Throughout most of the night the roaring wind kept yanking my unsecured courtyard door open to the pounding rain. Exhausted at 3am, I finally rigged a “lock” with some wire I sleepily found in a box. I went back to bed to wake only twenty minutes later to the sound of water dripping onto my mattress from my closed window at an angle I had never seen. The next morning I was planning on starting my 10-day trip down south and it didn’t appear things were off to a good start for travel.

I did make it all the way down to fellow SBD PCV, Jae’s site the next day, despite encountering fresh snow in the mountains on a long bus ride. Jae and I were co-leading a cheese making workshop. All attendees were volunteers, either with Peace Corps or with the Japanese organization, JICA. I lead the first two days with five different types of cheese: yogurt (and yogurt cheese), Neufchatel (a.k.a. farmer’s cheese), Feta, Gouda, and Ricotta. Jae lead a third day with Pepper-Jack and cheese curds. The cheese curds didn’t cooperate with us (sometimes cheese can be finicky), but the Pepper-Jack looks great. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to taste it for a month—same with the Gouda. We did get a chance to try the three fresh cheeses in various ways including in sushi rolls, muffins, crepes, and just straight up with cut veggies. Yum!

Next, I headed over to another SBD PCV, Terra’s, site in the valley of roses. No roses yet, but this river-fed oasis was still looking lush in February. My visit was to help with a catalogue Terra wants to have made for her women’s products (primarily rugs, but also some farmed items). The difficulty in finding reliable transportation, electricity, phone service and internet (we had to get into town 30 minutes away and even then it didn’t work), really made me appreciate the conveniences I have in my much larger site. I have learned to be very flexible during my service, and I was tested considerably during these workshops. For our big meeting with the association’s women, our translator was 2.5 hours late (not all of that was the meeting-time, we wanted to have him come in early so we could review what we wanted to discuss. Originally we planned on meeting the day before to go over the workshop with him but our transportation out was slow and he had another meeting to attend. Flexibility!). We just switched some things around and had the women participate in the more visual part of the meeting (learning how to take photos of their products, reviewing the photos we had already gathered, etc.).

The women seemed excited about the catalogue and we did get their feedback on how it should be put together and how it can be used. I was concerned about my interaction with the women considering I have learned Moroccan-Arabic, darija, to speak in my site whereas they normally converse in Tashilhit. I found enough darija speakers that could help translate for me when needed. It also helped that my darija isn’t so complex that even if they have a basic knowledge of darija I could be somewhat understood.

One of my favorite moments was when Terra and I were sitting in the kitchen of her neighbors watching them cook dinner. One of the younger girls, Hafida, knows a good about of darija and so Terra and I could both talk with her. When Terra would converse with them in Tashilhit I was a bit lost most of the time. Hafida helped me out by translating what Terra said into darija. I was tickled by the passing of speech through one American’s mind, through Tashilhit, to darija and back into another American’s mind. Later, one of the woman commented that Terra and I should learn each other’s languages so we could communicate (momentarily forgetting that we both share the same language, English).

Despite the difficulties of a more rural life, I really appreciated the closeness to nature there. The families have houses all grouped together and their farming plots are all uphill of the river. I was treated to dandelion greens with corn couscous, and alfalfa with corn couscous. Something we don’t make up here in the north. I also managed to bake two huge cakes to share with the families that provided me dinner during my stay.

After our meeting in Terra’s site we turned around and went to (SBD PCV) Sarah’s site in the next valley over. She is living with a family there and I was once again treated to some great food and company. Sarah’s village is similar to Terra’s in that they are both centered around a river that feeds the farm plots in an otherwise dry place. There is much more evidence of tourism, however, with small hotels lining the main roadway.

This second cheese making workshop was primarily for the local community and I was without an official translator so I had to hope that my darija would be understood by a Tashilhit-speaking group of women. My fears were assuaged by the translation happening through those who understood darija for the other women when needed. I ended up having more trouble with the cheese this time and we couldn’t quite figure out what happened. Everything was taking a long time to set. We changed many of the variables around without success. We’ve narrowed it down to temperature or altitude. Despite our delays, I think the women still enjoyed the workshop—and we all devoured the cheese at the end! A couple of the women seemed to really be into the process and I am confident that they will clear up whatever issue that we were having with their future attempts. Some have access to fresh milk from their own cows, so cheese making might be a great opportunity for them.

Overall I found my trip down south to be successful. The foreboding weather at the start of my trip gave way to calmer skies during my entire trip. All my hosts were wonderful and I got to know better my fellow PCVs as well as the Moroccans I encountered. It is too bad that a hard days journey lies between us!

Brownies and chocolate chip cookies amongst traditional Moroccan sweets for a holiday

For as long as I’ve been able to stir chocolate chips into cookie dough, I’ve been a baker. Some of the highlights of helping my mother with her in-home daycare during high-school summer vacations were those afternoons baking with the grade-school kids. I would have my rapt audience study my careful measuring of flour and sugar. I would assign them jobs of mixing or spooning dough onto waiting cookie sheets, and we would all hear our stomachs grumble in anticipation of the results of our culinary chemistry.

I later went off to college, barely making it through those first dark years of dorm-life dominated by cafeteria food or what I could heat in a microwave. Of course the latter half I rectified this with apartments and ovens that once again fed my need to throw flour around.* By grad-school I was luring people into my art studio with the promises of sweet treats. I found my food mentors in the Visual Resource Library of Washington University, headed by Betha, who was also writing a food column for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch at that time. My tastes became ever more refined and my determination to master the oven became ever stronger.

Then I came to Morocco. As I packed my bags I made a personal goal to improve my bread baking skills in between my duties as a volunteer. I reconsidered how easy this might be as I struggled to light a gas oven with a lighter and burned several sheets of cookies in the unfamiliar Moroccan oven. I’m a fast learner when I am interested in the subject, however, and by the time I set up my own house I was shopping for my own little metal box to fire up.

A year, and hundreds of kilos of flour later, I find myself amazed (but should I really be?) at how much of an influence baking has been on my service here. I have started to regularly teach different baked treats to a cookie association in town. I had started working with them in another form—as an English and jewelry-making instructor, until the building they were using for these activities was robbed and shut down during the summer. I reconnected with them in the fall when I discovered they were still meeting on the other side of town—this time the focus was on cookies and couscous. Perfect! I was excited to have another opportunity to work with this motivated group of women. I now look forward to every Thursday as a break from my other running-around (this is for another post). I get to sit down and get my hands dirty, whether it is my recipe contribution or a traditional Moroccan one. We have a great teacher-student relationship; I get to continually switch from one to the other. It feels good to hear that the cupcakes I’ve showed them how to make are in high demand at their newly opened storefront.

Another surprise is how I managed to get into cheese making. This came to be in the slow summer days, out of my need to: a) improve the poor selection of cheese in most of Morocco, b) fill the hole that a summer garden usually occupies, and c) make things from scratch. My careful research resulted in ways to make cheese in Morocco using local equipment and ingredients. I celebrated these discoveries by having a workshop attended by fellow PCVs in hopes of spreading the cheese (preferably over bread). This has since spawned further interest and trainings in my site, as well as several other locations around the country. This month I will be leading two cheese-making workshops down south, with my regrets for not being able to attend a third that coincides with the others. It is exciting to think of the culinary money making possibilities!

If this wasn’t enough for me, I just finished editing the “Breads” and the added “Cheeses” sections of the PC Morocco cookbook (email me if you’re interested in an updated copy of these sections). I have also started a food blog to record some of these made-from-scratch attempts. For those of you who are in Morocco, I try to emphasize the use seasonal and locally available ingredients (with the acknowledgement that I live in a larger town and have a wider selection available to me than the smaller villages). You’re also welcome over to help me get rid of my latest experiments, of which I have more than my waistline alone can handle.

*At this point I feel the need to mention my former roommate, and culinary companion, Claire, of The Food Outcast. She had to go gluten free (making me feel a little guilty for all the gluten I’ve given her over the years) but continues making delicious concoctions in her kitchen in Swaziland.

Staring into a sea of sand dunes, distinguishable only by the light of a half-full moon on a crisp night, I ponder my smallness. After all, isn’t this why we come out to such places? Certainly it isn’t for the extra sand in everything-- from my back pockets to my breakfast. I look over in the direction that my friend, Claire, had headed. In the moonlight I can barely distinguish her form from the sand, much less her distance from me. My ears away from the tents, the dunes are dense and quiet. Behind me the camels have made their beds on the sand, some with their heads up, silently watching us.

Later, we tackle the dune that overlooks our campsite. It is an hour of labor on my hands and feet, fighting to make it to where the dune draws a line with the stars. The lack of reference for distance makes this goal all the more illusive. My legs are heavy with the strain and the sand I’ve collected in my shoes. Suddenly, the dune drops down in my eyes and I’m gazing beyond the peak. Lights of civilization sparkle from a distance, the dune had hid them from us below as a backdrop on a stage might hide the commotion of the crew and actors. Of course, I didn’t have much illusion that I would be completely alone out in the Sahara.

I wait for Kyle, my other travel companion, to reach the top, having lost all sight of Claire in the darkness below. The dry air and arid landscape is quite a contrast from where I had been just a few days earlier, snuggled into the rainy mountains to the north. We had celebrated Christmas there, at Randy’s house (no berry picking this time, but we still got to have some of the plunder on Christmas morning—blackberries and crepes!) with Jon and Emily. As much as I love my host family, getting to spend Christmas with those who know what it is and can distinguish it from New Years was an amazing treat. This year, the stockings were our best socks; the shoes were drying by the fire; the shining sun was a Christmas miracle; the dinner was made completely from scratch (with the addition of wonderful canned cranberry sauce); the gifts were knitted with care; the chocolates were hand delivered from Switzerland; and the skype conversations with family back home were a blessing.

Kyle reaches the top of the dune, shortly followed by a solitary man, part of our camp-group. We sit and catch our breath, calculating how much easier it could have been if we had climbed the less steep side now visible to us. The weather couldn’t be more wonderful, and a welcome contrast to the rain the week before. The wet weather made some of my travel plans difficult. I was amazed at my forgiving and good-natured travel companions as the showers culminated in a drenching downpour and a wet-to-the-bone walk up the mountainside to Randy’s house.

Claire’s voice reaches us from somewhere down below. She won’t make it up any time soon and it is nearing midnight. I convince Kyle out of just sleeping at the top and we slide back down. I can imagine that taking big or running steps down the slope would be even more enjoyable in the daylight. In the darkness it is a strange sensation of stepping into darkness into something that won’t hold your weight. It is thrilling if not frightening.

We make it back down, laughing too loud for our sudden proximity to the camp, snuggle into our sleeping bags and shut our eyes for short night’s sleep. Before sunrise we get up again, witness the beauty of the sky and the dunes. Then it is back onto our saddles, a bit more tenderly than the day before, and back out of the desert.

The next day I am back home and getting ready to say goodbye to my friends. Of course their stay flew by too quickly, just as this year went by too fast. Last New Year’s Eve I spent with two new friends in a house in a small village. The New Year came in with the computer battery dieing right at midnight, the electricity having gone out an hour before. Our music held out to count down the last minutes of 2008. 2009 came in with darkness, and I left it that way as well. New Year’s Eve I was too exhausted from travel and went to bed before midnight, alone in my house.

This last year was a very full one. I know that my experience here has changed me in some ways (just ask my last visitors). It is the only year I have spent entirely out of the US. While away, I’ve made many new friends from different countries and cultures; I’ve learned a new language; I’ve learned how to make and do many new things from scratch; and I’ve gotten to exchange knowledge with those I work with.

I can’t say that 2009 was the best year I’ve experienced so far. There were plenty of challenges, and every step I take upward most certainly sinks halfway down. However, I see my progress in looking back. The dark mass of the dune is underneath and I have a new vantage point. Welcome 2010.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Although I appreciate the religious significance of Christmas and Easter, Thanksgiving is relatively free of the headaches and expectations of gift-giving, but full of family and food (what more can I ask for?). Of course this makes it doubly difficult to spend my favorite holiday so far away from those very comforts.

L’Eid Kbir (remember this from last year?), which moves back two weeks every year on the lunar calendar was positioned only two days after Thanksgiving this year. What did this mean? Well, first it meant that the travel restriction put on all volunteers during the week surrounding the Muslim holiday put a damper on gathering on Thanksgiving day. No problem, I still managed to cook a small meal for a group that was not so much comprised of Americans but Koreans and Moroccans (and we had a blast).

It also meant that Saturday would be the final day for a lot of sheep. Last year I compared some aspects of L’Eid Kbir to Thanksgiving, both are centered on a particular animal to be consumed. With this in mind and with encouragement from a friend, I was determined to have my own “sheep” to sacrifice this year. I bought a live turkey.

It was a bit hard to come by on the days leading up to L’Eid, I went to souq the day the sheep was bought buy my neighbors. Nothing but men standing next to their sheep as buyers grab the sheep’s backside and lift its back legs to size it up. We wove in and around the bleating mass and kept track of the favorites until a purchase was finally made.

I found my turkey on Thanksgiving morning. She was a beautiful bird, and what they call a “country turkey” meaning she probably had a free-range life in the countryside surrounding my town. I grabbed her firmly by her tied legs and took her back to my courtyard (which, if you remember, also housed chickens at one point). I made sure she’d be comfortable for the few days she would occupy my home. Seeing her stand up on my courtyard also gave me reference of how much larger she was than my chickens. I wouldn’t allow her to intimidate me, however, and she showed no signs of being particularly feisty.

The big day came, and the animals were assembled on the roof of my neighbors’ house: two sheep (one from their daughter and son-in-law who came in), two kittens (not to be eaten), and one turkey. The oldest son present was in charge of slaughtering the animals, one by one, while everyone else takes action in immediately skinning and taking apart the animal, or else keeping the tile-ground constantly clean. There is an order and efficiency to it that makes its regularity obvious.

Having not grown up practicing first hand what it means for an animal to go from farm to plate, I mostly stay behind my camera. Although this is the second year I’ve celebrated L’Eid and seen the slaughter, it is still a very powerful and sad thing to witness the death of the animal. It is also amazing and disturbing how quick the transition is from animal to “meat”. The way my brain processes the two is very different.

I did put my hands to work in de-feathering my bird. I knew this was everyone’s concern about my extra contribution to the event. Usually chickens are de-feathered at the chicken seller’s around the corner, but of course no one would be open the morning of L’Eid. It ended up not being as terrible as I thought it would, many hands made light work, and I made sure every last feather was gone.

Lunch was grilled liver wrapped in fat, the traditional first meal. The second traditional meal, a stew of stomach, lung, and esophagus, I managed to miss out on this year. When I asked when would be a good time to serve my turkey, I was told the evening of the first day would be fine, turkey would be a healthy break from all the lamb-meat. So that is how I ended up preparing a Thanksgiving dinner on L’Eid. Okay, okay, so I only prepared one side of roasted veggies, but I did have stuffing and gravy to accompany the bird. I received much praise for the meal, which was well consumed despite the day of eating cookies and mutton. Afterwards I went back to my house, left my kitchen a disaster for the night and went to bed.

This year, although I have an ocean between any blood relatives and the assortment of pies and sides that make Thanksgiving what it is, I have my “family” here as well as a will to cook, and a can of imported cranberry sauce. That will do this year, and I’m more than thankful for it.

Peace Corps Mourns the Loss of Volunteer So-Youn Kim

Sometimes you only know someone for a short time, and sometimes in that short time you are able to glimpse a bright spark, a fiery, generous soul. This is a great loss to the Peace Corps Morocco family. I can only imagine the magnitude of this loss to her family and friends, both here, in America, and elsewhere abroad. Please keep those she whose lives she touched in your thoughts and prayers.

11 a.m. That is the time I should have left town in order to catch the train from Rabat down to Marrakech at 1:45 p.m. Lynn will be on the train already, and I’ll join her for our trip down south for a pottery workshop.

No problem, plenty of time. It wouldn’t take much time for me to finish packing my bags. The only other thing I had to do was swing by the electric company to get my new meter installed (it is a whole other story of why I need to do this on this morning, and not too interesting). I was told to be there at 8:15 a.m. in order to catch the man who does the installing. I’m an early riser; I’ll make sure I’m there at 8.

I get there at 8:10, there are a few people in front of me describing directions to their houses to the man behind the counter. My turn is up and I initially baffle the man by speaking Arabic instead of French. I describe the location of my house, he isn’t quite sure where it is but some other guys overhear and help me find a landmark with which he is familiar.

“I’ll stop by sometime this morning.” I hear, a sinking feeling in my stomach. This is going to be like waiting for the cable guy, isn’t it? I almost tell him I need to leave my house at 11, but I sense this will be fruitless. It’s like trying to tell a rain shower to stop by your garden on schedule.

No problem. I go back to my house and finish packing, making sure the house is secured. I’ll just wait until 11 and then leave if he hasn’t shown up. Of course this would require going back to the electric company and explaining that I do actually live where I say I do, I just couldn’t wait around for him, but I will be there this next time for sure.

11:01 a.m. a knock at the door with both my landlord’s voice and the voice of the electric meter man. I open the door as they are sizing up the spot where the meter is to be installed. It won’t be installed until later, he just wants to see the spot. I first need to take some paperwork by the electric company and pay for the meter.

Okay, no problem. I’ll just grab my bags and pass by there on my way to the taxi stand. We converse for a few moments in front of my door. The electric meter man thoroughly amused that I can speak to him in his own language. He hands over the papers I need to take in. I load myself down with my packed bags and head out for the electric company once again.

When I arrive at 11:17 a.m. I notice everyone in the building is in front of one window, the one I need. A short note about lines here in Morocco, people don’t really get in a single file line. Usually people are crowded around the counter, the most aggressive people getting attention first. There might be an attempt at a line with papers and ID cards lined up on the counter if you’re lucky.

I assess the situation, looking for where to get in—maybe it’s a fast moving line. “You need a folder for your papers.” I turn to the man addressing me. “Don’t you see everyone else has folders for their papers. You need a folder so they won’t mix your papers up. Go around the corner to the bookstore and buy an envelope.” I try to protest but I feel it might be easier to just buy the envelope.

I come back with a folder a few minutes later and study the tangled mass once more. This time I notice one of the women that had been going to my jewelry making classes last spring. She is a petite, and nearly swallowed up by the crowd. She notices me and wiggles her way out. I greet her and ask her how long she has been waiting. “Since 8 a.m.” she replies. Not a good sign.

At this point I’m strongly considering cutting my losses and making a run for the train. I speak with her about how she and her family are doing and the latest news, and then ask, “What should I do? I need to catch my train.” I shift with the weight of my bags, which have been drawing curious stares.

“We’ll make sure you get your turn soon.” A woman who’d been overhearing our conversation says with a smile. Two men take my folder and make sure it is placed in the line of folders on the counter. The line inches up with some speed and surprisingly my turn is up before too long.

The man behind the counter takes my envelope, glances at it and sets it aside.

“Tell him what you need. His name is Hassan. Knock on the window!” Various members of the line have suddenly decided to help me and urge me on. “Knock again, he didn’t here you. Tell him that you have to travel. Tell him you have a train to catch.”

I’m not normally an aggressive person, I knocked timidly and using my most polite language I ask about my folder and my need simply to pay for a meter.

“The man smiles at me and holds up a stack of folders, of which mine was just added. “Do you see? I have all of these before you.”

“Tell him you need to catch your train, you have to travel. Knock on the window again!”

I feel myself fighting my dislike of being the self-centered line-butter and my need to catch a train and the voices urging me on.

Hassan gets up with my folder and walks into the back room. I wait for him to emerge for 5 minutes. Eventually he returns and sits back down, working on something amidst a continuous stream of requests shouted out by different members of the crowd, some who had just walked in. Throughout this time I’d been frequently glancing at my watch and calculating the possibilities of still catching the train. There still may be hope, maybe.

“340 dirhams please.” I quickly had over the bills. Another trip to another back room costs another 5 minutes before and he returns to sit behind the counter. I’m waiting for a sign to leave, and receive not even a glance in my direction.

By this point I’m still being urged to speak up. My polite requests have turned to quiet pleadings and statements of my departure. “I have to go, I’ll come back next week.” I squeek out with all the power of a mouse.

“You can’t leave, you need your receipt! They have to know you’ve paid.” I’m told repeatedly.

My watch is pointed at noon, my travel calculations put this as the absolute latest I can leave to catch the train. Suddenly Hassan looks up and directs me to another window. I walk over, sweating from the wait of my bags and anxiety. I feel the crowd’s eyes following me. I wait for another 30 seconds and the receipt is in my hand.

“That’s it.” Hassan’s voice is like a gun shot at the race track. Suddenly I’m not just catching this train for myself, or Lynn, but for the entire electric-company-line team. I spot an unloading taxi pulled up right in front of the building. My hope and determination rejuvenated I hop in and am carried away to the taxi stand.

I get there just in time to see a full cab pull away. A movie in my head plays where I run after it and plead with passengers to sell me their seat, but the taxi heads towards Rabat without me as I wait in another cab for it to fill up. 10 minutes later we too are ready to go. I consider telling the cab driver of my train and if he could make sure we get there in good time, but before we take off a man walks up and hands over the paper. He says something about what to say to the police if the driver is pulled over. It sounds a bit shady so I decide not to cause any trouble. If we speed we’re more likely to be pulled over, and I don’t feel good about encouraging a driver to speed anyway.

The entire drive I feel each slow truck and stop light, each fortuitous turn and pass. So close has our time come to my either catching the train or not catching it every move makes a difference. We pull into the taxi stand in Rabat and I hope out like a rabbit to catch a petit taxi. I find one going my way, only to hit traffic, and then maneuver around it. I calculate my fare before the meter. When we pull up I throw my change at the driver and bolt for the ticket station.

At the ticket counter the line is fortunately light. I enquire about the train to Marrakech, which yes, is here right now. My hands are barely visibly trembling as I pass over the bills. Ticket in hand I run to the platform.

My phone starts to ring but I don’t have time to pick it up. I race down the stairs, arriving to find an emptied platform. I answer my phone.

“Where are you? I think I’m towards the front of the train unless we dropped some cars.”

“Did you just leave the station?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’m not on the train. I’ll have to catch the next one. I’ll talk to you later.” A sudden burst of disappointment and relief at my race having reached a conclusion. I failed my need to be on time for things and I failed all those kind people still likely back in that line at the electric company waiting their day away. I would catch the next train in two hours and spend the long boring ride alone. It is certainly something I can handle in any case.

To recuperate I went to my favorite Rabat treat, the falafel place nearby. I took my bags off my back and sighed, the adrenalin rush leaving me exhausted in its wake.

While waiting for my falafel to arrive I search for something to read and discover a little “Travel” quote book given to me by my friend Claire. I always carry it in my purse next to the miniature sock-monkey, my constant travel-partner, but rarely crack it open. I gravitated towards it suddenly needing something to relate to my situation.

On the first page I flipped to I find a quote to catch my eye, “All his life he [the American] jumps into the train after it has started and jumps out before it has stopped; and he never once gets left behind, or breaks a leg.” –George Santayana

Lies! I wanted to shout out, but I just laugh to myself instead. There is a kernel of truth there. I doubt my Moroccan neighbors would have been as ambitious to get their electric meter installed the morning they were going to catch a train. My real train that morning was the line back there at the electric company. I jumped in at the last minute with the expectation of taking care of business and nearly left before I had everything in order. All the while being carried along safely and as quickly as possible by the kind, considerate people of my town.

Last Tuesday volunteers started trickling into my site for a cheese-making workshop. By Wednesday morning we had nine of us crammed into my tiny kitchen hovering over pots of heating milk. We ended up making five cheeses in all, including: Feta, Yoghurt and yoghurt cheese, Neufchatel/Farmers cheese, Gouda and Ricotta. I figured out a way to get all the necessary ingredients and equipment in Morocco, but still no success with Mozzarella. So we picked Mozzarella up at the store—a trip that delighted some volunteers since it included a horse carriage ride to the big grocery store, both of which most volunteers don’t have in their sites.

It was a very cheesy couple of days and we enjoyed Greek salad (with the Feta), cheese and crackers, Ricotta cream dessert, and several different pizzas topped in various cheesy ways. I felt it was a success over all, the cheeses came out great and I managed to sleep nine people in my modest home. I did want to included more Moroccans in this workshop, but realized what worked best for volunteers—scheduling during the slow Ramadan period—was the opposite for Moroccans busy preparing for lftor and maybe not the best to have around a mostly non-fasting American group. My neighbor did attend when she could catch a break from her household chores, but I will definitely have to repeat this again at another time.

On Friday our entire group moved down to Jon and Emily’s site for papermaking. There was a collective stretch as they realized the Lindbergs have considerably more space than I do. We got started right away breaking down egg crates, milk cartons, and other cardboard/paper trash. After turning it all into pulp we each got to try our hand at pulling paper on their roof while keeping an eye on the ominous sky overhead. The equipment needed for papermaking is a little more involved than cheese-making, but I would like to gather the necessary materials together to start my own paper-making fun.

Saturday we made a hike down to the source, the spring from which Oulmes water is bottled, in between rain showers and making paper. It is a good hike down a mountain and back up, but I made it all the way this time! Down at the bottom a friendly man showed us around the pumping site. They have a healthy population of cats breeding down there. I didn’t drink the water, but I did get to stick my hand in the warm baths set aside for hikers interested in the healing properties of mineral water. The spring pumps out perfect bathwater.

The weather has been crazy lately. It went from being so hot that sweat was a constant companion to down right chilly in a week. I am under two warm blankets as we speak. What caused this change was a pattern of rain showers, started by a big old-fashioned thunderstorm. Did I want rain? Yes, considering summer was basically devoid of it. Did I want cool? Yes, I’m tired of sweating. Do I want winter? Not until my toenails heal so they can get frostbitten again on a clean slate.

The cooler weather did inspire a fall dinner on Saturday. We roasted a stuffed chicken, made bread stuffing, mashed potatoes, and green beans. It was a mini-thanksgiving. We eat pretty well when we get together around here, I must say. I’ve also found my ultimate cooking partner, Kristen. I’m more of a baker, so I prefer to take care of anything that involves flour, and she is an excellent cook. We’re a dangerous combination.

Sunday I stayed behind as the others filed out and got back to their lives. The paper we made was dried and ironed and I was determined to make a sketchbook with it. I learned a bookbinding technique from Emily, which I made a cover for back in my site. I’ll never buy a sketchbook again!

To wrap up this “summary of my week” post, the end of Ramadan is in sight. All during the workshops last week I had stopped fasting. Fasting is much more fun when you are breaking your fast with other Moroccans. I have gone back to it though, and it wasn’t so hard of a transition between the two. I’m actually considering fasting once in a while, like once a month. It really makes you slow down and think about food in a new way. I don’t need to constantly obsess about filling my stomach. It is important to enjoy what you are eating, and pick good foods both in taste and nutritional content. Many people go without food for much longer stretches of time, and many not by choice. It is also about fighting instant gratification, which I feel is a big problem in contemporary America. Of course, in my head I know these things already, but fasting makes them present.

Recent discoveries:

1.) Not eating for long (up to 20 hour) periods of time won’t necessarily result in torturous stomach pain, inability to work, or death. I think I may have believed the contrary up until last week. American culture is focused on eating at every available opportunity-- woe the person who suffers from a pang of hunger. I definitely had an almost diabetic’s obsession with making sure I had access to something, anything, at all times just in case my stomach was empty and I started to feel tired or hungry.

It was hard to imagine that it could be possible to go through the day without food (or water) and still be able to function. So with Ramadan coming up I prepared myself to suffer considerably and was completely surprised to find I could grow accustomed to it, virtually pain-free. In part I think it helps that I have no other chemical habits to give up (cigarettes, coffee), but there is a lot to say about forming eating habits. When at my most scheduled, I can feel the first signs of hunger exactly at 12 noon, when I allow myself to declare “lunch”. A snack at 3pm becomes almost necessity to get me through the afternoon. However, if I simply tell myself I can’t eat until exactly sunset, well, so be it. There is no big temptation in treating myself to something between meals if I’ve forbid myself from putting anything in my mouth until the appropriate time. The hard rule makes it easier for my body to accept the challenge.

Of course, I’m also glad that Ramadan is only a month for the fact that I am a morning person and don’t think I could put up with eating for the day between sunset to first light for much longer than that time period. Also, if you make the mistake of not drinking enough water during the night, you may suffer more considerably during the day (we need water before food, after all).

A final note, it doesn’t seem like condensing your meals saves much time. Every day I wonder where the time went, I never feel like I’ve accomplished quite enough “before breakfast”.

2.) I can eat my chicken and her eggs too. So, to follow up on my chicken experiment, I’ve found that I would definitely keep chickens for their eggs if I had space to do so in a future living arrangement. However, they sort of took over my small courtyard and with the cooling weather I imagine a nice outdoor sanctuary for me and a few potted plants. Also, the landlord upstairs was starting to complain about the noise (this was mostly due to a visiting rooster, and grumpy Ramadan mornings, but I don’t need to pick that fight).

What did this mean for my hens? It meant finding out if this suburban child had enough farm girl in her to mercilessly eat her “pets”. Apparently, the answer is “yes”. The scrawny, noisy one was up first. We made pastilla, the delicious and famously Moroccan savour-sweet pastry dish. We buried my hen between layers of thin pastry, herbed scrabbled egg, and almonds, topped with cinnamon and sugar.

“Big Momma”, my other girl, is up next. She once extended her life by allowing me to pet her, but now my cold, cold heart races as I flip through cookbooks.

3.) It is, in fact, worth it to take a trip back up to the mountains specifically to pick blackberries (and visit my former host-family). Wild (i.e. free) fruit is sweetest!

4.) Cheese can be a simple, yet tricky culinary challenge. I’ve been learning leaps and bounds as I gear up for a cheese-making workshop I am hosting this coming week. It has been interesting trying to figure out what ingredients are really available in Morocco. I think I can find everything locally now.

It amazes me how much variety you can get simply by changing the timing and temperature of the same basic ingredients. Nope, still no Brie without the mold culture. Bummer.

5.) It has been nearly a year since I’ve arrived and I have been free of any major stomach issue! Even the minor stomach issues have been few and far between. I can only imagine the amazing stomach flora and fauna I must have to put up such a good fight. Keep it going team!

The last two weekends I have been fortunate enough to take advantage of Morocco’s beaches. The first I visited with Jon, Emily (who happened to be doing some errands in Rabat) and Nadiya. Skhirat Beach, just south of Rabat was great for swimming, and a bit over-crowded. By contrast, KaHf l’Hammam (or “Paradise Beach”), south of Asilah, was empty when we got there, and had a rougher surf. Asilah itself was cute, decorated with murals from an annual festival that took place just before we arrived.

In Asilah our group consisted of all PCVs, using our Holiday four-day weekend for a break on the beach. Coincidentally, Ramadan also started last weekend, which means a major-shift in schedule for Morocco. Food is harder to come-by in the middle of the day, since Muslims fast during daylight hours. Although I was planning on fasting when I got back to my site, I didn’t want to start while on my mini-vacation. Fortunately the little food-shacks at Paradise Beach were happily catering to tourists and didn’t have an issue with preparing a delicious tajine for us. I guess it is okay to be a tourist now and then.

I came into this country a lunar year ago, during the month of Ramadan. The specific smells and atmosphere of this special month bring back memories of those first weeks. I keep thinking of my first host family, whom I recently visited during my trip to Ain Leuh.

I remember my host mother sitting on her kitchen floor, patting out the milawi (flakey pancakes) or heating up the bgharir (cross between a pancake/crepe) and slathering them with butter and honey. I remember tending to the fish frying on a pan balanced precariously on a gas tank burner, or the warming milk on the stove; the dates that break the fast and the harira that follows; the sticky shbekiya, the grainy zmita. I didn’t attempt to fast while dealing with the whirlwind of other changes, so when l’ftor came around I didn’t exactly have an empty stomach to take in all the calorie-rich foods.

A year later and here I am again, a whole other person, yet not. This year I am going to try to fast for part, if not all of Ramadan. This was a common question asked amongst PCVs leading up to it, “Are you going to fast this Ramadan?” Everyone has reasons for or against fasting, and I do agree it must be a personal decision. I’m not Muslim, but I am open to another insight into the culture I’m currently living in. I feel more prepared this year to handle the physical strain I might endure. Of course, I won’t go so far as to put myself in any real danger health-wise, and am prepared to drink water if the day proves too long and hot.

I am on my third day of fasting, and have been doing all right so far, despite a head cold I’ve been working through. I am embraced by the warm smiles that appear when I answer, “Yes, I am fasting.” L’ftor is shared with friends and neighbors. Although I could probably take on the calorie-rich foods in stride this year, I’m trying hard to drink more harira, and have a healthy meal later in the evening. That is the one major issue I’m encountering right now. When exactly should I eat that second meal? I love to wake up early, and don’t take a lot of joy in the late hours of the night. Waking up at 3:30 the first night to take a meal before the fasting began for the day (a little after 4am) didn’t make it easy to get back to sleep. I ended up not really sleeping at all until the next night when I stayed up until 1am to get in the second meal with enough time (and exhaustion) to sleep through to morning. Even without an alarm it is difficult for me to stay asleep past 7am. I think my days will just have to be a bit long. Amazingly though, they seem much shorter.

This last week was spent back in my old training grounds, Ain Leuh. I spent my first three months in Morocco there, nestled in the mountains. Once again Ramadan is approaching and it felt almost as if I never left when the taxi pulled up and I took the long, steep staircase up to the PCV’s house.

My second stay in Ain Leuh had its ups and downs. I came to help out with an Environment Camp. My main role was in helping with a mural to be painted on one of the long walls just below the park (which was also to be cleaned as part of the camp). Originally I had planned to do some other art-recycling projects with the kids, but this didn’t work out (and considering the activities I had been thinking of were for a younger audience than our 16-18 year old campers, I’m glad I didn’t). The mural itself was pretty successful. We had two other PCV artists, Jon and Emily, as well as several other volunteers making sure of its success.

We wanted the campers whose town we were in to have a big role in seeing the mural go up. One young artist drew up an environment-themed picture that we translated onto the long wall. We had some good hands in there making sure the mural was painted carefully, but my favorite helpers were the younger kids that came up looking for a way to get in on the action. I think the youngest were even more careful with the paint than the oldest.

Collectively I think the PCVs felt disappointed in the way the camp was run. It was clear that not all the money was being used the way it should have been. Also, there was a lack of adult supervision and group activities beyond the morning work (mural painting and park-cleaning). This lead to too much free time and too many opportunities to get into trouble. It was made clear to us just before the camp started that we were not to overstep our bounds in taking control of the camp. In the end, we decided to not become further involved than the project we had already started with the mural.

It is frustrating feeling helpless in this situation. What more could we have done? Things like corruption are not easy to tackle, but it is hard to sit by and watch. A lot of people seem to accept it as just the way things are.

By comparison the Spring English Camp I was involved in worked so much better.

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The flip side of my camp experience was the time I got to bond with the PCVs who came out to help with the camp. It was the longest I have stayed over at a PCVs house, and we all got along very well. It was fun to share good food and conversation, games…and most importantly, berry picking.

By serendipitous timing, we arrived for camp just as the wild blackberries were ripening along the roads. For this berry-starved PCV this was nearly miraculous! The berries ripened fast enough that we could go out daily and collect more berries. In the morning before camp I would grab my berry-picking stick and any other eager volunteers and went out to gather. The hunt is exciting. I’ve never lived in a place with blackberries or their cousins so I haven’t had the experience of fighting prickly thorns and precarious ditches to nab the juiciest berries.

With them we made pancake/French toast syrup, Blackberry custard pie, and jam to take home. It is exciting to eat in season, like an unexpected gift. The season is so brief though, and limited to the cooler, wetter mountains, that it was hard to go back to my berry-free site.

Next year I’ll be ready.

Giving is an issue that runs through my head on a daily basis. With the current economy-situation it can be difficult to be generous a times. Or maybe that isn’t true—haven’t I heard that those who are closest to poverty give the largest percentage of what they have to help others? Debt is more the burden I bear (student loans that is) that weighs on my heart of giving. There is the constant tug of being responsible to my debt vs. needing to help others who are in harder situations.

Then again, I afford myself indulgences. I travel around this country for more than just work. I’ll even eat out on occasion. Of course I should have enough to share with those sitting on the street with their hands cupped for offerings.

Why is my first response defensiveness an embarrassment when approached by those asking for a hand-out? I think in part it is America’s system of giving to particular charities, which in turn deal with the target groups. We are most often a step removed from that outstretched hand, from the verbal pleading. Or, if we do encounter someone on the streets there is an element of distrust. Why hadn’t they been helped by charity X, Y Z that I donate to? Are they looking for drug/alcohol money? Are they crazy?

Maybe I’ve just been too sheltered by my own accord. Now I feel myself sticking out like a sore thumb—foreigner = money. I’m sure I attract more attention, but those who were on the streets were the before I left my house, palms up.

I’m embarrassed to be followed when I am walking with a friend. Even more embarrassed when the Moroccan opens her coin purse to quiet the pleas. Am I not here to help those in my community? Peace Corps has an emphasis on providing skills and knowledge to be passed along to improve peoples lives, not on providing mere handouts that may not last until the next one. Teach a man to fish and all that.

Maybe it is just my struggle with spontaneity. I am much less likely to say “yes” to an invitation to lunch today than tomorrow. Your chances are even better if we set a time next week. Give me time to consider the consequences and I am much happier for it. Come up and tug on my shirt while I’m in the middle of vegetable shopping and I’m too taken aback to want to say yes, even if I have my coin purse handy. I’m not good at impulse shopping.

Moroccans know the system. Giving is a pillar of Islam. You are expected to give when you have something. This is not just reserved for the needy. If you peel an orange it is rude to not hand juicy sections to those in your presence, especially children. Moreover, the system of charity we have in the US is not seen to the same extent here. From my observation, people in my town are likely to give directly to those in need rather than to an organization.

So what do I do? I can’t say “yes” every time I’m approached. A trip outside my house during peek times can seem almost like a frenzy. I don’t want to feel like the rich foreigner or the fool--the easy target. My discomfort at having to make a snap decision keeps my coin purse shut all too often. When do I say “okay”? How do I judge who is most worthy? How can I be humble enough for generosity?

After some indecisiveness I ended up staying in my site on the 4th of July. Enough with traveling for a while, I think. Give me another week or so and I'll be back on the road.

This isn't to imply a holiday weekend devoid of excitement. I broke out my tiny BBQ pit/tajine-coal pot and grilled cheeseburgers and made french freedom fries! Jon and Emily came up as a convenient over-night stop to traveling down the southern-coast. I also had three of the korean volunteers over and Nadiya. Perhaps we American's were outnumbered, but it couldn't have been a better mix. And nothing makes you feel more patriotic than having to explain exactly who you gained independence from. That, and watching fireworks videos on YouTube.

Sunday I drew most of the day, which was rewarding. I'll be posting some of my recent work on DeviantArt.

Instead of giving you my reasons for not blogging in quite some time, I’ll just pick up where my life is at the moment.

On Friday after work I met up with one of the girls who comes to the nedi in the artisana where I work. Tuesday she had invited me out to the larobiya, or countryside, to stay with her family out there for a bit. I haven’t really gotten to explore the vast rolling hills and farmlands that sprawl from any direction outside of town. This seemed like a perfect opportunity and I got over my initial apprehension and prediction of discomfort and said “Waxxa” (Okay).

We caught a taxi, with her mom, two kids and grandmother. Ten minutes later the stuffit (bus crammed full of people) dropped us off in front of a dirt road. We took this a short way to a small collection of homes and a one-room school. We had our mint tea out in front of the house in the cooling evening air and watched the sheep, chickens, dogs, donkeys, and cows come and go, mingling with us.

Yes, plumbing and electricity are nice, but all in all it was a pleasant start to the weekend. Although the food was unsurprisingly Moroccan, the carrots and squash and milk were amazingly even fresher and tastier than what I buy outside my house (I didn’t think it was possible). Plus, I got to ride a donkey.

I may be back for seconds sometime soon.

How about a few highlights from my April trip around Northern Morocco with my first American visitors, Fred and Candy. We had a great time. My neighbors, who hosted a few meals for them, and I can’t stop talking about how much we miss them!

Here are a small amount of our wonderful adventures and discoveries:

-Putting on the hat as translator and negotiator was surprisingly fun (most of the time).

-Getting lost in the Meknes medina, and finding a “pit stop” in the unlit, unfinished room of a kind Moroccan woman.

-Making Texas chili and cornbread for my neighbors, served in a tajin of course.

-Bargaining for the best price on two beautiful Moroccan rugs at the big Tuesday Souk in my town.

-Listening to Nadiya’s brother play at a nightclub on the beach in Tangier.

-Learning my choice of phrases in English has become more Moroccan—“As you like it” became a running joke.

-Teaching Fred “may God grant you health also” in response to “may God grant you health” in Arabic.

-Startling my guests with my eagerness to dig my hands into the couscous and pop a nicely formed ball of the stuff in my mouth, Moroccan-style.

-Losing 50 dirhams to the slot machines at the casino in Tangier (Candy that is, not me).

-Driving through the beautiful Rif Mountains and staying in a hotel in ChefChaouen with a spectacular view of them.

-Eating snails on the street in Fes…with a safety pin.

-Sitting in a café overlooking Spain from across the straight while sipping mint tea.

More backlog.

I was determined to go to a church service for Easter, much in the same way I was determined to have dyed eggs for Easter and boiled vegetables for dye that adorned my homegrown eggs. The truth is I have become an Easter-and-Christmas churchgoer since I’ve come to Morocco. Well, except I didn’t go to church on Christmas either.

There is something about being in this country away from home. On one hand it is easy to be the sponge absorbing the culture around me, learning and discovering. I’m suspended in a new cultural bubble away from what I came into the world knowing. It is in this way I’m developing a new appreciation and understanding for mint tea, Islamic culture, and making sure your guests have too much to eat. On the other hand my own alien quality here sometimes makes me feel like I’m on an island-- those comforts and routines of home and community are sorely missed. Church is among them.

It is with this hunger that I eagerly jumped at the opportunity to attend an actual church service on Easter day as proposed by my closest PCV neighbor, Alex-- never mind that there was an ongoing transportation strike in Morocco.

Alex fell into an invitation by the pastor himself to host us volunteers (including another PCV neighbor, Meghan) the night before so that we could attend the sunrise service with them. So that Saturday we prepared some delicious lemon cranberry scones (thanks for the cranberries mom!) for an Easter potluck brunch at the pastor’s house, and made our way to the taxi stand. Fortunately for us, the taxi drivers in my town had changed their minds from the “la, makaynsh” I got in the morning and took us to Rabat anyway. Well, almost to Rabat. We had to get out of the cab just outside of town so our driver wouldn’t “get rocks thrown at him” by the strikers. We caught a bus, and then a petit taxi (not yet on strike) and found ourselves at the doorstop of a very American couple.

More than anything the experience made me realized how much I’ve adjusted to Moroccan hospitality and custom (it was a joke that I felt compelled to remove my shoes to walk on their carpet). It also, much like the scent of cinnamon-rolls that the pastor’s wife was preparing for the next day, brought on a feeling of nostalgia and longing for the familiar. We were lulled to sleep watching a movie with bellies full of Pizza Hut.

The alarm went off at 4:30am and we all got up, got ready and headed out to the Chellah. Lined up against the crumbling wall and looking out over the valley-landscape was an inspiring spot to spend and Easter service. The cranes were clacking their beaks and gliding low over the trees below us as the sun peeked out between two banks of clouds as we remembered why we were there.

Afterwards the brunch followed. Much English was spoken amongst those from many different countries. As the brunch came to an end, the three of us decided we could use a little more church and went to the next service in the actual church. Here again, the diversity was inspiring. What brought us all to that place at that time were our common beliefs and language in a country where they are uncommon. It was freeing to hear my voice with it’s own Midwestern US accent join in song with those from Europe and West Africa, Asia…

The rest of the day was pleasant, if not newsworthy. I relaxed and enjoyed Rabat after I discovered the possibility of leaving the city that day was slim (Rabat taxi drivers demonstrated more solidarity). I did eventually make it home, but that is another story altogether.

Where to begin?

The last month has flown by. It has come to the point where I feel there is too much to share with you all. My only solution is to take it in pieces. Forgive my time-lagging.

Lets back up to late March. As I mentioned I had gone to Fes for a meeting, returned with a bird and then immediately did Spring camp at my site. What I neglected to mention was that I had gone to a wedding in there too. The day I had bought my canary and got him safely to my house 2+ hours away, I turned around and went out to rent the appropriate attire for my first Moroccan wedding.

I had heard about these weddings. Several of my fellow trainees had already been to a wedding, some early on when language was still such that “We are taking you to my cousin’s wedding across town and we won’t be back until morning” would have been an incomprehensible sentence which would have had to include a game of charades for full comprehension. I had learned from others that there would be dancing all night, huge courses of food and sweets, and a bride with a frequently changing outfit--all to the beat of Moroccan music. So I can’t pretend I hadn’t been forewarned on what this even would entail.

Being a stubborn early-riser (between the chickens, canary and I, we’re all early-birds in this house) I didn’t look forward to the all-night aspect. I approached the event with a mix of excitement, adventure, and the resignation to discomfort you feel before getting your wisdom teeth pulled. I knew I had to seize this opportunity, an invitation by my neighbors to join them in their relative’s wedding, that I would be in good hands and guided through the night with as much forgiveness and understanding as possible.

My attire having been obtained for the evening (a turquoise takshita—or “Disney princess dress” as I would call it), we made ourselves ready and headed out to the reception hall out past the taxi stand at 8:30pm. The room itself looked surprisingly American (I suppose the same variety of reception locations exist here. Some others I’ve heard of taking place on roofs or in tents or just in the street). We took a table with a vantage point of the 2/3 empty room, the band, and the throne-like reception area for the bride and groom.

This celebration itself isn’t one that follows a church wedding. The Moroccan wedding process is different in that respect, and I’m still not entirely clear on the details. I do know that the bride has been properly hennaed (had intricate designs drawn on her with henna, a plant-dye) and celebrated the day before by women relatives and friends. I also know that this event isn’t the last one for the bride and groom, and that we don’t send them off in a car to their honeymoon at the end of the night.

By around 10pm the room had started to fill up and my aching stomach hoped that there would be some nourishment provided soon (I had a very light lunch anticipating a food-heavy evening). Dancing began. The family of the bride came around and welcomed everyone.

At 1am we were served dinner. By this point I would have gleefully eaten cardboard, but instead we were provided three whole chickens (for our table of about 10) with olives and onions. Immediately following this we were presented with a huge slab of beef with prunes. This was barely picked at. These dishes are fairly traditional tajins, and ones I have noticed being served particularly for group occasions. The abundance of meat (there weren’t really any vegetables to speak of) provided more evidence that Moroccan weddings are the same wealth-sharing events we know in America.

After dinner the dancing resumed. I did get up and dance a few times, but I found myself more content watching the others for stretches of time. The bride and groom were carried around on ornate thrones at one point, and in all I counted at least 7 wardrobe changes by the bride—including a traditional shlha (“berber”) wedding dress and makeup. By around 4am I was really feeling the lack of sleep. I had tried hard to stay awake, but with no sugar or caffeine or will to go on dancing I let my eyes close a time or two. Eventually the yells of “you can’t sleep!” subsided and I was allowed to relax a bit and close my eyes in peace. No real sleeping took place, however.

Around 5am the wedding was wrapping up. Official tea-pourers came out and impressively poured tea from amazing heights. We were each given a box of sweet treats and a glass of tea. My stomach had long gone to bed, so I skipped these temptations and gathered my belongings. The night ended as we poured out of the reception hall into the breaking dawn. I got home to a few hours of sleep before Jon and Emily arrived at my door for Spring Camp preparations.

I am very grateful for having had this experience of the all-out Moroccan wedding party. I would attend one again if I knew the couple or if I knew I could escape early. I have, however, found a new appreciation for the short and sweet American wedding receptions where we’ve waved goodbye to the newly weds and gotten to bed at a reasonable hour (I know, I know, me and the other early birds should all go eat worms).

Two weeks ago my lights went out. Or more specifically, I came home at dusk to discover that my electricity wasn’t working. Okay, nothing too unusual. My first instinct was to grab candles and the flashlight, but shortly after doing so I realized that the light in the alley way was working, and the light and hum of the tvs from my neighbors’ indicated that I may be alone in the dark.

It turns out that my electricity had been cut by the electric company—an unresolved issue with the 7-month unpaid bill left by the previous occupants. I knew this coming into the house and made it clear I wanted my own electric meter. I’d been waiting for the day the electric company wound collect this meter so that I could install my own. The day had arrived, sort of, and I was just about to leave for Fes the next day. After an attempt to resolve the issue the morning before leaving town I just gave up, moved some of my perishables to my neighbor’s fridge and headed to Fes for a meeting of the Small Business Development sector.

I felt the meeting was overall a productive one, mainly in just being able to compare notes with others facing similar situations. It is amazing how easy it is to get trapped on your own site bubble. We travel for hours or sometimes days to see each other it is like a little reunion whenever two or more of us gets together.

Fes proved itself to be a suitable host and I left with a canary in tow. Yes, I bought another bird, but this one was promised long ago when fellow CBT-mate Steven and I decided we would have to buy birds together. Steven bought a pair of ring-neck doves and I found a little yellow canary. We found them in a small shop along the narrow-winding streets of the old Fes medina (touted to be one of the largest living medieval cities, btw). The merchant quoted me an outrageously high price, and I got him down to a moderately-outrageous price. Considering where we made our purchases, I think the added character makes up for some of the price-difference.

Turning around from Fes I came back to my site for Spring Camp. My site is large enough to be the host of one of these camps. The school-kids are on their Spring Break for the week and they have the option of coming to these camps for fun and English-learning.

Originally, I thought I might have more time to myself to go about my usual routine to some degree in town. I quickly altered my expectations. I ended up co-teaching English in the morning with Emily (I think we made a great team) and in the afternoons Jon, Emily and I headed art club. In between all of this were other activities and games for the kids, as well as socializing with the other volunteers. I insisted on sleeping at my house, and that is just about all I did there, leaving at 8am and returning at 10pm each day. By the end of the week I was exhausted and I had gotten the best sleep out of anyone.

It was a great break from the usual, but now it is bad to work this week. I still need to solve my electricity problem and prepare myself for my first outside guests in a week and half!

Ever since I began thinking about living in my own place in Morocco I’ve had the crazy notion of having my own laying hens. I’m not quite sure of the origins of this thought except that I’m a bird-lover, egg-eater, and like to “grow” my own food. It only seems logical right?

The previous volunteer had a dog, and a doghouse that she would leave behind. I saw a potential chicken-coop. It wasn’t until the rains finally stopped a few weeks ago that I painted it with the help of Alex, a nearby volunteer, and Nadiya, my language tutor. Shortly there-after I went down behind the fish-market to women selling djaja bildeea (country hens…none of those ugly pale-white city chicks). I bought two girls who were close to egg-laying maturity but hadn’t started yet.

Long before I was ready to purchase chickens I had the name “Big Momma” picked out for one of them, I’m still not quite sure who said it, but why not? The other I decide should be called “Rafisa” which is a tasty chicken dish made with fenugreek, raslharnut, and harsha (delicious pan-fried semolina bread) served at special occasions such as weddings and births. Rafisa also sounds like a nice girl’s name so—perfect!

Big Momma and Rafisa are smarter than chickens are usually credited, and I have played many a game of “how did you get in the house this time?” with them. Just when I was eyeing those chicken legs for my next meal an egg appeared! I wasn’t sure who had laid it as neither was laying claim. It was small, oblong and looked as though it had been painfully borne. I almost ululated as a Moroccan mother would after her daughter gave birth to her first child.

Instead I ate it, fried in a little olive oil and sprinkled with a bit of salt. What satisfaction! I had earned that fresh egg.

Two days later, today in fact, I discovered who my first layer was—appropriately named Big Momma. She was acting rather motherly making herself a nest in the wood-shavings and laid her second egg right after I ate breakfast (bad timing on my part, I could have had a fresh egg instead of cereal with chunky milk). When I collected the egg I realized that it was still warm.

This experience so far has even more so than growing my own vegetables made me realize where my food is coming from and how the animal was fed and taken care of who gave me that food. It is nice to have a vegetable scrap-disposal in my courtyard, but I also go out of my way to make sure they are getting a balanced healthy chicken-diet. After all, what they eat will be processed and turned into what I eat. What better motivation to take care of something else when you realize it also becomes a part of you.

I realize it has been a while since I've posted. I apologize for this. I credit my absence here to being busy. More importantly perhaps I'm feeling scattered. I haven't had a neat and tidy event or thought to write to you, and I dislike a scattered incoherent blog-post. But how about a work update?

February brought me travels to a nearby city with 5 women from my town that I nominated to attend the "Women's Empowerment Conference." I think the event passed well, and although I got mixed feedback from the women (I tried to bring a diverse group with differing backgrounds and agendas) I think in the end it had a powerful impact on them. One came back and really took charge of the "Internation Women's Day" event in our city and another took charge in getting another women's association together.

A related travel story: When returning from the conference I was loaded into a bus packed with other women coming form the conference and going threw our town before they went on to connecting transportation to their towns. At the last minute we were loaded with even more women from the conference to the point that they had to bring in chairs for some people to sit in the aisle. This is not an uncommon practice in a "stuffit" (this is what they are referred to by Moroccans), but it is illegal and uncomfortable, and unsafe. At one point we almost hit a truck in front of us that stopped suddenly without signaling, we swerved out of the way in time. A while later down the road we were pulled over by the local authorities who had a complaint with our stuffed "stuffit". An argument ensued and at one point some of the women on the bus suggested I talk with the authorities and say that we were all returning from the same conference and that I was with an American organization, Peace Corps, etc. I was not interested in divulging any of this information--nor in having Peace Corps endorse unsafe travel practices which I had no part in. I asked why I should tell them this and since no one had a good answer and the fine looked like it was payed, we were once again on our way. We passed another city with authorities on the road, but we were warned ahead of time and closed all the curtains. No stopping us this time. We finally made it back close to sunset and I was extremely glad to get out of there.

I've since been busy running from one organization to the next. I've continued teaching English, although I'd rather start phasing it out. Attendance is very mixed and only a few students seem to come every week, the others randomly making it difficult to have a lesson building on the last. I will start teaching other handicrafts like jewelry making, as an interest and expectation exists. Supplies are always an issue for these projects and I'm trying to find the most sustainable avenues. I'm also trying to facilitate a grant that a previous volunteer helped bring to a wood cooperative right before he left.

Alright, there is my work update. I will try to be a little more regular with blog-updates too. I shoot for once a week or at least every-other week. Please check my flicker account (photos to the upper-right) which I seem to update more frequently. Pictures say more words than I do!

Yes, there are packaged foods here in Morocco. You can buy reasonably priced packaged cookies and salty-puffed corn – things I am not usually all that attracted to here or in the US unless I’m on a road trip or it is shoved in my face. However, the majority of what I would consider convenience food is either very high-priced, of sub-par quality, or just plain unavailable on a regular basis.

So with great joy and a light heart I have discovered my new convenience foods:

-Just heat and serve: I buy a little bag of pre-soaked chickpeas from the woman who sits outside my alleyway. At a moments notice I can decide to make Hummus or Harira without all that over-night soaking business. I also get to see her warm smile.

-Home-shopping network: Sitting in my house I can sometimes here the fresh-produce prices if the wind carries the voices down my alleyway. Just this evening I heard a price for bananas I couldn’t refuse and walked out and back in under two minutes with my purchase.

-Eating-out: This almost always means that I am enjoying the food freshly prepared from scratch at a neighbor’s home.

-Frozen dinners: Left-overs from the big pot of soup and loaf of bread I made last week.

-Fresh daily: Two blocks away is “bread-street” where all the ladies sell the bread that came out of their ovens that day. At the end of my alley-way there is a man that sells fresh-eggs, and next to him the guy that sells fresh chickens—just point to the one you want and he’ll take care of everything else, come back in ten minutes for your plucked bird (a little gruesome, but no less so than what we try to ignore when we pick out meat at the grocery store).

-Forget something? Need sugar, milk, yoghurt? Junk food? Just head down to the local 7-Eleven…I mean l-Harnut.

Disclaimer: I am in a larger site than most volunteers, and may enjoy some conveniences that are not so available elsewhere. All the more appreciation for what I do have!

“wllfti shwiya?” is a question I have been asked frequently in the last several months. The speaker is asking if I have adjusted a little – to Morocco and now to living by myself. For the most part I have.

Moving into my home has not been a completely smooth transition. I’ve taken on the burdens of being the woman of the house: trying to figure out how to set up the electricity in my name (still not entirely resolved), finding first hand the dangers of gas powered appliances (and not installing your CO detector first-thing), battling the molding furniture in this particularly wet winter, and just generally trying to keep a neat and tidy Moroccan home.

I am more than grateful for my new neighbors, whom I knew before I moved in, who have helped me immensely in setting up my house and feeding me while I still did not have my kitchen in workable order. It is excellent to have neighbors that know how to fix your plumbing and electric problem all in the same half an hour! I only hope I can be as worthy a neighbor in return.

The house itself I’ve already grown attached to. Even on the first night in the place I felt like I was at home. The roosters that crow at all hours from behind my house, the pigeons that roost above the courtyard (and make me cautious about where I hang my laundry), and the kids that play marbles outside my front door all bring me comfort in finding my place for the next two years (Inshallah).

The space is more than I need (and I would have settled for less if a suitable option presented itself to me), and one room has just become my oversized closet. Although I do not have a roof-space as I originally wanted, I do have a walled-in courtyard that the sun peers over in the morning. I may still try growing some things in hanging-baskets as I’ve heard from the previous occupants it is even sunnier in the summer.

I’ve managed to make my tiny kitchen comfortable, and I am delighted to be able to cook for myself – particularly with enough time to make things like fresh tortillas and loaves of bread. As a lot of people in the U. S. are switching from the mindset of convenience-is-best to really thinking about where their food comes from and what’s in it, I’ve got a free ticket to really explore what I can prepare with limited pre-packaged ingredients. Have I mentioned that I am literally living just off the main vegetable-market street?

Certainly, my home is not the dirt-hut I had conjured in my mind before setting off with the Peace Corps, but I won’t complain. There are places in the country that are much less developed than where I am (and even stepping outside of the city center brings me to neighborhoods closer to what I had imagined I would find). No matter my current home this is the base from which I will hopefully become a positive part of the community.

Morocco has had a history full of various inhabitants and occupiers over the centuries. You can see this in the language (Arabic, French, “ShlHA”--Tamazight/Berber, Spanish, etc), food, and architecture. It is also apparent in the way Moroccans talk about money.

The current Moroccan currency is the dirham (MAD). This does not stop many Moroccans from talking about money in rials. A rial was a currency replaced by the dirham almost a century ago (1920s).

1 MAD = 20 rials

I must admit that I learned about this before I even entered the country. A former PC volunteer who served in Morocco gave me a quick math test on converting one to the other. This is all fine and good when I’m focusing on the problem, in English, in the comfort of my own country. It was another matter when I finally got here and experienced it as one more layer of confusion.

It isn’t that I’m so terrible at math (although as an artist, I don’t think I exercise that side of my brain as often), but when a number is shouted at you at the souq, where there is already too much going on, in a different language, it can be a little tough. During training I hardly tried. I was always prepared with, “in dirhams please?” They would usually give me the dirahms in French, which I still don’t understand (on my to-do list to learn some basic French, but darija is taking all my language-learning energy right now). “I’m sorry, I don’t understand French, in Arabic please?” By this time if the seller wasn’t rolling his eyes at me he was a saint.

After swearing-in and settling down in my new community I finally started to take the rial seriously. This was followed by many a “why why why?” to my tutor when we practiced. Why talk in a currency that doesn’t exist any more? It is so ingrained into my community (after all not all Moroccans talk in rials, or in the same way) that if you quote a price in dirhams it often has to be converted into rials to be understood. “But the currency is printed with the number of dirhams on it! How is this confusing for you?”

I eventually decided that the easiest thing to do is to not fight it. I stopped asking “why?”--it is just the way it is, and there is no way my protests will change it. After this acceptance and focus I’m finally gaining some confidence in my ability to understand and talk in rials. In the afternoons I can hear the vegetable sellers shout their prices from down the street.

“Miya-arbarin-banan, miya-arbarin-banan” = 140 rials /kilo bananas = 7 MAD /kilo bananas ( < $1 /kilo bananas, by the way)

My real moment of integration was when shopping around for the cheapest onions. I was getting most quotes in rials. When one seller gave me a number in dirhams, I didn’t hesitate to ask, “In rials please?”

The first day I arrived in my assigned town my host family also celebrated the Birthday of the youngest member of the family, who just turned one. During these last two months I have watched him go from crawling, to standing on strengthening legs, to walking across the room with careful and deliberate steps.

I am continually amazed at how quickly children develop, and how they seem to know what they need to accomplish to make it to the next stage in life. I watched little Ayman work hard at his task, putting so much effort into getting himself up on two legs. When he would inevitably fall, at times with a cringe-worthy “thud”, tears would follow, but so would another attempt. Even if failure hurts, it does not mean giving up. We seem to be programmed to know that we must take the risk of those first unsteady steps in order to grow and experience life fully.

Well, my two-month stay with my Moroccan host family has come to an end. During this time, I two have grown and changed. I started out relying heavily on those whose care I was under to carry me through conversations and situations I was not yet able to handle linguistically on my own. I was guided and encouraged by those I could trust to build my language and understanding of the culture. I formed new bonds, made new contacts and friends. I also had a number of falls, painful failures, misunderstandings, and miscommunications. I had times where I wanted to give up as those I was speaking to gave me confused and frustrated expressions, but I plodded along anyway. Little by little, I’ve been able to navigate more situations by myself. My new world is opening up to me more as I am beginning to hear and understand more each day.

My boxes and bags are packed and ready to move into my new home for the next two years. I’m excited by the freedom I will gain, the control I will have over my life once again. It is also a little sad to no longer be such a part of a family, but I know we won’t be too far from each other. There are no real “goodbyes” to be said yet. I have the affection for this family as the child does for those who helped her go from crawling to walking.

I’m taking my first unsteady steps to my next challenge.

This last Tuesday was, besides being the inauguration of our new president, my first Birthday spent outside of the country and with entirely new friends and faces. It really was one of those days that I woke up and couldn’t believe where I was, and where I have been for four and a half months. This was highlighted with watching the inauguration speech at my Moroccan friend/tutor’s house. It is a strange thing to feel connected to a country when you are outside of it. I believe at one point President Obama mentioned something about reaching out to Muslim nations, and it really hit home.

In any case, as with all reasons to celebrate, much delicious food was made. We ended up celebrating Monday night with two Birthdays, also that of my tutors the Tuesday before. I made two cakes, one strawberry-banana and the other flourless chocolate-almond. The strawberry-banana cake could have used some re-adjustment to the recipe or execution, but the chocolate cake was quite a success in my opinion, and in any case everything was eaten and enjoyed. I am slowly conquering the Moroccan oven and lack of usual measuring devices!

Tuesday, my actual Birthday, my host mom and aunt made Bastilla and Seffa. Bastilla is a famous Moroccan dish made with poultry (chicken in this case) cooked in aromatic spices, nuts (peanuts), eggs, layered between sheets of pastry dough and topped with cinnamon and powdered sugar. I had heard so much about this dish I had to document the assembly. I’ve included here a photo of my host-mom layering in the peanuts and chicken. Seffa is made with couscous or, in this case thin noodles. Raisins, nuts, cinnamon and sugar are usually incorporated into this sweet dish. I continuously am amazed and admire the amount of time and work put into Moroccan cooking. Although sometimes you can catch a break by serving leftovers from another meal, eating out is almost unheard of if you have a family. Much time is spent in the kitchen. More than perhaps even I would enjoy.

All this tasty and very filling food has strengthened my resolve to go on a post host-family diet come February first when I move out. Inshallah.

New York Times Culinary Destination of the Year: Marrakesh

What reason have you for not coming to visit?

A few weeks ago my host-aunt decided it time to test my knowledge of the basics. I have to admit I was a little hurt, even insulted that she didn’t find it readily apparent that I knew words like “sit, eat, walk, etc.”. Had I not demonstrated I knew these words and in fact employed them myself? Granted, I don’t speak a whole lot. In any case I only failed at coming up with one or two as she preformed the actions and asked me for the corresponding word. As she got down in a not-quite-sitting-or-standing pose she asked if I knew what she was doing, and I didn’t know the word.

“She doesn’t know squat!” she laughed over to my host mom in darija (Moroccan Arabic for those I keep confusing with my jargon). Perhaps ironically, it wasn’t until a few days ago when I was replaying the incident in my head that I realized this phrase had another meaning in English (my head is really full).

Right now my world is an ocean with huge waves in which I am bobbing up and down. Sometimes, at the top everything is clear, my language understanding is fairly great and I feel like I’m accomplishing something, meeting people and feeling more comfortable. Other times I’m down at the bottom where nothing seems clear, I’m confused, maybe taken advantaged of or insulted to my face. Most of the time I’m somewhere in the middle, there is a lot of ambiguity, and it is unclear which way the wind will take me. All of this is very exhausting and to stay afloat in the ocean of language takes a lot of effort, but I have yet to drown and I’m building strength.

On the flip side, I have started to teach English with some of the girls. This has already proven to be a great way to get to know them better as it gives me a way to interact with them where I’m in charge, particularly since it is too early for me to figure out my role. There is something satisfying in hearing them struggle with pronunciation and to gradually improve, just as I am with their language. It serves as a reminder that what I’m doing isn’t easy, and that when you step out of your mother tongue you are taking a risk of looking silly. So what if you don’t know squat, there is still time to learn!

This New Years Eve was spent with another volunteer at her much more rural site and with a Moroccan friend of ours. We made typical New Years appetizers from scratch, with varying degrees of success, but the process was a lot of fun. The power went out as it got close to midnight, and we sat with flashlights listening to music on a computer with a dying battery. Right at midnight the computer finally blacked out. It was our own little ball-drop countdown to the new year!

Lessons of 2008:

- I am able to pick myself up from devastation and take on a new life

- It is better to carpool with a friend than to drive alone

- Public transportation will show you a new side to the city you grew up in

- A good boss is priceless

- Horses, donkeys, cars, bicycles, trucks, carts and people can all manage to share the same road

- Traditions become more precious, and more ridiculous when trying to recreate them in another culture

- Drinking whole milk and sugary tea everyday actually can lead to weight gain

- Living in another culture teaches you as much about yourself as it does the world

- Generosity is being patient with someone who cannot communicate like everyone else

- Humbleness is speaking like a child with the mind of an adult

- Joy is finding a common language, like baking

- A sunny day means laundry will dry

- Volunteering yourself to help others sometimes means not being there for friends and family back home

- There is always more lamb meat

- We are adaptable creatures, even to situations that seemed absurd mere months ago

- The internet is invaluable in keeping in touch to far-away people

- There are plenty of edible parts to an animal that we mostly ignore in the US

- You absolutely must be able to laugh at yourself and let things go

You know how between Thanksgiving and the New Year you feel like you are eating an increased amount of sugar and fatty foods? This year I’m getting a little extra bonus called l’eid kbir (or more properly eid al-adha). This holiday revolves around the sacrificing and consumption of a sheep. In order to commemorate the sacrificed sheep God sent in place of Abraham’s son, every family buys a sheep of their own and kills and eats it…all of it.

I documented the actual death and dismemberment of the animal. I hoped that having my eye behind a camera lens would give me a layer of distance from the blood. However, in coming up to the event I decided that as a meat eater, I should bravely witness the full process of getting that meat on the table. It was difficult to see a magnificent animal letting go of life, but the man knew what he was doing, and it seemed that it was over in an instant. Next began the stripping away of everything until I could hardly connect the meat and wool to the creature that startled me in the stairway the night before.

You could compare l’eid kbir to Thanksgiving, in that one revolves around eating a sheep and the other around eating a turkey (I was asked by one of the boys if my dad slaughtered the turkey as they slaughter the sheep). Only, imagine the difference to be that the turkey is much bigger, much fattier, and the only thing on the menu for the next few days. The only thing you’ll see that resembles a vegetable is maybe the onion used to flavor the stomach and intestines.

Tired of meat? Well, I suppose there are plenty of sweets to enjoy as well. Yesterday we had noodles with raisins, cinnamon, and sugar to complement fried lamb ribs. It was good in a rich breakfast food sort of way. For dinner we had the head and the…ahem…testicles, although I avoided my slice (it is one of the last things I’m hanging on to as what I will not eat, since I unwittingly caved and ate brains a few times). We have plenty of meat to last quite some time, and considering it is couscous Friday I’m sure we will see some of our friend buried in the couscous for lunch.

All in all, it is an interesting experience with culture, and I enjoy the festive atmosphere and company. Just think, Christmas is just around the corner! I hope you all back home are getting into another sort of holiday spirit!

I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving wherever you celebrated!

Of course, I was determined to bring Thanksgiving to Morocco, and I feel pretty good about the results. On Thursday I cooked a pumpkin pie, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, turkey breasts (not a whole turkey), and green beans for a house full of people--all from scratch! Many thanks to my host mother who helped me with a lot of the grunt work in the kitchen. It all turned out fairly American, except that I didn't roast the turkey breasts, I cooked them in the pressure-cooker with rosemary and they came out nice and tender.

My host family loved the food, even the strange dessert made from squash. Pictured are the leftovers,

On Saturday I turned around and did it again for volunteers in town, cooking more pumpkin pie, green bean casserole (without the convenience of a can of mushroom soup), mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet-potato puree, and stuffing. We bought roasted chickens that time around, and someone brought along a can of cranberry sauce (which you can't buy here...oh how I miss cranberries) and delicious pumpkin cheesecake (very dangerous!) to round our our calories for the evening. The company almost made it feel like I was back home in the US.

Another moment of being back in the US was when I stepped into the new "Label Vie" store, which is something like a walmart (although not quite as big as they get in the US). It is the biggest store I've been in for going on three months. It was exciting to find out a big store was opening in my town since it means I will have access to a large variety of food (still no cranberries or brown sugar). It is a cooking paradise. However, after the initial excitement of such convenience at my fingertips, I felt the familiar distaste of the box-store. Right now I love the little harnuts, the corner stores that sell fresh bread and milk, nuts and candy, and the vegetable market bursting with fresh seasonable produce. It was strange to be walking through the store holding my host-mothers hand with my host-brother in tow. It was as though I had brought them out of the Morocco I had started to form into my mind and into the America of stereotype.

Considering big stores were often the subject of my artwork in the US, it might be interesting to be a part of this town in the next two years. I came in right as this store opened, I'm interested to see if it has any effect on the hundreds of smaller corner-shops. The Label Vie is just inconvenient enough, requiring either a short taxi or bike-ride, that I doubt I will frequent it like I do the walkable vegetable market and the little harnuts.

Then again, I'm the type to prefer the inconvenience of making Thanksgiving dinner from scratch.

If you are wanting a glimpse into my life right now, pick up a copy of "Me Talk Pretty One Day" by David Sadaris and flip to the chapter "See You Again Yesterday", that sounds about right. I'm slowly losing my english-speaking crutches and will soon be completely on my own trying to figure everything out. In the language test I took a little over a week ago I placed at "Intermediate Low", which isn't terrible for 2 1/2 months. The reality, however, is much more irregular, some days I would say I go up to "Intermediate Mid" other days I'm more at the "Novice" level. Which can make for amusement and confusion.

At least I know I'm not the only one having to go through this. Anyone who has been dropped in a place that doesn't speak your first language has to go through this, I'm sure. But shwiya b shwiya I'm getting it. Little by little I have let go of the crutches and stand on my own weak language legs, and little by little they're growing stronger.

I just arrived at my site on Friday. As soon as I put down my belongings and went to attended the going away party for the volunteer I'm replacing I got requests for help. Mostly right now I'm getting people who want to learn English. I think this would be good in small quantities, but is not the reason why I am here. It does sound like there are a lot of artisan organizations I can look into. I'm excited and a little intimidated because of my language (see above). It is good to establish some of these connections now though, even if I can't act on them so easily right now.

Alright, back to business. I have a good internet connection here, so continue to expect regular updates from me. I may not be as verbose as some, but do check out my photographs on flickr! Pictures are worth a thousand words after-all.

I lift my head up from the sink, splashing water on my face and looking at the mirror. Over my shoulder and out the door to the roof I can see the remaining embers of the sunset behind the mountains--now here is a scene the artist never tires of. The next moment I am peering over the roofs edge absorbing the hush of dusk. The color drains from the sky and intensifies the twinkling display of lights on the far hillside. In the rapidly cooling air, I can smell the smoke of all the wood-fires freshly lit, and watch it materialize in the streetlamp.

The street stretches into and out of town. I was up here not even a week earlier when I caught the sound of a motorcycle zooming into a fatal collision below. I recall this violent memory despite the tranquility. What road lies before me?

There is a lot of beauty here. I have become even more appreciative of a beauty that lies beyond language. I’ve also a new understanding of humbleness. The humbleness of a child that can’t communicate effectively the battle that goes on inside. My inner monologue becomes richer as my tongue struggles to develop the leanest sentences. However, I delight in my successes from the last ten weeks, and I feel strength building in my language and confidence.

Tomorrow, this country will become my home for two years. I’m as ready as anyone can be, knowing the biggest struggles and lessons are yet before me. I am in the arms of a country that has already shown extraordinary hospitality and kindness, as well as misunderstanding and harassment, humor and humility. I come equipped with my own talents, insights, and shortcomings.

I leave the roof as the sun leaves the continent. Tomorrow, I finally swear in as a volunteer.

Needless to say I've learned a lot in the last week. I went out to my site and saw where I will be living for the next two years. I got to speak and explore the city with the volunteer I will be replacing, which gave me some insight into the work and town.

I wasn't sure how to approach this post because so much has happened all at once. I'm not a fan of writing really long posts, so I will make a series of short ones over a period of time.

To start, my impression of the city.

It is perhaps the largest site for Small Business Development volunteers. It is the capital of the province it is located in, and a short distance east of Rabat, the capital of Morocco. It is located on a major thoroughfare and it is easy to get transport around the country. This also means that it will be much easier to come visit me than if I was out in the "bled" (country). The weather sounds moderate, it is on a plain closer to the coast so it is getting more of the warm coastal weather. There are palm trees and lots of greenery, people have potted gardens outside their houses and on their roofs. Orange and olive trees line the streets. You can see the mountains in the distance if you get just outside of town and away from all the buildings. It isn't a site where you can walk out of your home into mountains, desert, forest, or beach, but none of these things are too hard to travel to from my site (maybe the desert, that is pretty far south).

In the streets it is still possible to see cats (a lot of cats, but not many stray dogs), donkeys, horses (they are a means of transportation in little coaches or "coochies"), and chickens.

The town is big enough that the current volunteer says it is still possible for her to get turned around if she strays to far from her normal routes. If I stay in the neighborhood she is in now, I think most things will be within easy walking distance. Although perhaps I am not facing some of the struggles of living in the bled, I think the city will provide other challenges for me. I will always be just a foreigner to harass to random passersby. I may get to know the community I work in, but not the whole city. Also, I have to be careful about being out in certain areas at certain times if I'm alone.

Since the town is large and easy to get to, there is a large selection of food available to me. There is a large daily vegetable market out on the streets, a large fish market, a few "supermaches" (think 7-11 with staple foods), countless harnoots (small bread/food places), and a weekly souq (huge outdoor market). To top it off they are opening a marjon in the next few weeks, which is apparently like a walmart (mixed feelings on this, but I will likely be able to find most of what I need and want).

Best of all there is an amazing pastry shop that uses real chocolate! Expect food posts from me in the future (for you foodies who are reading).

Okay, that was a short run-down of the site. More to come!

I am amazed at how quickly time is flying by. I have already had to say goodbye to my host family at my Community Based Training site. They showed real Moroccan hospitality, and I will miss them.

A brief description of what my project was there: I worked with another trainee to improve the visibility of the coop in Ain Leuh. We started with many possible directions to take the project, and ended up focusing on distributing their brochure to the local hostels and creating a new sign for the front of their building.

The brochure project involved walking in the rain on a number of occasions. We did get the women excited to come up with us and talk to the hostel owners, but on the day we went up the hostel owner was unexpectedly out of town. Overall, the women seemed enthusiastic about going back later and picking up the conversation with the hostel owner, and from an earlier conversation, the hostel owner was eager to establish a relationship with the coop. Inshallah, they will pick up where we left off.

The sign project sprung from the fact that the sing outside the coop merely stated that they were a coop, not that they had anything to sell or that visitors were welcome. My partner and I came up with wording, and I drew icons (universal language) to put on the sign. We proposed our idea to the women, and they were excited about it. The fabrication process was primarily conducted by the women, they knew the metal worker and an artist who could create the sign from our designs. Success came on the last night of our stay in Ain Leuh when the new sign went up on the building.

If anyone is curious about more details on our process, email me or comment here!

As of last night, I know my site for the next two years. I will make more of a post about this after I’ve visited my site (I leave tomorrow). If you are a friend who can’t wait to know, send me an email. I will say that I am close to Rabat and am in a larger city (for SBD). I have water, electricity, internet, and access to a variety of foods.

More later!

Halloween isn’t celebrated in Morocco. However, that didn’t stop us from trying to share this American Holiday with Moroccans at our CBT site. We bought a squash at the weekly souq (buying a whole squash is a little strange, usually people will buy a chunk of squash for cooking with, when we bought the whole thing our cook thought we were crazy). Monday we carved the pumpkin with our LCF and cook, a traditionally jack-o-latern face. After class we lit the pumpkin, and ate pumpkin seeds (I made pumpkin pie with the innards later that night). The neighbor came over as well as one of the host families.

The initial trying to tell ghost stories was a little awkward. We were trying to tell a story, pause, and have it translated into darija with little success (after all, a ghost story is all in the telling). Fortunately, Moroccan women took over-- the neighbor had a spooky story of her own. The women eagerly passed around the flashlight and told stories. Our LCF translated some, but it was mostly about watching faces and gestures.

At the end of the storytelling we blew out the pumpkin and walked home, past the cemetery. Maybe Moroccans can do Halloween afterall.

Things I will miss about CBT:

- My 3 year old host brother opening the front door for and running out and scaring away the "dangerous" puppy and kitty hanging out by the bread oven for me in the morning.

- A kind host family that will let me experiment in their kitchen. Hey, pizza was a big success!

- Being in a small room with a little heater with 6 other bodies for the better part of a 9.5 hour day. Needless to say, we've shared everything, particularly colds! I know I will really miss our little group once we are all off on our own.

- Our LCF who has to put up with us crazy americans all day and still has a great sense of humor and amazing patience.

- Breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, second snack, dinner prepared by knowledgeable Moroccans.

- Getting the benefit of a workout walking up and down a few hundred stairs everyday.

- Having a 5 year old around to help me learn vocab and to help color my flash cards.

- Hiking in the gorgeous surrounding mountains.

- Easy access to the internet--just down the stairs to town!

- Ramadan (already miss it)

- The Artisans that we've gotten a chance to work with here. They produce an amazing product. Hopefully I'll be able to update you soon on the project I've done with them here, and some more info on their coop.

-Or, at least it was last night.

This isn't such an uncommon thing in Morocco, so I'm really just being a sill American here, but I will describe my experience anyway.

I came home from class last night and took off my wet clothes (rain rain rain). I was then invited by my host mom to sit down. As I do so she turns around with something wrapped. In one swift motion she takes off the wrapper and a head falls out onto the plate, and then splits in half along it's cut. It's my night!

The brain was divided equally among us. Then a jaw bone was given to the youngest (who then says in darija "My teeth, my teeth!" and pops out the incisors...he's really adorable). The meat was ripped from bone (there isn't a whole lot), and the skull was set aside. Unfortunately, the brain was left under a pile of my meat, so I'm not sure if I actually ate some brain or not. I made a promise to myself that I would draw the line at brain, so much for that!

All in all, a little gamey (lamb), but not at all bad. I was nervous about the experience (mostly the brain). I surprised myself, and maybe confused my host mom at the end of the meal by smiling unexpectedly. I had done it! (I couldn't really explain this to anyone without looking silly).

My typical day in Community Based Training (CBT)

I’m not sure if this is of interest to too many people, but for those of you who are curious how a typical CBT experience might go, or for those of you who want to imagine what I’m occupied with for these first 11 weeks, here you go.

Monday through Saturday goes something like this: wake up around 6:30am (by choice, I like to get up early), sneak into the bathroom trying not to wake anyone up (it is a hopeless cause with the children) and wash ala bucket-bath. I then sneak back into my room and study or read or listen to downloaded npr podcasts and do pilates until my host-mom calls me out for breakfast. Breakfast often includes hot milk or tea with lots of sugar and mint. There is always bread with butter and jelly or olive oil, and occasionally there will be cookies as well (not cookie crisp cereal mind you).

At 8:10 I head out the door to class, which is about a 15-20 min walk talking the high road around the outside of the town/valley. We all quickly learned the shortcuts, and to avoid the schoolyard if at all possible. The view is spectacular, of course, and it amazes me how quickly one can get used to seeing such a sight everyday.

The morning is focused on language and cross-culture. We sit and soak up darija. Thankfully, we have a great teacher (Language and Culture Facilitator-- LCF) with a great sense of humor to put up with us crazy Americans.

Snack time at 10:30, more tea/coffee, cookies, bread/muffins/snackcakes. Then back to language until lunch at 12:30. A woman from town prepares our food for us. She does an amazing job, and it is nice to enjoy Moroccan food where you aren’t pressured to eat more than you desire. Fridays we have couscous (siksou in darija), on this and other dishes I’m sure I will write more about down the road.

The afternoon our focus is generally on the technical aspect of things. We visit the women’s coop in town and speak with the women there. Otherwise, we plan on what we will be doing or asking the women. Our LCF translates for us. This week we were required to translate our questions into darija and ask them to the women. If I stop to think about it, I am making progress with everything, but I feel like there is just so much more to learn.

At 4:30 we have our afternoon tea/snack with more tea/coffee, cookies, fried bread/bread/snackcakes (fortunately there is also an abundance of wonderful fruit, which is an option I usually seek out for snack). We continue working until 6:00, and then head home. This last week it has been just after sunset when we walk home. If I am lucky enough to get out a little early I stop by the cyber for a few minutes. This is never close to enough time to catch up on what I want to catch up on, so I try to cut out some extra time by writing my blog entries beforehand.

Once I get home, I greet the family and either study or try to help in the kitchen (emphasis on “try”). Sometimes there is a tea/snack break around 6:30pm, which often includes cookies and bread. Dinner is usually small, a bowl of soup or bread, or lunch leftovers from the family. I try to spend some time with the family and kids, throwing in a sentence or phrase or word when I can. I usually head into my room between 9 and 10 pm and read or study for a little bit before bed.

Sunday is our free day. We do have “self directed learning” which means we have to choose an activity that furthers our understanding of the language and culture of Morocco. This is also a great time to take a hike!

This time, I was very determined to make a successful cookie. I planned in advance. I found some good chocolate bars in the bigger town. One secret ingredient I include in my chocolate chip cookies back home is vanilla instant pudding mix. It keeps the cookies soft and gives them a nice (read: not spread out like a pancake) shape. I wasn’t too sure about finding instant pudding mix in small town Morocco, but I was willing to work with what I could find—instant vanilla flan mix! What’s the difference, really?

After buying good-quality flour, more sugar and eggs, I proceed with attempt #2. I’m smarter this time, I use an actual cup as a “cup” to measure out my ingredients, insuring the proper chemistry. The flan mix creates an interesting yellow color, but no big deal. The texture is right, and things are looking good. I stick them in the oven, which looks like a cabinet and is at who-knows-what temperature, and try to keep and eye on them. The bottoms cook way faster than the rest of them, but I scrape off the char and they are okay. Second pan in, I watch even more carefully, the gas has been turned down a bit. They are right on the point of being perfect. Suddenly, a decision is made to put them on lower in the oven to ensure browning on top. Two seconds later they are crispy and brown/black. I scrape off more char.

Attempt number three might have to take place at my next host family, for my reputation is suffering here. However, our schedule suggests we try making a meal for our families on Sunday. I am going to go for the typically American food, pizza. The battle isn’t over with you yet, Moroccan oven!

The experience back in our CBT site has been interesting so far. Before we left, a horrible storm blew through on Friday night. There was an amazing amount of rain and extreme winds. Not as much thunder as some of the previous storms, but the wind more than made up for it. The temperature was also much lower at that point, making it uninviting to venture outside to buy anything before heading back to CBT. Fortunately, my site is much larger and has more amenities when compared to other CBT sites.

Saturday morning things had mostly cleared out, a last whip of wind blowing the rain and clouds back out of the mountains. I went up with a fellow trainee to negotiate for a grand taxi to our CBT site. I was impressed with her negotiating abilities, and we were able to get a cheaper ride than originally quoted (which was high for the "tourists"). Once I reached our town, and I had walked up to my house with my bags, it became apparent that the town currently did not have running water. The storm on Friday apparently damaged the water system. It has since come back on, but went off again this morning. This isn't a huge problem yet, the storeowner in the middle of town pulled out a hose that was being fed by the well in the back of his shop, and let people fill up bottles and buckets to take water home. Running water is a luxury anyway.

This morning five of us trainees went back up into the mountains, this time venturing further (still no monkeys though). I'll be putting up photos on my flickr page (see slideshow to the right). Basically, I'm in an amazing area where I can easily get breathtaking views of the mountains. The off-road trails we took were mostly animal footpaths, which created plenty of tree-branch obstacles for us taller creatures.

This week has been back to technical training. I haven't had too much to report on it here, since it is more for me than for you all. I did want to show off my henna hands. A friend of my host mom's came over the day after l'3id (holiday) and did my hands and the hands of both of the little girls. When all the female trainees got back together we all compared our henna. Although tastes may differ, I'm happy not having been given dark henna feet.

It has been rainy off and on all week, gradually getting colder. My CBT site is more up in the mountains than where we are this week, so I'm expecting frigid conditions. I'm breaking out the long underwear earlier than I thought I would.

I'm keeping this entry brief, I apologize, but I need to finish repacking tonight. We are leaving tomorrow morning and I'll rejoin my family for another three weeks. Honestly, at the end of this week I am missing them much. My host mom's cooking is wonderful! (and so is my real mom's cooking, love you mom!)

b'slama

(edit: sorry about that, the picture wasn't uploading correctly)

Realizations this week:

-I am very, very far from home, making me feel completely helpless when something major is happening back there.

-Although I currently both love and hate the Turkish Toilet, it isn’t as big of a deal as I had feared.

-Although I miss warm water, bucket baths aren’t as big of a deal as I had feared (and the hammam is wonderful!).

-Do you remember getting together during the holidays with family when you were in that awkward in-between stage, too grown up to play around with the little kids and not quite mature enough to hang out with the adults all day? That’s surprisingly similar to how I celebrated the end of Ramadan, with my vocabulary of a 2 year-old’s. It was wonderful to have this inside view of Ramadan (which I wouldn’t get if my home-stay was in a different part of the year), but I wish I could contribute more by way of conversation at this point.

-Children are the same everywhere. They are hilarious and fun and crazy, and as soon as their mother leaves the language-limited foreigner in charge for a minute while she runs to a neighbor’s, they will take advantage of the situation.

-The world should cut back on its introduction of plastic into the environment.

-It is possible for this suburban girl to get used to walking across town, passing semi-feral cats and dogs, chickens, donkeys, sheep, goats, cows, and one amazing view of the mountains with hardly a second-glance.

-Any family that will take in someone who barely knows the language and continuously makes cultural faux pas is amazing.

-I was foolishly dependant upon recipes and measurements in my cooking and baking back home. Now I’m putting myself to the test without such crutches---hey, my chocolate chip cookies were edible!

-Morocco has many amazing foods to offer in and outside of Ramadan, particularly by way of sweets.

-You can always eat more food, at any hour.

-Even if you insist you are full, you can always eat more food at any hour.

-Even if you plead and make motions that you might explode, you can always eat more food.

-Eat! Eat! Kuli! Kuli!

I am starting to settle in to my new home. The language is exhausting and at times very frustrating, but I'm getting a little more comfortable being part of the family.

An amazing discovery happened the night of a fellow volunteer's Birthday. We were all invited over to her host families home for a surprise party. I did not have the vocabulary to communicate effectively with my host parents that I wasn't sure when I would be home and who would walk me home. After unsuccessfully trying to convey this to my host mother in darija, she gives a look to her husband who suddenly starts speaking English. English had not be previously spoken in the house, which I'm sure was deliberate. Apparently, this event warranted a breech of the no-english rule. Well, it worked, but I'm leaving English to emergencies only.

The rest of my days consists of intense language-lessons and meeting with the local artisan co-op. We have exercises we are going through with them so we are better prepared for our final assignment. I am aware how busy they are, on top of their fasting, so their patience and generosity of time with us is greatly appreciated. They make rugs and fabric on looms by hand. Small, simply-designed rugs can take about 2 months for one woman to complete, and larger, more intricate rugs can take up to 6 months!

I am getting my exercise walking up and down the long staircases to get to the center of town and back to the LCF (language and culture facilitator) house. Well, the rain has stopped for the moment (it has been a rainy week off and on) so I will be heading home. My home is in the center of the photograph at the very top of the hill (I have an amazing view of the town and mountains).

I strongly believe that putting yourself in a situation where the people you are living with and depending upon speak a different language (that you've only really been studying for about a week), eat different foods in a different manner, have a different social and religious system, and have a different style of toilet (hashak), that it would do a lot of good.

Gesturing and using broken darija only get you so far. It is amazing how much I didn't realize I needed to communicate when living in a home that is tricky to do without the right words. And yet, the family and home life doesn't seem so unusual. We sit around the table in the living room and share l'ftor (Ramadan breakfast) while the satellite dish pipes in sitcoms and dramas for the Moroccan taste. The children laugh, play, cry, and do homework.

"You don't understand?" Is one phrase that I understand very well in darija. However, I also understand that we might not be so different after all.

(As I keep saying, "Ask me again how I feel about this in 6 months)

A wonderful electrical storm blew in last night. It started off in the mountains and quickly swallowed us. The lighting show was spectacular.

Today we head off to our Community Based Training sites, where I will spend the next two weeks. This is the same amount of time I have spent on this adventure thus far. I'm sure we are all going to come back different people. It is amazing that we have only known each other for two weeks, it seems so much longer. The Youth Development group has come down a few times for games and movie-watching, which is great so we don't lose contact with each other while we're in the same city. By now most of us have gotten cell-phones, hopefully text messaging will follow.

Otherwise, this week has been intense with language and cultural learning, as well as more information on Small Business Development. We have a little time to go out into the town, and I am becoming gradually comfortable with it. The shop keepers are very friendly and helpful. Many have gone out of their way to make sure I am taken care of (particularly with setting up the cell phone in french or arabic).

More on my host family-- I will be staying with a family with two children, a 5 year old girl and a 3 year old boy. I hope to make friends early on with the candy and crayons I have brought with me. My goal in the next two weeks is to be able to speak on the level of the 5 year old. Right now, I'm sure the 3 year old has me beat. Lofty goals, I know. I hope they will be good teachers!

We are about to head out of the hotel, so I will say goodbye for now. If you don't hear from me here in the next two weeks, don't worry, I will give you an update when I get back.

b'slama

We received our language assignments today, I will be learning Moroccan Arabic, Darija! The other language possibility was Tamazight, a Berber dialect. This narrows down the possibilities of my final site location, which I won't find that out until late October.

Why I'm excited: We have already been learning Darija, so I won't be starting over once I get to my host family. Learning Moroccan Arabic could be a doorway into understanding Modern Standard Arabic (although the two sound very different) and has the potential to be useful outside of Morocco.

What I'll be missing: Berber pride, learning a language that few outsiders learn, learning both Tamazight and a bit of Darija to function throughout the country

Overall, I am happy with the placement. I gave no real preference, so I was open to either language.

Sunday is the day we travel to our Community Based Training (CBT) sites. I will be living with a host family. The place where I am placed is more urban/suburban than rural, so I may have access to the internet, but likely not with the connivence I currently enjoy. I do have a cell phone now, please email me before Sunday if you would like the number before I head out.

I will hopefully update the blog (and return emails) once more before I head out with some other details about training so far. Right now we are getting ready to regroup with our Language and Cultural Facilitators to learn more language and discuss our CBT site assignments.

b'slama

I know a particular someone who would have thought it amusing to find that I eagerly devoured pizza stacked with olives and enjoyed every bite. I've always professed a dislike of olives. But tastes change. Considering that likes/dislikes of food are often just a matter of choice, I choose to open myself up to foods I would not have previously enjoyed. Why not? Living in a country that likes and grows olives, I would be missing out not to embrace them.

Olives are pretty tasty. Particularly when piled on pizza.

I know you're somewhere laughing.

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On another note, we now have a Morocco PC flickr photo group. It is a great way to see what we've been up to in photo-form. Also, if you are in my PC group and have a flickr account, please join and contribute!

For those who are hungering for a food-related post, here is one! All our meals are currently served at the hotel we are staying at during training (well, part of training), and food on the streets is a little harder, and trickier to get during daytime Ramadan. So, I will share what we have been served by the excellent cooks downstairs.

With Ramadan comes special foods that are only served during Ramadan. l'ftor* is the breaking of the fast once the sun has dipped below the horizon. For those of us who aren't participating in Ramadan, this has become dinner. A dinner with a lot of sweets.

To break the fast, one eats a dried date, or tmr (which are better than any dried fig I have had in the US). The rest of the meal includes Hrira soup (with chickpeas and lentils), zmita (loose flour, dried fruit, peanuts, almonds, anise, sesame seeds, etc.), and shbakiya (crispy fried dough with honey). Zmita seems strange at first, looking like a pile of spices, but is pleasantly sweet and nutty. Shbakiya will be my downfall. Thankfully it is only offered during this month, and I will surely miss it once Ramadan is over. I'm not a huge consumer of fried things, but these have the heavy fried taste. The honey lightens up the crispy dough, and oozes out as you bite into it. Hrira is satisfying, but not my favorite soup thus far. Apparently, it differs significantly in preparation from house to house.

More food to come as I am able!

*You will notice that the phonetic spelling of Moroccan Arabic includes a significantly smaller amount of vowels.

photo: Clockwise, starting from the top- shbakiya, zmita, dates

Last night I spent some time with my family, specifically my brothers. We were sitting in my brother's, Bryan's, room, along with my other brother, John. We were just talking. Suddenly, I realized the show on the television sounded both surprising and familiar.

"That is just the way the call to prayer sounded!" I said.

"Oh yeah?" Bryan responds.

Then I opened my eyes. The sound wasn't on the television, it was outside my window at 4:30am.

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Oh, that's right, I'm not at home.

I think this is something that is going to slowly dawn on me over a period of time. Even though I think I've accepted (and am excited) about this new change for the next two years, of course I am going to miss home and everyone there.

And a week from today I will be living with a new family.

Alright, I keep warning people that I won't be able to communicate, and then I find a place of easy and free internet access. It is best to have low expectations though, yes?

Still, the training is promised to be very intense and I will need to spend time learning language and integrating into Moroccan culture, so I will limit my time online. This doesn't mean that I am not thinking of you all!

A few other notes on my time in Morocco so far:

-The food in the hotel in Rabat was somewhat disappointing and not exactly what I was expecting. I think they were catering to their European tourists. Whatever the case, the food at the new hotel we will be staying at this next week is so much better! I finally got my Moroccan couscous, and much better prepared veggies and fruits, and light and delicious flatbread. The fruit was the best end to a meal. It was a type of melon, but sweeter than honeydew and cream-colored. I believe it is a casaba melon, which is apparently available in the US, but I wasn't aware of it! Try one.

-The road between Rabat and our current site took us through dryer lands, but not infertile. It was also hilly/mountainous. It reminds me of a hilly south-west US.

-Baggy clothes are dangerous. At home, I don't usually have a problem over-eating, but when I am presented with new foods that I want to try in a buffet-style, I end up piling my plate higher than I intend. Since my clothes aren't as tightly fitted to my figure, I don't notice the amount of food I've been taking in. In any case, I'm sure I will be walking it all off shortly.

-On a related note, did I mention that I love the bread?

Our time quickly comes to a close in the big city. I'm starting to sense the stress to come in the next few months. I've had some of my shots (not so bad), and a lot of introductions. However, I also still feel that this will be a great challenge that I am ready to take on. I'm excited to really start the language training and the home-stay with a Moroccan family.

Right now it looks like it may be best for me to focus my energy on being present and spending an enormous amount of my time trying to absorb the language and culture. This may mean sporadic blog updates, and there might be times when you don't hear from me for a while. Don't worry about me! Also, don't stop emailing or commenting, I will try, at the very minimum spend time online, once a week, if not more. I do plan on keeping you all posted here, but things may be infrequent until I get settled at my site November-January/February.

Right now, there is another beautiful sunset here, followed by a call to prayer and breaking of the fast. I think this may turn out to be a good metaphor for how things have gone here so far, and how I am likely not to get such a nice break in the coming months. Whatever it may be, bring it on!

P.S. Playing cards is a great way to practice saying your numbers in a foreign language, and contains a significant amount of fun.