize the importance of not showing your shoulders and covering your butt since these things seem to send the most provocative message to men, according to my town. I’ve learned to walk with my head down, especially in front of cafés, which are overwhelmingly male-dominated spaces. I never make eye contact or smile at a man, it sends an entirely strong message which they are probably already thinking. If I am verbally harassed I do what most Moroccan women do and just ignore them, looking straight ahead because they have told me if you respond in any way, even negatively, it shows that you are interested. Regardless of the size of the town in this region, I find that the general anthropological commentary of Middle Eastern societies in which public space is male dominated and private space is female dominated to be entirely relevant. I actually appreciate this in some circumstances, since I’d rather be sitting in a woman’s kitchen drinking tea than at the smoke-filled café on the busy streets. I’m looking forward to being able to exercise and not be stared or yelled at, to be able to wear a dress without jeans, to be able to jog without four layers and feeling comfortable in public. It’s not that I’m scared or worried when I leave my house, but I am constantly alert, especially in the main town in my region since harassment of women, not just foreigners, has become such a major issue. I’m so used to an environment in which men are separate from women I’m not sure how to reacclimate to being comfortable in the same space again. Although we still have a long way to go for women’s equality in the states, I am so appreciative and proud that I feel like I can truly be myself, regardless of who is in the room or how I am dressed.

6. Not taking the bus, ever again: Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but I’ve had to rely on cheap, inefficient buses for nearly all my transportation for two years—some which break down, do not have adequate seating (i.e. I’m standing in the aisle, seated on a tiny plastic seat or my legs do not fit in my seat), tolerated so many people vomiting that I automatically carry a plastic bag anytime I travel (not for me but for the passengers that will inevitably get sick en route), sat next to screaming babies, chickens, creepy men, had people sleep, drool, sneeze and vomit on me, almost passed out from heat exhaustion, seen death flash before my eyes as we nearly speed of a 50 foot cliff, endured 18 + hours of travel that I think I’m good on long bus rides for a while. I’ve taken public buses quite often to get around in the States and even in Portland where there is generally at least one homeless crazy person each ride and I’ve never been as uncomfortable. I’ve done many things to tolerate these long bus rides and they’re actually quite efficient compared to other countries but after two years I need a break.

7. Not feeling guilty: From the day I arrived I felt like I owed every Moroccan something. I’mthe one that wanted to be here, so I should do something to prove it. To this day, I am essentially at everyone’s beckon call in my community and if I cannot provide them with one of their requests, even if it is absurd, rude or I know that I’m somehow being taken advantage of, I can’t help but feel guilty that I failed them somehow. When I have to cancel class because I am sick, or I lock myself in my room to watch a movie after 17 hours of travel I feel incredibly guilty. I’m not sure where this feeling comes from, it might be a sense of work ethic or just simply that when I signed up for Peace Corps I knew you had to be very flexible and I was willing to do anything and go anywhere in the world to be able to be a part of this type of experience. It also might be linked to cultural responses here—saying “no” directly to someone’s request is very rude and every “no” has to be a long, indirect explanation. For example: “Come have lunch with me!” “Another time, God willing!” Even if you don’t intend to do so…but if I didn’t I would probably feel guilty about it.

“Peace Corps is hard.” Some other small annoyances that I could do without for a while:

The Turkish toilet: great in some circumstances, not so great in others. There is also never any toilet paper or soap in public bathrooms so just chew on that one for a while. The large “ventilation hole” in my ceiling that provides for it to rain into my house, and also so that I can hear everything my neighbors do and say and likewise. As I was making coffee this morning she didn’t bother coming down to speak to me, just shouted my name and started asking me questions as if we were already living together. As I write this they are blasting the Qu’ran. Along these lines I am going to appreciate privacy again, as most people just walk into my house and both in my old site and here, talk to me through windows, walls and any open spaces. I can’t go to the store without at least three people stopping me and asking me what I am doing. Temperature control: except for one month in the spring (March) and one month in the fall (November) it is extremely cold or extremely hot in everyone’s house. Air conditioning and heating come in small, inefficient and incredibly expensive units. Although I live in a desert climate I could sleep with up to four blankets, a hot water bottle, all of my clothes, and a hat in the winter and I wore close to nothing with frozen water bottles and towels in the summer, if I wasn’t able to sleep on the roof because of the glaring noise of weddings going on until 5 AM or all the mosquitoes. Hand washing…EVERYTHING: Rain, wind, hot or cold laundry has to be done. Hand washing every single sock, pillowcase, blanket and towel is a lot of work and can take a whole day. Keep in mind that with washing machines in the States you can do your laundry and something else at the same time! Not living out of a bag: I am fortunate enough as a Peace Corps Volunteer to have basic necessities like a home, dishes and utensils but I’ve essentially been “living out of a bag” since March, 2011, regardless of whether or not I’m traveling. It will be nice to not have to wash something and immediately put it into a bag and not feel like such a vagabond. Gas that does not come from a butane tank: These cheap, and sometimes terrifying tanks seemingly weigh 50 pounds and replacing them is always an ordeal. They are often problematic or leak and if you ask a Moroccan to help you they are wonderful but always “test” for a leak with a lighter. My heart always jumps out of my chest for a few minutes. Not having to carry this thing four blocks and “install it” each time I want to keep cooking something will be really nice.

Meet the temperamental metal gas box (oven) and her partner in crime (butane gas tank):

I can’t say how much ice cream I’m going to consume or how long of a shower I’m going to take but what’s important is come May 22^nd both of these things will be at my fingertips. After two years a hot shower and a cold IPAnever seemed so heavenly.

Shoofin’ in Chef

Thu, 21 Mar 2013 15:31:04 +0200

Shoofin’ in Chef

brainoffline: The Far Side - 1984

Thu, 28 Feb 2013 19:34:58 +0200

brainoffline:

The Far Side - 1984

Jardin Majorelle à Marrakech

Tue, 05 Feb 2013 22:52:00 +0200

Jardin Majorelle à Marrakech

ksarr qddim fransawaeen (The Old French Fortress)

Tue, 05 Feb 2013 19:11:00 +0200

ksarr qddim fransawaeen (The Old French Fortress)

Dreams and Medicine

Tue, 05 Feb 2013 18:10:38 +0200

Huddled around a tiny fire in our complex breezeway I had a very interesting conversation about natural remedies and dreaming a few nights ago.

Some of the remedies I discovered according to several Moroccans I spoke to during my service:

Cinnamon, oregano: good for gas

Lemon wedges, onions or potatoes: helps soothe headaches and fevers

Roasted mandarins: subsides an annoying cough

Soot, paprika or bleach: some people put this on wounds to “clean and heal” the wound. This is very terrible and despite all of my nagging they are still convinced these things work. (Thankfully nurses and doctors I’ve spoken to in the area agree with me on this one).

Sleeping in a coating of soap on a sunburn: apparently heals the skin.

Bleach: Many believe that bleach has health benefits—such as purging ingrown nails, curing scorpion stings…

Hot water, fennel seed, drinking cumin tea: subsides Colic/ aids stomach pains.

Coffee grinds and lemon, drinking olive oil: Helps a sore throat.

Some others that I’ve witnessed during my service:

Bleach or toothpaste used as “burn creams” : (

Applying dirt to cuts/wounds: I’ve only witnessed this once, but heard of it from many other Moroccans and Peace Corps Volunteers.

Tying cut potatoes around ones forehead when experiencing a fever, to decrease the temperature.

Drinking ground tea to vomit: Witnessed the aftermath of this at our Girl’s camp (unfortunately) because a girl was suffering from cramps and wanted to vomit to stop the pain. (I don’t think she attended our session on anatomy and menstruation.)

As an anthropology enthusiast, I try not to pass judgment on people’s perceptions of remedies. As a skeptic of Western Medicine, I appreciate herbal remedies and believe they have many benefits. As a Health Volunteer, I feel that it’s my responsibility to try to educate a person if they may be doing something harmful or making a situation worse. However, as an outsider, it’s very difficult to change someone’s behavior, especially when it’s linked to tradition and culture.

After I spent fifteen minutes trying to convince them that bleach should never be used on cuts or wounds, especially considering the fact that bleach in Morocco is highly concentrated, we moved on to discuss dreams and nightmares.

This particular group of women believes all nightmares come from Satan and one must curse Satan and sleep on the opposite side if a nightmare should occur.

One woman described a few dreams she’s experienced recently:

She was walking from her village on the main road to weekly market except the street was filled with money. She explained that she couldn’t resist and began stuffing the crisp bills into her jilaba. (I pictured one of those game show-style glass boxes that people stand inside and dollar bills are blowing everywhere as they attempt to stuff them into their pockets). When she woke up she interpreted it as greed and cursed Satan for causing her to have this dream.

In her second dream she was working in the fields with her friend and baby. They soon realized they needed to cross the river. Just as her friend and baby began to cross, the river filled rapidly, washing her friend away. She told me she woke up crying and felt she had to tell her friend. A week later her friend’s husband died in a fatal butane gas accident and she says this dream had been an omen. She has since vowed to only discuss her “good dreams”.

My host sister claims she only dreams about school.

Another woman shared a dream that she described as prophetic. She dreamt a man wearing a white jilaba, adorned with two large, green buttons came looking for her father one day. When she saw him, she began screaming and crying. In the dream he was coming to tell them they had lost all their money in a bad business deal. Apparently within a few days a close friend of her father’s indeed lost his money in a bad business deal.

She also asked me about “Genies” or gins. She said that sometimes she wakes up in the middle of the night with an unbearable feeling of thickness or heaviness from the darkness in the room. According to her this is a genie and she says a little prayer and the feeling—or genie—disappears. She was really surprised to hear that I’ve had a similar feeling—of the overwhelming darkness during the night but that I don’t believe in genies.

I have to say I was thoroughly “creeped” out when I left but thankfully didn’t have any nightmares that night. It was really nice to have a conversation about something other than tomatoes or the weather…it’s just unfortunate it took me nearly two years to get to be able to do so.

A PCV rite of passage: making tofu. (I don’t have a photo...

Tue, 05 Feb 2013 17:20:00 +0200

A PCV rite of passage: making tofu. (I don’t have a photo of the final product because I ate it all…you can use your imagination).

Two Photos: A giant grasshopper that became very defensive when...

Tue, 05 Feb 2013 15:27:58 +0200

Two Photos: A giant grasshopper that became very defensive when I tried to relocate him outside my home and a slinky’s fate after 20 minutes with two adorable Moroccan children.

Four Peace Corps Volunteers, several Moroccan volunteers at the...

Fri, 25 Jan 2013 21:50:52 +0200

Four Peace Corps Volunteers, several Moroccan volunteers at the Dar Chebab, kids of all ages and I recently completed a three-day mural project at the Youth Center. It went rather smoothly compared to most projects I’ve attempted during my service. We had a small training the day before the painting began including some discussion about the meaning of the murals. The community decided to do murals of a Moroccan flag, and images symbolizing HIV/AIDS awareness and pollution. There were some messy moments but it was really fun to see all of the kids getting involved. I could not have done it without the wonderful Moroccan and American volunteers.

bienvenue chez-moi

Thu, 27 Dec 2012 15:09:00 +0200

roof top

salon

"dining area" (i eat in bed)

ba. room/ hashak

bedrm

heater. keeping me (and toes) alive right now

kitchen

spice rack...my favorite part.

deficiency no. 1: giant "ventilation hole" in the middle=rain-inside-my-house

bienvenue chez-moi

Hikes, Bikes and Christmas cookies.

Thu, 27 Dec 2012 14:35:00 +0200

Mom's Sugar Cookie Recipe

Sugar high

This hill is torture on the way up, but oh so much fun riding down

Something near my house

Hikes, Bikes and Christmas cookies.

December 21st, 2012

Thu, 27 Dec 2012 14:05:00 +0200

So the world didn’t end. My host sister knocked on my door at 8 AM to remind me that despite the reports on television of “Westerners” chaotically planning for the apocalypse, we all woke up this morning and the sun seems to be in it’s place. I explained to them what many people believe is based on the Mayan calendar predicting the end of another “Great Cycle”, not necessarily the apocalypse, and that people were putting together the coincidence of a winter solstice, some scientific phenomenon with the sun that only occurs every 26,000 years and a terrible Hollywood movie to mean the “end of times”. We all had a pretty good laugh then we talked about what the Qu’ran says about dooms-day, which according to their rendering doesn’t differ much from the Bible.

I spent the rest of the day planning and working at the Dar Chebab or Youth Center in my site. After a year and a half of extensive integration in my old site, things were just not working out. My counterparts were few and far between and the ones that I could scrape up were not interested or worse, corrupt. Both my regional manager and I decided it would be best to complete the remainder of my service working in a site that is familiar with Peace Corps, and offers a variety of venues for work. My new site is still in the same region and quite a bit larger. It’s a bustling town in the Ziz Oasis with a youth center, women’s center, gymnasium, school, middle school, high school, health clinic, birthing center, a date cooperative, many shops and even a pharmacy. Perhaps the most convenient aspect is that I no longer have to commute once a week to the main town for provisions, since there is market (souq) three days a week.

My new home isn’t perfect—there is a huge “ventilation hole” in the middle which lets in rain or debris if the weather turns. My neighbors also come and go as they please, which at this point strangely does not bother me much. However, I have to say I have never been happier to have a real, functioning drain and no mice living in my house.

I’ve been very busy since I’ve arrived and work is not just restricted to my site. I bike 7km twice a week to a nearby rural clinic in order to give health education to women. The clinic is ran solely by males and most rural women tend to shy away from this, due to the conservative nature of the village. I’ve started a health and exercise club with some youth and we are planning a mural project at the primary school. I’m hoping to accomplish some projects still in the beginning stages; including a Women’s Day event, exercise and yoga classes, and a peer-education project between primary and middle school aged students. With only five months left, (they’ve announced our official Close-of-Service Dates which begin May 20, 2013) I have a lot to accomplish in a short amount of time. It will be impossible to feel as integrated as I did in my previous site but I am appreciative of the balance of cultural and hands-on work experience that I have gained thus far during my service. With time passing more rapidly each day, I can only hope I feel accomplished come May. I’ve become so accustomed to life here I don’t understand how one can just pick up and leave it all behind.However, as I sit inside my house wearing four pairs of pants, two shirts, a jacket, scarf and hat and not having bathed in over a week—hot water would be a nice amenity right now.

Photo

Thu, 06 Dec 2012 17:52:00 +0200

Bike-4-SIDA*

Thu, 06 Dec 2012 17:27:00 +0200

On November 9^th, two Peace Corps Volunteers and I set out on a HIV/AIDS education motivated 300 km bike ride, from Errachidia to Ouarzazate. Overall, we were able to educate 238 men, women and children about HIV/AIDS. We could not have done it with out the support and help of all the wonderful hosts, (Moroccan and American) and counterparts along the way.

“BIKE-4-SIDA” was created in order to spread awareness and educate several small communities throughout the country about the prevalence of the virus in Morocco. HIV/AIDS can be viewed as a “taboo” subject in Morocco, due to its relationship to the subject of sex. Sexual matters are generally kept private and people usually turn a cold shoulder to the matters of cheating, injecting drugs and prostitution. As of 2009, there were 26,000 known cases of HIV/AIDS in Morocco, according to UNAIDS. Although new infections have been rising each year, the number is most likely significantly higher due to fear and stigma of being tested or diagnosed, lack of knowledge about transmission, testing, access to medication and counseling, and lack of testing centers. To my knowledge, there are testing centers in most larger cities, but some people are afraid or do not know where they can go to get tested. There are two large and well-known organizations that provide free testing and services throughout Morocco, OPALS and ALCS.

Our ride included 7 days of actual biking and 2 days of rest, conducting education sessions in six localities. Living on “volunteer” wages, we attempted to make the trip as affordable as possible, relying on the kindness and generosity of other volunteers, my dear host family, and hard-boiled egg sandwiches. We packed our bikes with the finest bungee cords and plastic bags that our meager wages could provide. (Pictures to follow—I’m pretty sure we looked like a trio of biking homeless youth)…

Our first day we woke up early, ready for the 50 km ride when the sky broke and Errachidia became a lake. The streets were flooded and the weather turned cold. We kept our spirits up, however, and waited for the rain to subside. Around the twelve o’clock prayer we realized that we wouldn’t only be biking in miserable and dangerous conditions but we would also be biking against an early sunset. We were forced to swallow our pride, gathered our bikes, and spent our first day on the road in a taxi. Our first stop was in Goulmima where we were fortunate enough to stay with a previous Peace Corps Doctor in a beautiful American-style home. Our session on HIV/AIDS took place at the local Dar Chebab (youth center) and about 40 young men and women attended.

The next day, we packed our bikes and headed west towards Tinjdad. The ride was short, about 20 km, only a preview of what was to come. The third day we biked to Tingrir, about 50 km. The ride was going well until about 11 AM when we took a break and suddenly violent winds came at us from the north, indicating it had snowed in the Atlas. It was hard to stand up straight let alone bike against and each kilometer felt doubled. I had been filling ill most of the day and biking in winds that bent trees in half and forced locals to bundle up pushed me to my limits. When we arrived in a small village about 17 km from Tingrir, I suffered an asthma attack and threw in the towel. We had an HIV/AIDS session in a few hours and I was worried we wouldn’t make it in time. Shivering and exhausted, another biker and myself piled into the back of a transit and made our way to town. Our education session took place at the Dar Chebab, and lucky for us was conducted entirely in English, because the students were nearly fluent. We were able to do several activities and answer a lot of questions. It made me realize how effective I would feel working in an English-speaking country, but I guess learning a foreign language has it’s benefits as well—although it’s hard to remember them sometimes.

The next day was another tough, but extremely rewarding day, a 50 km ride from Tingrir to Boulmalane Dades. Biking through the extremely Arizonaeqsue desert landscape can get rather dull. But just about 7 km from our destination, the beaming buildings of Boulmalane center appeared on the horizon and I’ve never felt better. As an added bonus, there is an enormous (luckily for us, descending) hill into the center. When we arrived we were greeted by smiling PCV’s and treated to a wonderful and fattening dinner—zucchini bread and curry. With sore muscles we retreated to the hammam for a leisurely bath. Our time was cut short when the owner announced we had to leave because it was time for her dinner but I left feeling like a new person nevertheless. The next day we did several activities and an educational session at the Dar Taliba (girl’s dormitory). The girls were extremely friendly and actively participated in our discussions.

After making it half way, we had just three more days of biking to go, about 90 km. We set off for Kl’aa Megouna, a short and windy ride, about 20 km. There we stayed in a small village about 7km from the center, where most residents speak a Berber dialect. I was able to have a conversation solely from hand gestures with one woman, (or at least I think I did). I generally felt entirely helpless, similar to the beginning of my service but this feeling also renewed my interest in learning a language again; Tamazigh. Our session was done completely by a Berber-speaking volunteer and had over 60 female attendees. We did a lot of explaining with pictures, since many of the women were thought to be illiterate. I would say it generally went well, despite some mildly awkward moments, which may have been avoided with the help of host country nationals. Nevertheless, I think it was effective to get women talking about protection and getting tested.

Our last days of the ride were a bit daunting, with about 90 km still to go. Without a volunteer in Skoura, the next closest town, we biked about 7km off road through an oasis in order to stay with my wonderful first host family in Morocco. Unfortunately there are no signs to this village, I had to rely on a general memory of “ take a right on the first dirt road, past the first kasbah, over a river bed, through some fields, left at the water tower, through another river bed and left at the next set of fields…” We were doing fine until the last part and luckily a friendly group of children playing soccer pointed us in the right direction. The village is beautiful and my host family are some of the kindest, most inviting people I have ever met. We were welcomed with open arms, fed a large tagine and offered showers and beds. My host mom gave each guest over three blankets, although one would have sufficed.

Throughout the night and into the morning the winds picked up again and were roaring against the windows and walls of the house. My host mom advised us not to bike so we decided to test out our fate once again and we biked back 7km to Skoura, just in case we needed to rely on a taxi. Going the other way would leave us with nothing until Ouarzazate, about 40 km. On our way the winds batted against our bodies, pushing me off the road several times. I began to get nervous, mostly because of the overwhelming amount of traffic between Skoura and OZ and the last thing I wanted to do was spend our last day of the trek in the hospital because of a bad decision. When we got to Skoura the winds seemed to calm down a bit and we procrastinated by eating a large lunch of hard-boiled egg and vache-qui-rit sandwiches, fruit, nuts and chocolate.

When the time came I was exhausted and my muscles hurt but I knew we had to bike the last day. Our education session was not scheduled until the next day so we stubbornly set out on our bikes for the last 40 km. The wind had died down a bit, but there was heavy traffic and several steep inclines. Exhausted, hungry, and covered in dust and sweat, we finally arrived near dusk. I felt accomplished and did not regret our decision. Coincidentally, we arrived just a day before my birthday and I have to say it wasn’t a bad way to spend the last moments of my 25^th year.

Once in Ouarzazate, we were able to relax and had a casual discussion at a local women’s association called “Oxygen”. The audience seemed educated and generally informed about HIV/AIDS so the session was rather short and I was happy they understood my lesson conducted entirely in Arabic.

On the bus ride back my bike was underneath and I sat comfortably in a reclined seat. Watching the landscape rush by, at 6 times the speed I had seen on my bike, I had a lot of time to think. I thought about all of the wonderful people I was able to meet and talk with, the stares and high-fives from children in villages along the way, the wonderful hospitality of other volunteers, and the beautiful scenery that is uniquely appreciated by bike. I glanced around at the tourists sitting beside me, speaking in French and German and could only think, “you don’t know this terrain like I do.”

When I returned to my site and told people where I had been their reaction was generally “you’re crazy!”, which doesn’t change much because I think they have always thought I am crazy. Overall, it was a wonderfully rewarding trip and I would do it again, minus the extra 20 pounds strapped to my bike, torrential down pour and 30 mph winds.

*SIDA is the French acronym for AIDS, (Syndrome Immuno Deficiènce Acquise)

storm in the desert

Tue, 04 Dec 2012 12:52:51 +0200

storm in the desert

Photo

Mon, 03 Dec 2012 17:00:00 +0200

Making Moroccan cookies

American Eid

gettin it done

I-spy-a-head

After breakfast

cookin the kebabs

my friend told me to "pretend to cook these" so she could take a picture

l'Eid Kabir

Mon, 03 Dec 2012 16:02:00 +0200

(During the sacrifice)…Right there with you buddy.

L’Eid Kabir, or Eid al-Adha is a big deal. In the weeks leading up to the big day, I saw several women rushing to buy ingredients to prepare elaborate cakes and cookies and hundreds of sheep being transported in the trunks of taxis and storage underneath buses. People travel across Morocco to spend the holiday with their families. It took place in early November this year and it was more substantial for me this year for several reasons: It will most likely be my last l’Eid Kabir spent in Morocco, or possibly ever, it was my last few days in site, as I have since moved and I committed myself to sampling each and every part of the animal—which, if you read my post from last year, includes scrambled eggs and brains….

The night before l’Eid was spent busily preparing meticulous cakes and cookies with my neighbors. I had many “surprise” visits and consequently was baking most of the night. Around 7 AM the next morning, I was summoned to breakfast with my neighbors. Breakfast included coffee, sugary tea, milk, msmn (Moroccan crêpes), harira (soup) and cake. The electricity had gone out which made the meal much more enjoyable, since I have yet to visit someone’s house without the T.V. glaring the background.

Around 9:30 AM, after the King had slaughtered his sheep, my neighbors informed me they were about to do the same. Each family is required to slaughter a sheep and if they cannot afford one, a goat. Some families that are very poor are given a sheep or meat from the sacrifice. Muslims are asked to sacrifice a sheep or goat in honor of Abraham’s submission to God’s commandment to sacrifice his first born son, who sent him a ram to sacrifice instead.

They only use very sharp blades and the animal is said to die a quick, painless death. Regardless, I held onto my friend just as tight as the year before and had her take pictures for you…

The sentiment on the “Big Holiday” generally reminds me of Christmas time in the States, people seem to be in a jubilant mood, feeling extra charitable and gorge themselves on large, fattening meals. Small gifts are also given to children and everyone buys new clothes for the big day.

After the slaughter I prepared my plates of brownies, pumpkin loaf, banana bread and chocolate chip cookies to bring to various houses. I spent most of the day with two of my good friends who just had baby girls and went to a gathering near the Mosque for kids to play games and win prizes. This year I did not go with the women to clean the sheep—seeing organs close-up was interesting but watching a stomach be emptied and washed once was good enough for a lifetime.

After a large lunch, everyone leaves their houses to greet one another, have some tea and share cookies and cake. After the sun sets, people return to their respective homes and the smell of smoked meat fills the air. The first cuts of the sheep are prepared into spiced kebabs, and each house is filled with smoke. The first night of feasting generally includes gorging on meat, the heart and kidneys. I held to my commitment and ate all of these, the meat—although a bit greasy being the preferred of the carnivorous buffet.

The next two days were spent doing much the same—visiting and gorging on meat. Each meal was preceded and followed by spiced shwa or kababs and the main feast consisted of scrambled eggs, tomatoes and brain, grilled cheek and eye, ears and some parts I could not identify. I have to say the brain was very rich and similar to butter, and not at all what I expected. The face meat was very difficult for me to eat—because it’s both fatty and extremely chewy. Over the last month or so, many families prepared kordez, or dried meat balls—sort of a Moroccan equivalent to beef jerky. Lungs, the stomach and various other parts are spiced, wrapped in intestines and dried in the sun. They have been appearing on top of couscous ever since and in my personal opinion it was one of the foulest things I have ever tasted. It may be an acquired taste, however, but already preferring a vegetarian lifestyle I cannot say I will go out of my to try them again. Not all Moroccans enjoy these things, a lot of families merely eat the meat of the animal and throw the rest to the cats.

(Kordez, drying in the sun)

The only parts of the animal I have yet to try are the hooves, testicles and penis. I am not particularly disappointed to have missed out on these items and from other volunteer’s testimonies they are not something to look forward to eating.

As a perfect ending to this holiday weekend I spent my last day in site with “Mama Juj” (my second mother). She left me in a sitting room by myself, with a giant sheep carcass displayed in the middle on a small wooden table, sort of like a centerpiece at Christmas time. She strategically placed tea, peanuts and cookies between the contours of the sheep’s body and told me to “eat!”. When I took a sip of tea she began to sharpen several knives and blades on the floor. Acting as her own private butcher, she proceeded to drag the meat to the corner and began hacking away at the legs and body. Somehow nothing is very shocking to me anymore and it only struck me that this whole situation might be considered odd when a small piece of sheep bone flew into my teacup. So there I sat, enjoying my peanuts as she and her son portioned meat to be frozen and used at a later time.

The next day I left my site, happy to have experienced this Holiday to the fullest yet sad to leave a community in which I have invested over a year in behind. Thankfully, I have not moved too far and plan to visit often.

l’Eid Mubarak!