A few weeks ago I posted a link to a story in the local newspaper that quoted a snippet of something I'd written about my Peace Corps experience. I decided to offer up the entirity of what I'd originally written. Here it is:

Having just completed my Peace Corps service this month, I’ve been spending a lot of time lately asking myself what I’ve done in Morocco over the past two years. Have I mastered the localized Arabic dialect? Not hardly. Have my students become fluent in English? No, though a few are on their way. Have I brought in new infrastructure or funding? Definitely not ~ anything I do here must be sustainable, built and supported by the local community rather than imposed on them by an outsider.

And yet my time here, in a dusty southern desert where I am often the first American my fellow villagers have met, feels full of accomplishment. The most important aspect of Peace Corps service, to me, isn’t the development work, but the relationships built. Friendships between individuals become relationships between nations become understandings across cultures.

Morocco is a Muslim country. Contrary to the image of Muslims you may see in the American media, I have not met a single terrorist. The people in my community have gone out of their way to welcome me and care for me. They are eager to hear about my life back in America, and are often surprised to learn that it’s not much like what they see on TV (via the American movies widely available thanks to satellite dishes). We’re not all wealthy jet-setters, in skintight microminis and towering teased hair. We have to work for a living, and sometimes our jobs are pretty boring and don’t pay enough. We value time spent with our families. Why, my friends here occasionally exclaim, we’re bhal bhal ~ we’re the same!

This has been my main mission, the second and third of Peace Corps’ three goals: To promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served, and to promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans.

Through my blog, I hope I have shared with my family and friends back home how we are all much more alike than we are different. My friends here work to give their children a better future. Families love to share big meals, to laugh loudly together, to coo over babies and sing along to popular music. They sometimes argue, and usually feel badly about it later. They watch too much television. They visit their place of worship. They fear change and welcome it, in often convoluted combinations. Any of this sound familiar?

Not one of my Moroccan neighbors has yelled at me in the street for being from another country, for having a strange accent or a different color skin or for not wearing clothes exactly like theirs. My difference is more often a cause for celebration, an excuse for a party, an invitation into strangers’ homes where I am fed more couscous and mint tea than I can comfortably keep down. They are eager to hear my stories of another world, and surprised to hear just how much we have in common. My hope is that I might now encourage my American friends to be as hospitable to the “strangers” in our midst as my adopted country has been to me.

Rebecca RobertsPeace Corps Morocco 2008-2010 http://shwiya-b-shwiya.blogspot.com

My Peace Corps service is already beginning to feel so far away. Sometimes too far away. I've been home about 6 weeks now ~ depending on your definition of home. The city where I've spent most of my adult life and where I do feel most at home, even though my current address is the computer room of my brother's family's home. I'd like to stick around, but job possibilities are slim. Slim everywhere, of course. Something will, eventually, take me somewhere new. Good thing I learned those patience and flexibility skills PC is always touting.

I spoke again yesterday, Skype to cell phone, with my host family in the village half a world away. Are you forgetting your Arabic? was my host mum's first question. Not yet, which is kind of surprising. For her part, my host sister is still doggedly determined to learn English and bestowed a variety of new phrases upon me. (My favorite, when I admitted that, no, I haven't found a new job yet: Oh, I am sorry. I am so, so, so, so sorry.)

This is likely to be the end of this blog. New adventures await me elsewhere, and new adventures await my friends in the village ~ not to mention the new Peace Corps volunteer there. (You can follow her journey here: http://stealacamel.blogspot.com.)

Or, who knows? Maybe I'll keep dropping little tidbits here from time to time. Random recovered memories, updates on my Moroccan or Peace Corps friends, news links, related miscellanea. Such as:

* My Gender and Development Committee colleague Cortney coordinated a fantastic, 35-minute film featuring Moroccan women who've made successful change in their lives and communities. It really is so good, and I hope you'll take the time to watch Part 1 and Part 2 on YouTube.

* This piece is beyond snarky ~ and debunks a lot of ridiculous stereotypes about Islam and Muslims. Often hilariously.

If you come away from this blog with any thoughts, questions, ideas or something to say about it all, I hope you will post a comment. I don't have any idea what comes next; I only know that the past two-plus years, while often difficult in so many ways, were also immensely fulfilling and have left me full of love, gratitude, inspiration and, most of all, hope ~ for the developing world, the western world, and the bridge in between.

Salaam.

A few weeks ago I posted a link to a story in the local newspaper that quoted a snippet of something I'd written about my Peace Corps experience. I decided to offer up the entirity of what I'd originally written. Here it is:

Having just completed my Peace Corps service this month, I’ve been spending a lot of time lately asking myself what I’ve done in Morocco over the past two years. Have I mastered the localized Arabic dialect? Not hardly. Have my students become fluent in English? No, though a few are on their way. Have I brought in new infrastructure or funding? Definitely not ~ anything I do here must be sustainable, built and supported by the local community rather than imposed on them by an outsider.

And yet my time here, in a dusty southern desert where I am often the first American my fellow villagers have met, feels full of accomplishment. The most important aspect of Peace Corps service, to me, isn’t the development work, but the relationships built. Friendships between individuals become relationships between nations become understandings across cultures.

Morocco is a Muslim country. Contrary to the image of Muslims you may see in the American media, I have not met a single terrorist. The people in my community have gone out of their way to welcome me and care for me. They are eager to hear about my life back in America, and are often surprised to learn that it’s not much like what they see on TV (via the American movies widely available thanks to satellite dishes). We’re not all wealthy jet-setters, in skintight microminis and towering teased hair. We have to work for a living, and sometimes our jobs are pretty boring and don’t pay enough. We value time spent with our families. Why, my friends here occasionally exclaim, we’re bhal bhal ~ we’re the same!

This has been my main mission, the second and third of Peace Corps’ three goals: To promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served, and to promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans.

Through my blog, I hope I have shared with my family and friends back home how we are all much more alike than we are different. My friends here work to give their children a better future. Families love to share big meals, to laugh loudly together, to coo over babies and sing along to popular music. They sometimes argue, and usually feel badly about it later. They watch too much television. They visit their place of worship. They fear change and welcome it, in often convoluted combinations. Any of this sound familiar?

Not one of my Moroccan neighbors has yelled at me in the street for being from another country, for having a strange accent or a different color skin or for not wearing clothes exactly like theirs. My difference is more often a cause for celebration, an excuse for a party, an invitation into strangers’ homes where I am fed more couscous and mint tea than I can comfortably keep down. They are eager to hear my stories of another world, and surprised to hear just how much we have in common. My hope is that I might now encourage my American friends to be as hospitable to the “strangers” in our midst as my adopted country has been to me.

Rebecca RobertsPeace Corps Morocco 2008-2010http://shwiya-b-shwiya.blogspot.com

I'm home now ~ whatever that means. For now, it means living in the computer room of my brother's house, still feeling dislocated, out of place, out of shape, aimless. Looking for a job, which isn't easy without a car or a phone ... or, right now, a computer (apparently it wasn't thirsty for the bowl of cereal milk I rather unceremoniously dumped on it my second day back). Feeling somewhat homebodyish, shy about getting back into my old routine. Haven't yet seen people I really am eager to see

Still ... I've made it through much harder situations than this. I guess that's one thing I've learned ~ three, rather. Patience. Flexibility. Perseverance. I feel blessed to be surrounded by so much family, so much love ... so much English! (On the long plane ride home, I was pondering things I had to accomplish back in Nebraska, and was still practicing how to frame the questions and how to understand the answers ... when I remembered, Oh, yeah! They speak-a my language!)

The local newspaper has a feature story today on the Peace Corps' 50th anniversary. While I'm a bit disappointed that my main message didn't make it into the piece (that by living in a Muslim country I learned, and am now trying to share, how much more we are all alike than different ... i.e., how far apart we should keep the words "Muslim" and "terrorist"), it's good to be quoted and good to see Peace Corps get so much local press. Here's the link:

50 years later, Peace Corps continues breaking down barriers one person at a time

Our swearing-out ceremony.

Planting a tree in memory of So-Youn, the colleague we lost last year.

Meeting Rep. Keith Ellison

Our assistant program manager, the inspiring, optimistic and indefatigable Amina Fahim.

Candace jumps for joy

Faye and Marissa, positive energy forces

Eric, Toubkal hiker and youth developer extraordinaire

My nearest neighbors: Vish, and Joy in spirit

Stamping out: Safi, baraka, Peace (Corps) out.

Whenever his own tribe won a victory in a battle with another tribe, Si Abdallah el Hassoun inwardly rejoiced. At the same time he considered this pleasure a base emotion, one unworthy of him. Thus, to fortify his sanctity he bade farewell to his students and went to live in Sla, which is by the sea.

It was not long before the divinity students of his schoool sent several of their number to Si Abdallah, imploring him to return to them. Without replying, the saint led them to the rocks at the edge of the sea.

How turbulent the water is! He exclaimed. The students agreed. Then Si Abdallah filled a jar with the water and set it on a rock. yet the water in here is still, he said, pointing at the jar. Why?

A student answered: Because it has been taken out of the place where it was.

Now you see why I must stay here, Si Abdallah said.

~ from “Points in Time,” Paul Bowles

You can click each image once or twice for a larger view.

Host grandmother, "mother," sister, and me.

Malika and Fatna, the two young women

from the nedi nesswi who took charge

of our local health workshops and

became such good friends to me.

Fatima, who crocheted me a hijab,

and her adorable son, Youssef.

Last day at the dar chebab.

Last henna ~ the amazing freehand work

of my host sister Kabira. The left hand

is "moderne," the right hand is

traditional Tashelheit designs.

With my completed henna, wrapped

up in the new lizar I gave my host mom.

Granny shelling almonds from the farm.

Last couscous, and the most delicious

one yet (in the end, it turned out to be

my second-to-last couscous).

The sign on the edge of town (notice, in the

background, the badly painted concrete "orange,"

one of two pillars flanking the road into the village)

My village's main square (actually more like a triangle) Main Street in the Souss

One of my two "nut guys" in Taroudant,

where I buy cashews, walnuts, pumpkin seeds

and the amazing local almonds

Buying last-minute gifts from my jewelry guys in Taroudant

My mul karusa (donkey cart guy) regally

hauling my boxes and luggage to the

post office to be shipped home

I don't know if these'll be as hilarious to non-PCVs (Peace Corps volunteers) as they are to me, but the following stories, told anonymously at our Close of Service conference last month, cracked me up. Thanks to Colin for typing them up for posterity. (PS, unfortunately, none of these stories is mine.)

* * *

I thought I made a nice new friend in my town, then one day she disappeared. When I asked people where she went, I quickly found out she went to jail. Jokes around the PCV community in my area started about how I was going to spring my jail bird friend.

This one time ... I went to an American's Berber wedding where on the final day of festivities everyone was gathered for the traditional haydus. There were many tourists so many of the women were not dancing, so us Americans decided to go up and do our own "bridal" dance. So here we are Berber-ish dancing around our American bride while tourists are taking photos of our "traditional" dance.

I taught my bus guy the pound-and-explode, and now that's how he greets me.

My bra broke in front of 20 male teenagers.

This summer in Fes I got in and told the "driver" where to go before I realized he was not a taxi, just a little red car parked in the middle of the [little red] taxis.

This one time a group of PCVs traveled to Fes. Four PCVs sat in the back seat of the taxi and two scantily clad women sat in the front two seats. During the ride, the PCVs discussed the likelihood that the women were prostitutes. Upon arrival in Timahdite, the taxi promptly stopped at the liquor store where the women bought beers. A small discussion between the taxi driver and the women ensued and suddenly the taxi turned off on a side road. Noticing the detour, the PCVs wondered where they were going (but didn't put up a fight). Eventually the taxi stopped in Mischlifen, where the prostitutes and driver mounted horses and rode away from the cab. It was the craziest taxi ride ever!

Once I forgot the flashcards of fruits and vegetables for my neddi neswi food unit at a hanut [shop], and when I went back to get them the hanut men had studied them and asked me to correct their pronunciation. Hooray!

It was a normal day. I was headed to my aerobics. When I arrived I realized I forgot my workout pants but luckily one of the women brought two pairs of pants (I think she actually just took off a layer). I then quickly put them on so we could begin class. The problem was, they were two sizes too big and I had to run around holding them up. The women began to laugh and run around slapping my butt every time we passed. They then began to critique my body and how "I was miskin because the pants didn't fit me." To this day, every class, they try and slap me from behind as I run by.

There's a cafe I usually go to. I went after lftour [break-fast] one night during Ramadan and sat with the high school teachers who hang out there. We got into an argument about fasting. I said it's difficult and not good for your health; they said it's great. Aziz, the French teacher, ended the argument by finding the middle ground. "Fasting is good because God and the prophet say it's good," he said. "And it's bad because it means no f**king during the day."

I often printed photos from online products to inspire product development. One day, Amina pulled me aside and asked for me to show her something at the cyber. I didn't fully understand, but was excited someone seemed to be taking initiative on the product development front. Getting to the cyber, I discovered she wanted to MSN with a boy from Tangier, and that's how I spent 30 uncomfortable minutes video chatting and chaperoning a date.

First night in homestay in site I got a really greasy milky rice meal. I told my host mom I was allergic to milk, but she told me it was God's will to see if I get sick. Not wanting to start off on the wrong foot I ate the meal. About 30 minutes later, I went to bed. Next day: SICK, SICK, SICK. The whole family could hear me, and my host mom came up to me and said "that's the last time you eat a hot meal and drink cold water."

I once pooped in my pants ... 20 minutes from my destination ... while riding in a souk bus.

I'll never forget asking my CBT [community-based training] mom to let me take a bath that night after ripening for two weeks. Little did I know how difficult that simple task would be and the work I was asking of my host mom. Several nails, date pits, and a tarp later she had prepared my at-home hammam ... in my room ... nowhere near a drain. I never before considered that I would have to call Malika to translate to me exactly what I was supposed to do ~ and that my host mom would in fact use my bath water to mop the house after the whole family confined themselves to the TV room to give me the privacy the slits in my bedroom door did not afford me. And that was my first authentic bathing experience.

[from a male PCV:] It was Ramadan 27, the Night of Power, and I was still in training. My host family wanted to send me to get my picture taken with the 12-year-old girls, but they decided not to tell me. "We're going to rent you a jellaba so you can look nice on Eid [the holiday that ends Ramadan]. Come on. We wandered around town, doing everything we could find that involved neither jellabas nor photos. We got Eid cookie ingredients. We flashed the cable box. I followed. My mom went into a shop. My sister did, too. I followed. Twenty middle-aged women looked at me. Shock! Horror! I smiled. "I'm an American," I thought. "Don't be afraid of me. I bring you peace and friendship." My sister turned on a four rial coin. "Come on, Amin." We walked out. "This is the women's hairdresser. Never go there again." Then I found five dirhams.

Talk with camp girl's mom."I'll take care of her, promise."Came out: "I'll mount her."

During my final site homestay, I tried to always do my own laundry, but sometimes I traveled during laundry day. My host sister (the woman of the house, who is younger than I am) offered to wash my clothes on those days. One time she returned my clean, folded clothes, but she withheld a few items in a separate pile. Later that day she brought the small stack of sports bras and underwear. She'd never seen a sports bra, and, as a well-endowed woman, was quite excited. I offered her one because I'd packed a few others, and she was very appreciative. It wasn"t until our next trip to the hammam that I realized she'd accepted the whole small stack of laundry as a gift, including my perfect hammam undies: black and boy-cut. I couldn't bring myself to tell her we don't give away used underwear in America ~ and I didn't want them back!

I'm at the Casa bus station eating a sandwich. The guy next to me asks,"Where you from?""The US.""You Muslim?""No."Then the guy asks the shopkeeper,"Is he circumcised?"The shopkeeper said he didn't know.So the guy asks me,"Are you circumcised?"I respond, "What? I don't understand.""Circumcised? ARE YOU CIRCUMCISED?""I don't understand what you're asking."

Once, we saw a fire burning under a camio [pickup] truck parked on the side of the road. Not a random, untended fire, but an intentional one ~ plastic, rubber, goat heads, etc. There were at least three ~ yes, three ~ young Moroccan men studying the fire burning under the truck intently. We decided to stop and walk the opposite direction!!!

I was walking through the palmerie with some of my friends in site. We were surprised to see a group of tourists coming along another path. "Ahh! Do you know what you should do?" Saida asked me. "You need to go up to them and ask for a stylo [pen]! Come on! Do it!" I was laughing so hard that the moment was lost; the tourists walked around a corner, and I never got to try out my French. [young Moroccan children traditionally beg tourists for pens]

During my first week at my youth center I greeted my director and asked him how his women were doing instead of how his family was doing. [the two words sound very similar in Arabic]

I had just finished memorizing fruits and vegetables, and my host sister had just warned me about mispronouncing words, causing the meaning to change. Later that evening, I went to the hanut to purchase raisins and asked for zbub. [Darija for penis] Awkward turtle.

Before l'Eid Kbir [the main holiday] my host dad took me out to the sheep souk to learn the ropes of how to purchase the best sheep available within budget. As with most activities amongst men in public, it's an opportunity to socialize and catch up on their respective families. My host father approached some sheep and did the customary checking of the teeth, fondling, and picking up the sheep by its hind legs to check the weight, and then lastly the crotch grab. I did everything my host dad did up until the crotch grab. I found the crotch grab weird, but I was more surprised that immediately after my host dad performed the crotch grab, his friend Abdelhaqq came up and they shook hands as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

I bought a bunch of baby chicks to raise, and put them with my host family's chicks so they could all grow up together. But as they grew up, the whole village noticed and laughed about my chickens growing up American like their "mother":They hang out in a group by themselves and donÕt hang out with the other chicksThey don't like stale Moroccan bread and only eat expensive chicken foodWhen summer came and it got hot, they pulled out all their feathers and ran around "naked" all summer

During PST [pre-service training], the Small Business Development sector would often challenge the Youth Development sector in games of skill. Even though YD would participate half-heartedly, they always won.

While walking out to the dry riverbed in site to go jogging, a man was 200 yards or so away pulling up his jellaba going to the restroom as most men do out in this part of town. As I start placing my earphones in, I hear, "Ca va gazelle? Baby," followed by cat calls and hissing ~ yes, the guy was hitting on me while taking a dump.

One day in late winter, I was walking to work and saw something that looked like snow on the road. As I crouched to examine it, I realized it was soap suds. When I looked down the street I saw the source ~ they were cleaning a well and there was a mound of suds covering the two-lane road that was as tall as my waist. There were kids playing in it of course (as I would have if I were 10). One of the kids was shouting to the other "climb Abdelkader, climb!" Luckily I have it on video.

There is a traditional medicine-maker in my site. One day he pulled me into his shop; I was greeted by a two-foot-long dried lizard guarding the door and rows of herb-filled glass bottles on shelves lining the walls. He told me that he would perform tukkl on me, and proceeded to pull out a string and measure my arm. After comparing the combined length of my fingers with that of my arms, he told me I had microbat [microbes] in my stomach. I didn't see the connection, but was impressed nonetheless that he had diagnosed my recent GI problems. Next he wrapped the string around my head and proclaimed "you never get headaches," which is also true. Since he was on a roll of correct diagnoses, I permitted him a third test. This time he made me lie down on the ponj [mattress] and felt my chest for a little longer than I was comfortable with. Then he grunted "good." I still don't really understand.

We were at CBT for the last day. The next day we would go back to Azrou for seminar sessions and find out our site assignments. My host mom decided to wash a few items of dirty clothing that were in my room, including my towel. I was worried that they would not have time to dry overnight, but she assured me that it would be fine. The next morning, I went up to the roof and discovered that my towel, sweaters, etc. were frozen solid! I had to snap the ice and fold them into a plastic bag for the ride back to Azrou ~ and that was one of my last memories of CBT.

First year after spring camp at Tim's house when I tried to prove I was strong or tough as the boys. Bad idea; I woke up with bruises.

Whilst stranded at a flooded bridge on the road to Imilchil, I got into a conversation with an Irish transvestite living in Morocco who owned a dog named Obama. After turning down an invitation for tea in his Winnebago, I watched as he declared he'd wait no longer and attempted to cross. As his Winnebago stalled halfway across the bridge and in the throes of the river, I smirked. Best tea refusal ever.

Going to the sources with artisan women to wash wool in the river, and they end up in a full-on water fight ~ buckets of water on their heads. Wrote about it in my blog. Went back to explain photos that women were fully clothed in their jellabas ~ that just seemed normal to me, but photos probably needed explaining.

My host family witnessing my apparent transition to womanhood as I unwittingly applied chapstick in front of all of them at the dinner table. (I am male)

I once woke up in the middle of the night and found that a stray cat had curled up with me in bed. This one time, in Morocco, I took a camel trek in Merzouga with my mother, father, brother, and fiance. We rode out into the dunes to watch the sunset. As the camels knelt down for us to disembark, my tiny 5'2" mother flipped off the giant descending camel, catching her bra strap on the camel handle, landing on her feet, like a 60-year old Midwestern Mary Lou Retton.

September 2008:

1. Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books: Azar Nafisi (Nonfiction=N)2. Franny & Zooey, JD Salinger (Fiction=F)3. Culture Shock: Morocco (N)4. Working With Youth: Approaches for Volunteers (N) 5. PACA: Using Participatory Analysis for Community Action (N)

October-November 2008:

6. Loving Frank, Nancy Horan (F)7. The Tao of Pooh, Benjamin Hoff (N)8. Rules of the Volunteer in Development: Toolkits for Building Capacity (N)9. Stupid White Men, Michael Moore (N)10. A Language Older Than Words, Derrick Jensen (N)11. The Te of Piglet, Benjamin Hoff (N)12. The Rough Guide to Morocco (N)

December 2008: 13. Peace Corps Morocco Youth Development Teaching and Community Development Book (N)14. Peace Corps Volunteer Ongoing Language Learning Manual (N)15. Resources for the Dar Chebab, Peace Corps Morocco 1997, Karen E. Martin (N)16. Resources for the Dar Chebab, Peace Corps Morocco 1998, Karen E. Martin (N)17. Peace Corps Life Skills Manual (N) 18. Women and Money: Owning the Power to Control Your Destiny, Suze Orman (N)

January 2009:

19. Ishmael: An Adventure of the Mind and Spirit, Daniel Quinn (F)20. If on a winter’s night a traveler, Italo Calvino (F)21. The Delicate Prey, Paul Bowles (F)

February 2009:

22. Love Is a Mix Tape: Life and Loss, One Song at a Time, Paul Sheffield (F)23. The Wordy Shipmates, Sarah Vowell (N)24. The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down: A Hmong Child, Her American Doctors, and the Collision of Two Cultures, Anne Fadiman (N)25. Nine Parts of Desire: The Hidden World of Islamic Women, Geraldine Brooks (N)(second reading)

March 2009:

26. The Koran 27. The Comfort of Strangers, Ian McEwan (F)28. Best American Essays 2007 (N)29. Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert (F)30. Kiwis Might Fly: A New Zealand Adventure, Polly Evans (N)31. Various GGLOW camp manuals, Peace Corps Morocco (N)32. Year of the Elephant: A Moroccan Woman’s Journey Toward Independence, Leila Abouzeid (F)33. The Sheltering Sky, Paul Bowles (F)

April 2009:

34. A Thousand Splendid Suns, Khaled Hosseini (F)35. Sweetness in the Belly, Camilla Gibb (F)36. Lake Wobegon Days, Garrison Keillor (F)37. Patience and Power: Women’s Lives in a Moroccan Village, Susan S. Davis (N)38. Running With Scissors, Augustyn Burroughs (N)39. Uncivilized Beasts and Shameless Hellions: Travels with an NPR Correspondent, John F. Burnett (N) 40. “Not Much Fun: The Lost Poems of Dorothy Parker” (N/Poetry)41. “Quick Fix Vegetarian: Healthy Home-Cooked Meals in 30 Minutes or Less,” Robin Robertson (N/Cooking)

May 2009:

42. “In the Mind’s Eye: Essays Across the Animate World,” Elizabeth Dodd (N)43. “Covering Islam: How the Media and the Experts Determine How We See the Rest of the World,” Edward Said (N)44. The Best American Non-Required Reading 2008 (N/F)45. “Double Fault,” Lionel Shriver (F)

June 2009:

46. “All You Need is Love: The Peace Corps and the Spirit of the 1960s,” Elizabeth Cobbs Hoffman (N)47. “The Kid (What Happened After My Boyfriend and I Decided to Go Get Pregnant): An Adoption Story,” Dan Savage (N)48. “Meditation: A Beginner’s Guide,” Charlotte Parnell (N)49. “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo,” Stieg Larsson (F)50. In the Land of No Right Angles, Daphne Seal (F)51. Ornament and Silence: Essays on Women’s Lives, Kennedy Fraser (N) 52. Best New Games: 77 games and 7 trust activities for all ages and abilities, Dale N. Le Fevre (N)

July 2009:

53. Long Quiet Highway: Waking Up in America, Natalie Goldberg (N) (reread) 54. Honeymoon in Purdah: An Iranian Journey, Alison Wearing (N) 55: Rick Steves’ Spain 2006 (N) 56: In Praise of Slowness: How a Worldwide Movement is Challenging the Cult of Speed, Carl Honore (N)57. A House in Fez: Building a Life in the Ancient Heart of Morocco, Suzanna Clarke (N)58: The River Queen: A Memoir, Mary Morris (N)59: The Best American Travel Writing 2008, Anthony Bourdain, editor (N)

August 2009:

60. Road Work, Mark Bowden (N)61. Seeking Peace: Chronicles of the Worst Buddhist in the World, Mary Pipher (N) (read while on vacation in Spain)62. Thunder and Lightning: Cracking Open the Writer’s Craft, Natalie Goldberg (N) (third read?) (on vacation in Spain)63. Unaccustomed Earth: Stories, Jhumpa Lahiri (on vacation in Spain) F

September 2009:

64. Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises, Ernest Hemingway (2nd read? in Spain) (F)65. The Best American Short Stories 1999, Amy Tan, editor (read in Spain) (F)66. On the Rocks: The KGB Bar Fiction Anthology, Rebecca Donner, editor (F)67. A Street in Marrakech, Elizabeth Warnock Fernea (N)68. The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment, Eckhart Tolle (N) 69. The Universe in a Single Atom: The Convergence of Science and Spirituality, His Holiness the Dalai Lama (N)70. Salvation Blues: One Hundred Poems 1985-2005, Rodney Jones (Poetry)

October 2009:

71. Dark Star Safari: Overland from Cairo to Cape Town, Paul Theroux (N) 72. African Visas: A novella and stories, Maria Thomas (F)73. Best New American Voices 2007: Fresh Fiction from the Top Writing Programs, Sue Miller, ed. (F)74. Icy Sparks: A Novel, Gwyn Hyman Rubio (F)75. Wild Mind: Living the Writer’s Life, Natalie Goldberg (N) (reread) 76. Sun After Dark: Flights into the Foreign, Pico Iyer (N)

November 2009:

77. Cannery Row, John Steinbeck (F)78. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, Dave Eggers (Memoir) 79. Crime and Punishment, Fyodor Dostoevsky (F)

December 2009:

80. Selected Stories, Andre Dubus (F) (read on vacation in U.S.)81. Darfur Diaries: Stories of Survival, Jen Marlowe et al. (N) (read on vacation in U.S.)

January 2010:

82. Final Gifts: Understanding the Special Awareness, Needs, and Communication of the Dying, Maggie Callahan and Patricia Kelley (N) (read on vacation in U.S.) 83. Best American Essays 2009, Mary Oliver, editor (N)84. Best American Short Stories 2006, Ann Patchett, editor (F)85. Everything That Rises Must Converge, Flannery O’Connor (F) 86. A Whistling Woman, A.S. Byatt (F)

February 2010:

87. We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families: Stories From Rwanda, Philip Gourevitch (N) 88. Waiting, Ha Jin (F)89. The Conservationist, Nadine Gordimer (F) 90. The Best American Travel Writing 2009, Simon Winchester, editor (N)

Mach 2010:

91. We Share Walls: Language, Land, and Gender in Berber Morocco, Katherine E. Hoffman (N) * Way too much time reading online in lieu of books

April 2010:

92. The Best American Short Stories 2009, Alice Sebold, editor (F) * Way too much time reading online in lieu of books

May 2010:

93. Eleven Minutes, Paulo Coelho (F) 94. The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho (F) 95. Best American Travel Writing 2006, Tim Cahill, editor (N) 96. Morocco: The Islamist Awakening and Other Challenges, Marvine Howe (N)

June 2010:

97. A Sand County Almanac, Aldo Leopold (N) 98. This Blinding Absence of Light, Tahar Ben Jelloun (F) 99. The Spiritual Gifts of Travel: Best of Travelers’ Tales, edited by James O’Reilly and Sean O’Really (N)100. Walden and Civil Disobedience, Henry David Thoreau (N)

July-August 2010:

101. The Spider’s House, Paul Bowles (F) 102. Mountains Beyond Mountains: The Quest of Dr. Paul Farmer, a Man Who Would Cure the World, Tracy Kidder (N) 103. Up and Down the Road and Other Stories, Jilali el Koudia (F)

September 2010:

104. Twilight Sleep, Edith Wharton (F)105. A Human Being Died That Night: A South African Writer Confronts the Legacy of Apartheid, Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela (N)106: Eat Pray Love: One Woman’s Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia, Elizabeth Gilbert (N) (reread)

October 2010:

107. Lonely Planet Paris (N) 108. Berlitz French phrase book and dictionary (N) 109. Women in Love, D.H. Lawrence (F)

November 2010: 110. Autobiography of a Yogi, Paramhansa Yogananda (N) 111. ???

My Top 10: A Language Older Than Words, Derreck Jensen

If on a winter’s night a traveler, Italo Calvino Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises, Ernest Hemingway We Share Walls: Language, Land, and Gender in Berber Morocco, Katherine E. HoffmanThe Spider’s House, Paul Bowles Crime and Punishment, Fyodor Dostoevsky Cannery Row, John Steinbeck Everything That Rises Must Converge, Flannery O’Connor Franny & Zooey, JD Salinger In Praise of Slowness: How a Worldwide Movement is Challenging the Cult of Speed, Carl Honore

I've always been proud to come from the same state as the great Ted Sorensen, who honed his inspirational speechwriting abilities at the doorstep of our state Capitol, with the statue of our city's namesake featuring his Gettysburg Address.

Among the many homages to Sorensen upon his death yesterday, I found an interesting connection in this one: JFK’s Wordsmith…Ted Sorensen. Not only did Sorensen have a mighty hand in crafting Kennedy's legendary speeches inaugurating Peace Corps, but it turns out Sorensen's own daughter was a Peace Corps volunteer right here in Morocco. This country has come so far, in many ways, from the world she described in letters to her father only 15 or so years ago ... and yet much of what she describes is so warmly familiar to my life, here, now.

Just on my way out the door now to spend the day with the new volunteer for my village, who is here for a site visit for the next few days before she completes her training. Oh, these final days are moving way too quickly ...

Two weeks from tomorrow, I'll be signing my name to become a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer. Here's what comes to mind as the clock winds down ...

What I'll miss:

My people ~ my host family, my dedicated students, the meek and brassy (by turns) girls at the nedi nesswi, the many, many women who have reached beyond language, culture gaps and suspicion to bring me into their circles of laughter and comfort

The call to prayer, especially that first one, just before daybreak, in the sweet mellow voice of my neighborhood muezzin

Walking to the hanut around the corner in my jammies if I've run out of bread or milk

Walking everywhere ~ and, if it's too far to walk, using only public transportation

Never being in a hurry

Cries of Boki Boki Boki Boki Boki!!! from the little kids in my neighborhood each time I enter their view

Eating truly local and making virtually everything from scratch

The late-morning smell of fresh sunshine and terra-cotta charcoal braziers

Wide-open sunsets, and stars visible in the night sky, even in town

No snow! (not down here in the Souss Valley, anyway)

The overpoweringly sweet smell of a bunch of mint peeking out of a souq bag

The funky bright red/yellow/blue pattern of my sleeping pad, which I usually leave uncovered by sheets because I love the happy pattern (also because I'm lazy)

The repetitive, metallic, high-pitched whine of Berber pop music on the taxi radio

The thrill of a lukewarm Especial tallboy, snuck home from MarJan in the hidden depths of my backpack

Tektonic

The traditional break-fast meal during Ramadan: Harira (a tomato-based soup with chickpeas and spices), dates, hard-boiled eggs sprinkled with cumin, and chebekiya (a sticky-sweet pastry drizzled with honey and sesame seeds)

Leaving my private courtyard door wide open, all night, to welcome in the crisp evening air

The extra fervor and linger of that last bump of cheek against cheek that shows just how pleased my friend is to see me

What I won't: Bargaining the price for everything from a piece of furniture to a kilo of tomatoes

Standing out / Constantly feeling as if I'm on stage

Dripping with sweat most of the time

Ca va, gazelle, labas 3lik, HellowHowAreYouFiiiiiine? (and worse)

Having to work out, in advance, anything new I want to say

Cockroaches and other home invaders

Inzegan

Being assumed to have money, because I am American

Being squeezed six to a taxi, plus the driver, plus any produce or packages or, sometimes, livestock

Being asked whether I pray; whether I fast; whether I drink or otherwise act hchuma; whether I eat couscous; why I speak Arabic; why I don't speak better Arabic; ...

The rigors and limits of traveling only by taxi or bus É the waits, the breakdowns, the sweltering heat, the crowds rushing to push each other out of the way

The constant, high-pitched screeching of the family arguments upstairs

Meeting a woman in the street, having what I think is a heartfelt, understanding and mutually appreciative conversation about the work I do here, how wonderful Morocco is, and how much we are all alike ~ and then still being asked for dirhams, or clothes

Vache Qui Rit

The trials and errors of communication and culture when I am not fluent in the local language What I hope I'll leave behind

The notion that a woman can lead an independent, productive life on her own terms

A few more kids who'll pass the English portion of their baccalaureate exams and go on to university

All the extra layers of clothing, especially in the dead of summer

My occasional bouts with agoraphobia

What I hope to bring back with me:

New friendships

Cumin on hard-boiled eggs

Touching my hand to my heart after shaking hands

The breakage of the Diet Coke addiction

Fresh vegetable juices (cucumber, beet, carrot)

Making simple, edible meals with only fresh, local ingredients

Outdoor shoes come off in the house

Making do with what I have, what I can afford, what's available

A greater respect for the greater world (particularly the Muslim world) among my acquaintances

More strength, patience and perseverance What I fear about going home:

Being able to find a job that can sustain both my soul and my renewed Western lifestyle

Driving (after 2 ½ years ~ and in the snow, no less!)

Too many choices

Too high expectations

What I look forward to back home:

Spending extra time with the niece and nephews (and their parents and grandparents, of course!)

Rekindling old friendships

Hanging out at my neighborhood coffeehouse (or even, gasp, bar!) without being taken for a prostitute

Bookstores and libraries

Iced soy toddy lattes, sipped on the go or (gasp!) in a public coffeehouse

A garden! A gym! A washing machine!

Set prices

Screen doors

Feta cheese Fresh mozzarella cheese Basically, any kind of cheese

Bagels

Sushi

Maggie's, YiaYia's, Oso, Grateful Bread, Open Harvest, new local discoveries

Beer ~ anytime, anywhere, in multiple varieties

My people ~ parents who support me unequivocally even when they don't understand me, a brother, sister-in-law and amazing niece and nephews who keep me laughing and feeling warm, girlfriends like sisters, everyone who gets me and makes me laugh and makes me think

* * *

Finally, my most fervent hope is that those of you at home, reading this blog, who might otherwise experience Muslims only through the prism of mainstream media, have come away with a more balanced perspective. Muslims are conservative and modern, righteous and carefree, black and white and all shades in between. They laugh and cry and love their families and sometimes get angry and usually feel badly afterward. They want to learn and grow, and they also want to share and give. They eat and sleep and shop and watch TV and read the news. They go to school, to work, to visit their families. They have a vast range of clothing, and of ideas. They disagree about their politics ~ and about their religion. They are just like ... the rest of us. They have been my caretakers, friends and family here. I have learned to second-guess my assumptions, to appreciate our commonalities, to recognize when I'm being played by those whom my fear would serve well.

I hope I have shared all of this adequately with you.

This afternoon at the dar chebab I asked three of my favorite "little" girls ~ Hind, Imane and Houda ~ to say something on film for me to bring home so I can remember them. How cute are they?!? Basically, they're saying that I'm like their sister, their teacher, their mother, and that when I go home I am to say hello to my friends, my mother and father and brother from them.

We had a good afternoon. My three little girls and I oohed and aahed over some new Arabic books we've received from the U.S. embassy, then they drew me some pictures while a couple of high-school girls dropped in to review their formal English lessons from the past week; then my little friends, inspired by the "big" girls, asked for an English lesson of their own.

Then I chatted awhile with my new friend Malika, who's won the green card lottery and is moving to Seattle in a couple of weeks. I'm so worried about her ~ her English is not at all good enough to survive on her own in the States, and while she says she has friends there, she's a bit vague and I suspect they are merely loose connections. I had to show her where Seattle is on a map, and she was visibly shocked by how far it is from New York. I hope she will find at least a few Americans who are as patient and kind with her as the bulk of Moroccans have been with me here; but, especially considering the current xenophobic anti-Muslim fervor over there ... well, I fear what's in store for her is not the paradise she imagines.

News feed

Speaking of the anti-Muslim fervor, here's a great new site created in honor of Juan Williams: Muslims Wearing Things (wow! they're just like us ~ imagine that!)

Morocco Pushes for Law Against Gender Abuse, Child Labor

Observatory created to improve image of Moroccan women in media

A poster describing moudawana reforms in Arabic, Tashelheit and French

Yesterday we organized what likely was my last event here in the village, welcoming Tafoukt Souss, a women's rights association in the nearby city of Agadir, for an afternoon discussion of Morocco's relatively new moudawana laws. You might remember me mentioning moudawana a few times before. It's an issue close to my heart here, a long campaign that has produced laws giving Moroccan women far more rights in marriage, family, property and divorce.

The average woman here knows about the reforms, but often doesn't know what they specifically govern. A few brief highlights:

* Both women and men must be 18 to marry legally. (There are exceptions, but the girl and her parents are supposed to agree.) * A woman can conduct her own marriage contract, without approval of a male relative. * The legal requirement that a woman must obey her husband has been eliminated. * The division of marital property is to be determined by a written contract between the wife and husband. * Polygamy is allowed only if both the first wife and a judge authorize it. * Divorce can be made official only in front of a judge (a husband can no longer simply say, "I divorce you," and leave a woman without a home or money) * A mother with custody of her children has a right to housing in the event of divorce.

Zahara and Khadija fielding questions.

Khadija and Zahara, our two new friends from Tafoukt Souss (it means "sun of the south" in Tashelheit, the local indigenous, pre-Arabic language), are simply my newest heroes here. Forget your assumptions about Moroccan or Muslim women being submissive or second-class. This duo is sassily passionate about educating all women about their rights and responsibilities as full citizens and marriage partners. They were relaxed, confident and funny ~ and they brought out all of these qualities in my small crowd of sometimes shy women and girls, who quickly opened up and had an intimate conversation about their changing roles in their changing world.

After the event, Khadija, Zahara and I went home with Saadia, one of my favorite women in the village, who is holding together her household just fine without the deadbeat who left her after she gave birth to their third daughter (no sons). She wants to get a divorce but can't get the necessary papers. Thanks to this convergence of the right connections and the right information at the right time, she now has access to a legal support network.

Saadia, by the way, is a wedding consultant. She does the bride's hairdoes, rents out the expensive gowns that must be changed at least half a dozen times at a typical wedding, and also rents the hardware ~ the gaudily ornate thrones the bride and groom sit on, stoically, for upwards of seven or eight hours, late into the night. She insisted I pose with the goods, and when I asked, "Where's the groom?" everyone laughed and cried out, "You tell us!"

No, things are not yet pefect for women here, the road to equality is a long one (just as it has been and continues to be in America). But progress is being made, and I'm encouraged by the strength, perseverance and outright confidence of those on the front lines, new heroes like Khadija and Zahara ... and all of the local women who take the time and initiative to educate themselves and have the courage to think of themselves and their roles in new ways.

Now that I have a functioning camera again, I've been trying to add some video to my photo library documenting the past two years. Unfortunately, none of it seems to want to upload to Blogger. Maybe when I get home and the connection is faster? We'll see.

In the meantime, you can meet my new little visitor. Never seen one so tiny.

In other news ....

* Voices of Our Future is an inspirational initiative to encourage women around the globe to become citizen journalists. I've been acting as a "Listener" (evaluator/encourager) during the monthlong application process, in which more than 500 women from 86 countries are writing weekly assignments about how they can change their communities for the better. At month's end, 30 of those women will go on to a more intensive Correspondents program, and I've already signed up to be an "Editorial Midwife," offering mentoring and editing assistance to one participant. Many of the applicants' stories are quite powerful ~ check them out here.

* Nicholas Kristof's Sunday column gives you a chance to test what you think you know about Islam ~ and the Bible. Give it a go; it'll take 5 minutes, and I guarantee you'll learn a thing or two.

* http://www.itgetsbetterproject.com/ has some very moving stories, told in support of GLBT teens who are struggling mightily to survive middle and high school. It *does* get better, promise! My only complaint is, why must we expect these kids to just wait out their teen years in promise of a better future. They should have the same chance to enjoy high school as anyone ~ free of bullying and taunting. I'm pretty sure I participated in some level of teasing gay kids (or presumed gay kids) when I was that age. I'm deeply ashamed now. And I don't remember a single adult ever telling us it was stupid or wrong.

* Another story on the origins of Peace Corps, 50 years ago ...

Currently reading: Lonely Planet Paris

Currently listening to: Backlog of World Cafe podcasts

Currently quoting: “Progress is impossible without change, and those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.” ~ G.B. Shaw

Peace Corps headquarters in Rabat: Tell the truth, what I'd really love to do after COS is to be the official PC Morocco gardener, and just wander the lushly planted grounds, barefoot in the rare cushiony grass (photos by John Wayne Lui)



Pizza and brownies at the country director's home

Good company and 10 dirham falafel sandwiches

Sorry for the absence, but I've been ... absent. Just returned from more than a week in Rabat, the capital and home of Peace Corps HQ, for our Close-of-Service conference, followed by our final medical checkups, followed by Gender and Development Committee meetings. I'm meeting-ed out.

COS Conference, good and bad: Sessions were beyond lame. But we ate a lot of good meals. Was so wonderful to catch up and spend time with the amazing group of volunteers I came in with. Yet sad to hear so many stories of difficulties, professional and personal. I truly love so many of these people. We were thrown together and bonded in this world that soon will not be our world anymore. I probably will never see most of them again, and while they'll always be in my heart, it's hard to imagine a world where they won't be in my daily life.

Medicals: I still don't have tuberculosis. No word yet on parasites, as my shy constitution refuses to function on command, and I had to bring back the home version of the 3-day "tests." Which led to my favorite Peace Corps text message yet: "I have the stool sample kit for you at the med unit." At least it wasn't on speakerphone.

GAD Committee: I will miss this aspect of my service, collecting and sharing ideas and resources for other volunteers to better serve and educate both genders. We have an amazing film coming out soon, thanks to Cortney's hard work, profiling several women across Morocco who have become community leaders through nontraditional paths. It will be a great way to encourage girls to complete their educations and follow their dreams. I can't wait to show it to you all.

Oh, I also did a bit of shamelessly self-centered shopping ...

Peace Corps in the news: http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/local/ct-met-peacecorps-20101009,0,1879850.story (bet you didn't know Michelle Obama's uncle was one of the first PCVs)

Currently celebrating: http://www.hrc.org/ncod/

Currently hoping to move beyond celebrating: http://reconsidercolumbusday.org/Home.html

Currently quoting: "Sometimes you've gotta do what you've gotta do, and pray that the people you love will catch up with you." ~ Mary Gauthier, "Drag Queens in Limousines"

Nicked this from my friend and neighboring PCV Faye, who nicked it from here. This is *so* our daily lives here. There are many, many good points that make up for it, but this is the hard part.

Do you know where your apostrophe's are?

Happy National Punctuation Day! To celebrate, I suggest you go here or here to have a hearty laugh at others' expense.

Actually, I've been getting quite a bit done lately, but it all feels like swimming uphill (like a salmon, and not the GMO version). For every resume I send off or contact I network, it seems my list grows longer and longer (and with few-to-no results as of yet). For every report I check off, two new assignments pop up.

Even so, with my days here ever more quickly running out, I am trying to spend more time with the people I'm going to miss. That's the fun part, though bittersweet at the same time.

* Kabira and her nonstop Big Ideas, most recently her drive to find some land so her family can build their own home, with a shop on the ground floor. I have no idea how she might manage that financially, but I don't know how she manages most of what she pulls off. I hope she makes it.

* Her mother Rakya, a source of nonstop love and affection, genuinely expecting nothing in return, a rarity anywhere in the world, the one I know I will miss more than any other, the one I know I will cry buckets of snot over when I have to get in that taxi for the last time.

* Malika and Fotna, two of my favorite students from the nedi neswi last year. They both earned their diplomes and won't be returning. To break up the monotony of days in their remote duoars, Malika says she's considering launching a nedi in her own home, teaching her crochet skills to other young women in the same stuck-at-home situation. She made me another gut-busting rafisa, then we walked to the next duoar to see Fotna, who insisted on frying up some fresh msamen. Then we went for a blissfully long walk, down to a dry, cactus-filled riverbed. When Malika complained of blisters from her fancy shoes, Fotna insisted on swapping her flipflops. That's friendship.

* Fatima, another of my favorite students, an upbeat joy to be around, and my hand-picked host "mother" for the volunteer who will come to replace me in November. This week she casually dropped a huge new nugget of information in my lap: She is her husband's second wife. Not as in he was divorced or widowed ~ more as in Wife No. 1 lives in the apartment downstairs. I didn't think any of my women friends were in polygynous relationships. Fatima's so matter-of-fact about it: No, she doesn't like it, no the two women don't get along, but that's the state of affairs, she's happy in her marriage, she adores their young son, and whaddayagonnado? All with a shrug of the shoulders, a beaming smile, and an urging upon me of more cookies and milk.

One thing I am not doing is spending much time at the dar chebab, which is still in disarray from use by an association this summer. It will be cleaned out this weekend, my mudhir tells me. Inchallah.

Speaking of time running out ...

Even though it's corporate-created, The Girl Effect organization and its first video launched a great deal of awareness about how educating and empowering girls benefits not only them but their surrounding communities and societies. Now there's a new video, "The Clock is Ticking," connecting the dots between girls' education, their health and a way out of the poverty cycle. Simple but inspiring viewing.

Not your Peace Corps volunteer's Marrakech.

photo from Conde Nast traveler

I first heard this podcast about it, then read "The Magic of the Medina" in the latest issue of Conde Nast Traveler. For a limited view of the tourist's Marrakech, I suppose it's pretty spot on. And the photos are very pretty. But this is so far from typical Morocco. The podcast especially felt more and more superficial and stereotypical the farther in you listen. But, here it is, if you want to read and decide for yourself.

The Rabat Express ... doesn't have quite the same ring.

photo from The View From Fes

According to a popular Morocco expat blog, Rabat's extensive tramway project is "due for completion later this year." Any chance that'll happen before Nov. 12? My last chance to take a high-tech spin around the capital city.

(I have experienced the zwin new Rabat train station, however, and am tossing in a couple of photos just to flesh out the visuals of this page now that I am camera-less.)

I read “Eat Pray Love” soon after it came out, just as it was beginning to become The Book, and I identified perhaps a bit overmuch with the author’s dramatically romantic around-the-world quest to find herself (and bag a Wealthy Older Foreign Devastatingly Handsome Love Interest, to boot). As the book started to gain popular momentum, I was soon ridiculously flattered by the friends (more than a few) who read it, too, and exclaimed to me, “B____! This is your life! You could have written this!”

(Because I, too, was recently divorced and found myself both free and flailing to follow the path of my own choosing. I, too, had fallen crazily in love at earlymiddleage and then had to step gingerly out of the shards when it broke all around me. I, too, have … ummm … traveled. Even internationally! Even to India! Uncanny, ain’t it?)

It really did hit me in the solar plexus, though ~ her descriptions of diving into love with all (too much?) of your being, the shock of discovering that not only wasn’t it enough but that you’ve lost yourself in the bargain, the wonderful terrifying opportunity to rebuild the life you want to lead only to find the myriad choices too dizzying to comprehend … and then, slowly, discovering that if you wait, and breathe, a right path rises up to meet you.

Even so, the more popular it became, the less I cared to admit how deeply “EPL” affected me. I have a book snob’s distaste for books that become “too” popular, at least those written during my lifetime. I have never read a single Harry Potter book. (The snobbery extends to movies, too ~ I still haven’t seen “Top Gun” or “Pretty Woman.”) So the more popular Gilbert became, the more embarrassed I was to have loved her book so much.

Then the merchandising came out. That’s right ~ merchandising. You can now buy “EPL” pillow covers or candles or prayer beads. I am not making this up. Somehow, that killed any authenticity for me. No writer with a Deep Lifechanging Message works out a marketing deal with Bed Bath and Beyond. There are no Philip Roth table runners, no Toni Morrison patio dining sets. Dostoevsky did not ink a deal for a Crime and Punishment Getaway Weekend (complete with lodgings in a Russian hovel!).

Now, of course, there’s the movie. With Julia Roberts. Julia Roberts!?! Julia Roberts is not the protagonist of “EPL”. Julia Roberts is not a quirky, vintage-clothes-wearing, bookish but hip, smart but foible-filled litchick who has to hoist herself, hand over hand, out of the depths of society’s expectations and shattering heartbreak, and into a self-determined, hard-won life of independence and really good food and international escapades. Most important, Julia Roberts looks nothing like me.

And Javier Bardem … well, OK, Javier Bardem I can take. Javier Bardem I can quite easily fantasize imagine myself with. (Sadly, there is not, as yet, as far as my extensive research has uncovered, any merchandising of an Official EPL Wealthy Older Foreign Devastatingly Handsome Love Interest Who Looks an Awful Lot Like Javier Bardem. Now, that’s some marketing I could get behind.)

Anyway. Not going to the movie. (I am, however, rereading the book, which fell into my possession even as I was thinking of writing all this, and that’s a coincidence you just don’t ignore, embarrassed as you might be to be going along with the popular crowd.)

* * *

EPL came back into my mind last week after I read “Twilight Sleep,” an Edith Wharton novel that arrived in my mailbox courtesy of the Peace Corps library. Written late in her career and life, “Twilight Sleep” is no “House of Mirth” (one of my Top 10 books ever read ~ go check out that one or nearly any other Wharton novel; “Summer” is another personal favorite). Written and set in the Jazz Age, a couple of decades past the New York turn-of-the-century aristocracy that was Wharton’s treasure trove, Wharton’s characters and writing both come to feel as superficial as their fast-paced exterior lives.

Most superficial of all is Mrs. Manford, the upper-crusty dowager bent on Doing Good Works while Finding Enlightenment and, most of all, Eliminating Frown Lines. From one guru to another she flits with the waves of public sentiment. One week the Mahatma holds the keys to world and inner peace. Next week he’s out and she’s a devoted follower of the Inspiration Healer. Etc. In between her spiritual quest and all of her benefits and society gatherings and personal betterment, and it’s clear Mrs. Manford is trying her very best to run away from independent thought ~ to keep from being still long enough to truly know herself.

(If only the Marketing Tie-In had existed in Wharton’s Day. The New York Tour of Self-Help Guides! The Nora Manford Flapper Party Dress! Free facelift with every major donation to a third-world country!)

All this fictional searching made me wonder about my own tendency to follow one idea or hobby or desire, and then another, and another, until I get so caught up in doing that I don’t have time to reflect. I could focus on my yoga practice ~ really dig into it instead of halfheartedly starting or giving up again. Or I could finally start “really” writing. Or really teach myself how to cook. Learn how to make jewelry. All things that could provide opportunity for self-realization … or simply diversion from the same.

Peace Corps itself can be that escape, if you let it. Why did I choose to do this in the first place? Was it selfless, or an escape? (Or a trap door?) A quest, or a bravado-filled personal one-upmanship? Have I been seeking, or hiding? Questions that are all bubbling up again as the end of this volume nears and I prepare to return home. (And is “return” the right word? And if it is, is it the right path, or is it a step backward?)

With so many choices available, and so much work to do to realize any one of those choices, the result is an endless game of freeze tag with myself. The path of least resistance is to do none of it ~ to, instead, lie here on the sofa in an overwhelmed stupor, eating cookies and rereading books I’ve already read.

In preparing to go home, I see so many opportunities to reintegrate into my community through volunteer work. The literacy council. The food bank. Mentor an international student at the university. Be a Big Sister. My previous gigs at Community CROPS, Planned Parenthood. All causes I want to support, and things I’d actually enjoy doing. But doing it all leaves little time to do justice to any one (not to mention time for gainful employment). And doing it all may be just yet another way of running away from myself.

Maybe I need to start thinking of my own marketing tie-ins. Ride the Emotional Rollercoaster! The Hairshirt of Self-Doubt ~ it’s the fashion accessory of the season! All-Expenses-Paid Trip to Angstville with every purchase!

Random thought of the day:

Is it bad that I’ve taken to eating my meals (stirfry, rice/veggies, etc) straight out of the pot it’s cooked in … and bringing a spatula to table with me so I can catch every last dreg?

(apologies to David Byrne)

A belated 3id mabrouk ~ happy holiday! I celebrated the end of Ramadan with my host family and then duruing around to visit some families in the village. Enjoy the photo documentation while you can ~ my camera stopped functioning shortly after this was taken, and I'm not sure I'll be able to get it repaired or afford a new one during my last two months here.

That's right ~ less than two months, actually. Still hard to believe. Time moves through some kind of wormhole here. That first year was at least five, and this second one can't have lasted more than a few months ... Now that Ramadan is over and school started today, I hope to get in a little time at the dar chebab and nedi neswi before my time here is up.

Meanwhile, I'm working on brushing up my resume. Those of you back home, PLEASE pass my name around (I can send you my resume if you want to pass that around, too) and keep an eye out for anything related to communications or public service. Now that this whole repatriation thing is becoming an actuality, I'm kind of freaking out about what I might be returning to. I've never left a job without having the next one lined up. I won't lie ~ it's kind of scary.

FYI for your COS

To that end, for my Peace Corps colleagues working on all the paperwork associated with completing service, here are a couple of good sites for writing your own letter of recommendation:

http://www.writeexpress.com/recommendation-letters.html

http://www.wikihow.com/Write-a-Letter-of-Recommendation

(Thanks, Meleeska, for passing these on!)





Improper usage peaks my ire but doesn't pique my interest.



Bad grammar that has annoyed me lately, in several places, and that may similarly come in handy for those PCVs writing such COS documents as their DOS or VRF or even WTF:



It's Gandhi. Not Ghandi. Not Gahndi. Gandhi. A wise man would give a wise man proper attribution.



Something piques your interest. The word is not "peak." I can understand the assumption here ~ it suggests an increase, which could be translated physically. But it's wrong.



Similarly, something whets your appetite. Again, I can understand the misunderstanding. But just because the smell of bacon makes you drool, don't assume it means it "wets" your appetite.



And for Pete's sake, if you're old enough to be online, you're old enough to know the difference between "your" and "you're." Though even those born in days of yore have trouble with this.



Ditto for "there" and "their" and "they're." If you're not 110 percent positive, look it up before you type it up. Heck, look it up anyway ~ you might be surprised.



Contact me for private lessons if you need an unforgettable way to remember when to use "lie" vs. "lay."





News roundup.



In the context of the current anti-Muslim fervor in America, I think Tuesday's podcast of On Point ought to be required listening for all Americans.



Also to that end, I think Nicholas Kristof makes a good point here. If you don't know any Muslims, you might try meeting a few before letting the media make your assumptions for you.



If I ever had to go back to Tangier, I'd do my best to get lost, too.



Here's a pointedly funny sendup by a Moroccan writer about the Saudis' ban on Moroccan women. If you haven't heard, Saudi Arabia has banned Moroccan women "of a young age" from traveling to Mecca ~ thus banning them from one of the five pillars of Islam. The stereotype in the Arab world that Moroccan women are prostitutes was news to me. If they visited my village, or any village I've visited here, they'd see how utterly ridiculous that is.



Then contrast that story with that of the Moroccan-American woman who has to sue Disneyland in order to wear her headscarf to work. Their "solution" essentially sends her to the back room ~ which is a lot like sending her to the back of the bus, imho.



I could say so much more about how men mis-shape the notions of what women are, what they must wear, who they must be ... but, luckily for us both, it's nearly 10 p.m. and that's my new daily deadline for turning off the Internet and doing something ~ anything ~ else. Goodnight.

Thanks to Darien books for these much-needed donations!

I walked to lbosta (the post office) this morning and walked home with 24 pounds of cool stuff ~ some for my dar chebab, some for me.

First, a long-anticipated donation from Darien Book Aid, a small but mighty American nonprofit that distributes donated books from the States to Peace Corps and other volunteers around the world. I received about 15 pounds of books in English, collected to meet my specific requests for my students' needs. We have a lot of beginner story books, a great picture dictionary, some basic YA novels, a couple of craft guides and even an encyclopedia on CD-ROM (if only we can get the computer room up and running!).

I'm really impressed by how this organization matched books to our profile. Several of the stories are about shepherds, goatherds or desert life. All of the characters are modestly dressed. Just what we'd asked for!

I hope you'll consider Darien Books when you make your next charitable donation. They do great work and put a lot of thought and effort into what they do. Can't wait to add today's swag to our bookshelves!

Still, as you can see, we have a long way to go before we can call this room a library. And if you've read my previous posts here and here, you know what I think of our current collection. I'd love to give my kids more beginner English picture books, simple dictionaries, simple poetry, very basic YA biographies ~ essentially, lighweight, thin volumes, easy shippable.

This is where you, dear reader, potentially come in. With only two months left in my service, it's a little late for me to be suggesting this, but I'm gonna give it a shot anyway.

If any of my dear family and friends would like to do something to support the amazing kids of my village in their collective quest to learn English, pass their exams and conquer the world, here's an idea: Consider sending us a small box of gently used books!

They could be tomes your own kids have grown beyond, or a few inexpensive selections from The World's Greatest Used Bookstore (or some other awesome locally owned shop if you don't live near TWGUB). Shipping internationally can be a bit pricey (here are various USPS rates), but a few friends working together could share the pain and spread the love.

Some ideas and caveats, should this idea interest you:

Any simple English picture books would be most welcome, from toddler board books to beginner YA novels (but the simpler the better, for even my older students).

My kids love science, nature and geography. I think they'd like poetry, too.

It'd be cool to have stories that display America's wonderful diversity (including our Muslim sisters and brothers).

Small picture dictionaries would be great (and Arabic-to-English dictionaries would be aMAZing!).

I would only ask that nothing be sent that shows people in immodest dress or proselytizes any religion.If this idea appeals to you, let me know ASAP! It takes about 2 or 3 weeks for a Priority Mail package to reach me ... and my time here is running out. If you don't already have my contact information, drop me a line and I'll get it to you.

Please know that whether or not you're able to make a donation, the fact that you've read and commented on this blog over the past two years, showing your support for my work here and the amazing kids I get to hang with, has meant so much to me. LLah yrhem l-waladin! ~ God bless your parents, as we say here.

But wait! That's not all!

As if the fabulous box o'books weren't enough, I also got what is likely my last care package. (So strange to be already marking the "last" this, "one more" that ...)

Peanut butter! Saline solution! Black beans! And, best of all, more of the adorable kitchen towels my mom makes for me to share with my women friends here in the village.

My mom's amazing handiwork

The ladies always ooh and aah over her work. I sometimes think Mom would make a great Peace Corps volunteer ~ small business development, helping women artisans with color coordination, patterns and marketability.

Icing on today's cake: Not one, not two, but three young boys offered to help me carry my slightly unwieldly boxes home from the post office today.

What I'm reading today:

This makes me so very, very sad: American Muslims Ask, Will We Ever Belong?

This one makes me think, too little, too late: Planned Quran-burning could endanger troops, Petraeus warns

And this one makes me hope someone out there might get it.

With my boys ~ Brahim (left) and Abdsamad ~ on the beach in El Jadida.

Summer camp in El Jadida. Seems so long ago now, though it was only just before Ramadan. Is it OK to simultaneously celebrate the facts that (a) it was, as per usual, much more fun and rewarding than I'd anticipated, while (2) I never, ever have to do it again?

(Note: Go here for a full description of the experience that is U.S. Peace Corps English Immersion Summer Camp in Morocco.)

This year, I won the coveted role of "librarian," generally considered the easiest gig at camp. Widely considered to involve little to no work ~ no lesson plans to prepare for English teachers, nor craft projects or other plans for club leaders. Just sit back and check out the occasional book. Right?

Actually, for those two or so hours every day, I felt like I was more than earning my paycheck* for a change. In addition to the expansive library of English books provided by the U.S. Embassy, this year we also had a shelf full of books in Arabic ~ much more accessible to the average camper.

Browsing the stacks.

For 10 days, I collected collateral (ranging from a dirham to a frayed friendship bracelet to top-of-the-line cell phones and one girlie magazine, the latter subsequently confiscated) in exchange for books and board games. And what started as a friendly competition ~ for each book read and summarized to yours truly, a camper could earn points for his or her team ~ quickly became yet another lesson for the teacher.

The kids ate those books up! I had crowds of teenagers fighting to be the next to sit with me and describe the trials and tribulations of Tommy the Turtle. Moroccan kids rarely have access to books for pleasure reading, and while at first it was all about the points, over the course of camp I developed a steady corps of regulars who were obviously in it for the sheer fun of reading ~ and of sharing what they'd read. Best of all, some of my most dedicated readers were the official camp "troublemakers" ~ the ones you wanna smack upside the head and instead karate-chop the air beside them, grumbling, "Why, I oughta ...."

Not during library time. During library time they were quiet angels ~ except when jockeying for position to be the next to read to me (one young lady, doing impressions of various volunteers one afternoon, characterized me by swinging her hands in giant circles and screaming "Line up! Line up! You have to stand in line!"). And if I asked one of them to help me straighten the shelves or put something away, you'd think I'd given him a gold medal. It was fun, all in all.

Immersed in reading.

In other successes, the two scholarship boys I brought from my dar chebab shone as brightly as I'd hoped they would. By the third day of camp, each had already won Star of the Day honors. Brahim, especially, was taken under the collective Peace Corps wing, with Seth and Christa turning him into a mad Frisbee champion and Marissa coaching him to Rubik's cube solution success.

Abdsamad, meanwhile, got a taste of life as a typical American teen. He was mopey for a few days in the middle there, and I couldn't coax him out of it. Marissa, in trying to commisserate, asked him one afternoon: "What's the matter ~ girl problems?" To which Abdsamad threw up his hands and essentially said: "I don't have a girl ~ that's the problem!"

Here are a couple of videos of my boys:

And, if that's still not enough for you, Moroccan television station 2M (that's deuxieme, 'round these parts) visited camp one day and spent some time in the library: Click here and fast-forward to about 11:50.

Oh, camp. As usual, the best group of volunteers I could've worked with, and not too much work at that, and that part of my Peace Corps service is over now.

* We won't note here that I'm not actually earning a paycheck, so much.

More camp photos.

The cistern in El Jadida ~ gift of the Portugese, made famous in Orson Welles' "Othello."

Jeremy and campers getting crafty.

Marissa launches a sneak Super Soaker attack on kids returning from the beach.

Anthony and friend examing escargot.

Last-night photo shoot.

*art by Hyperbole and a Half ~ via the amazing Rachel

Hiding inside my house (both to escape the outrageous heat and to disguise the fact that I'm not fasting)

Reading the entire innerwebs (this task up to approx. 79% complete, but I still have a few days left)

Killing an average of 5 large insects in my house per day. Grasshoppers, cockroaches, crickets, moths, giant ants ~ oh, my. (This does not count mosquitos and the occasional what-I-really-really-hope-are-not-bedbugs.) No scorpions, for which I am grateful.

Sitting in the back room of Kabira's hanut, practicing my dough-rolling skills for future employment as a non-OSHA-compliant baker

Completing the Moudawana (Moroccan family law) education manual that has sat at 90% completion for the past 13 months.

Contemplating a long list of other writing/reporting tasks: updated resume, quarterly reports, Description of Service, site journal for new volunteer,

Not following any of the above through to completion

Not journaling

Not "writing" writing

Editing the projects of anyone else who asks (rather than working on my own)

Not perfecting crow pose

Not exercising, per se

Throwing out my back (aGAIN), likely a side effect of not exercising

Stalking you on the Internet

Watching various personal dramas from afar

Trying to remember what it's like to have personal drama

Mentally paring down my possessions (again) as a result of panicking over what to ship back home, and how, and how to pay for it

Savoring the muezzin's morning and evening calls to prayer, knowing how much I will miss these lovely daily interludes

Wondering what comes next ...

Puns I have enjoyed this week:

"Eat Pay Leave" ~ Tshirt currently popular in Bali in response to the "Eat Pray Love" juggernaut

"The Audacity of Taupe" ~ NYT headline on the Oval Office's beige makeover

Blogs I am enjoying today:

Nicholas Kristof's reminder that the current Islamophobia is only the latest in a long American tradition of fear-mongering when it comes to new communities.

Hyperbole and a Half: Thanks, Miz K! And now I see that this delightfully nerdy blog is also where Miz R "borrowed" the artwork I "borrowed" from her to launch this post, and isn't that a tidy little full circle?

I hate when a woman in a vividly patterned lizar greets me, and so I greet her effusively, assuming I've met her before and just don't recognize her behind all her wrappings, and so I'm all touchy and chummy with her so she doesn't catch on that I don't even recognize her ... and then come to the realization that I don't know her at all, she's never seen me before, she just wants a dirham.

I love being greeted by a trio of my rowdy dar chebab boys, walking around on nhar jma3 (Friday, mosque day) in their crisp white or beige summer gandoras.

I hate having to break up a fight among other boys in my neighborhood when I can't begin to comprehend what they're fighting about.

I love when two of those same boys are willing to go find me an electrician and drag him to my house, on a moment's notice, then make a run to the hardware store for him, and wait politely for the man behind the counter to finish his Friday prayers before bringing back the parts ~ and my 3 dirhams' change.

I hate, and also love, when the electrician, a young man who's never met me before and has a pregnant wife at home, won't allow me to pay him for his work or time.

I love when my host mom, after an impassioned discussion of the Saudi men vs. Moroccan women issue (see yesterday's post), tells me I need to go home and study to be a women's rights lawyer.

Good reads.

I get tired of this, too.

Vagabonder Rolf Potts visits the "wrong" town in Morocco.

It's Time to Play 'Bush, Obama, or Imam?'

Ramadan continues. One recent day in Agadir, two friends and I (both PCVs, one Muslim) came across this sign at the McDonald's on the beach. "To our customers: During the days of Ramadan, only children and adult non-Muslims may be served here."

As with much involving Ramadan, I'm not sure how I feel about this. I do think it's important to be as respectful as possible during this holiday. Fasting from sunup to sundown takes its toll, and there's no reason to flaunt food in the face of those who are abstaining. In addition, as I previously mentioned, Moroccans are presumed by birth to be Muslim, and so are legally as well as religiously prohibited from eating and drinking in public during Ramadan.

On the other hand, what business is it of McDonald's ~ or of anyone else, for that matter? There are many circumstances that allow a Muslim to break the fast during Ramadan (travel, illness, menstruation, pregnancy, for example). What about parents who want to bring their children, too young to fast, in for a treat? And, if they're not fasting, why is it up to McDonald's, or anyone else, to police them?

Meanwhile, I feel as if I'm cowering inside my house, emerging only near sunset to visit others' homes for lftr (the yummy meal that traditionally breaks the fast) or to forage for food on my own. Part of it's the heat, which has been unbearable, in the 110-plus range with no relief from insulation or shade trees or air conditioning. But it's also to avoid the inevitable "Wech sayema?" Are you fasting?

I'm trying, I say. Which is a lie. A white lie, I hope, intended only to not cause offense. The question, or any following admonitions, generally isn't intended to be rude. It comes out of basic curiosity, and a genuine wish that I experience the same benefits of this month that they consider the most holy and cleansing.

Think about it. Not fasting is as strange and foreign in this culture as the idea of fasting, or of Islam in general, is to most of my Midwestern friends and family back home. Part of my work here is to exchange culture ~ to show Moroccans what Americans are like (and to show y'all what Moroccans are like, that Muslim does NOT equal terrorist, for example). So for my friends here to see that I am not Muslim but I respect their religion, that I may not fast but I'm still a good person ... that seems to me to be important.

So I say I'm trying ~ but that I'm not Muslim, and this is something I haven't adjusted to, especially in this heat. People usually accept this answer. I hear reports from some other volunteers that they get hassled, so I feel grateful that people here seem to understand that it's OK for me to be different. (But oh, how tiring it can be to constantly be so different!)

Many Peace Corps volunteers actually do fast. I have mixed feelings about that, too ~ for non-Muslims, that is. If it's out of respect for their fellow villagers, I can respect that, though I think there is nothing wrong with eating and drinking in the privacy of one's home if one isn't a believer. If they're doing it as a personal test of their own strength and willpower, more power to them, though I worry about the health ramifications of not drinking water all day in this brutal summer heat.

But for some I think this, as with so many things we do here, is simple (and misplaced) competition. Look, it seems to say, I'm fully integrated into my community. Which of course means I'm a better Peace Corps volunteer than you.

Or maybe I'm being overly sensitive. Back to keeping my eyes on my own paper.

A hole in the ground.

Yup, this is my toilet! (It's really a lot cleaner than it looks ... just highly discolored from plumber's putty or some such thing.)

All during training, my first few months in Morocco, I did everything I could do avoid using a squat, or Turkish, toilet. I'd wait half an hour for the one Western stall to be free. When a squat was unavoidable, it took me forever to roll up my pants or gather my skirt, get my feet into the proper position, and hope for the best.

Of course, as soon as one is sent to their little rural village, one is no longer able to avoid the inevitable, and thus the squat became a part of my daily life. I'm so used to it now that it'll never phase me again.

Now, Slate has an article touting one of the main benefits of the squat. You might be surprised how much, um, easier certain tasks are on the squat. Let's just say there's no need for a reading rack in the Moroccan bathroom.

Not to mention the hygiene factor.

There are negatives, however. I learned early on, for example, that Turks are not vomit-friendly. Just a tip from me to you.

Call me! Text me! Email me!

Here's another way Peace Corps volunteers compete: I use less technology than you! Early-generation volunteers especially like to tout how they were airdropped into an African field, told "So long, see you in two years," and had to fend for themselves without benefit of running water or electricity, much less wifi. (And they had to walk uphill 10 miles to and from school every day ~ just substitue "sandstorm" for "blizzard.)

Things have changed. NPR ran a recent story on how technology is changing life in the Peace Corps ~ a welcome change not only for volunteers, but for the communities they serve. (The article also features our former assistant country director, Gordie Mengel, newly relocated to Rwanda and king of the original Peace Corps badasses.)

Personally, I feel blessed to have Internet access ~ in my own home, no less. Call it Posh Corps if you will, but I'm not sure I could've survived the early months without the ability to Skype with my family back home. I couldn't plan my English lessons without the Internet (it's not as if Peace Corps gave us a curriculum or teacher training, believe me). I'm able to connect easily with other volunteers to plan larger projects. All of our required Peace Corps reports must be done online.

It's easily used as a crutch, true ~ a way to hide out and forget, however temporarily, that you're living in a developing country. But it also has multiple benefits ~ and not just for the volunteer. Last night my "sister" Kabira asked me to help her write an email to a friend. Then we looked at online photos from a previous volunteer's wedding. Then we had a miniature geography lesson, expanding her notion of the world around us.

Cell phones especially have helped poor people around the globe ~ not just to keep in touch with family, but to receive news and perform business. Internet cafes are a boon to entrepreneurs and rural users alike. Families can Skype relatives working overseas to support their families back home. The flood of news that otherwise wouldn't get to remote areas is amazing.

Technology is part of our world ~ not just the Western world. It has its drawbacks, but to deny it to people in "developing" countries seems the height of condescension. And why shouldn't volunteers take advantage of it, not only for themselves but for their work?

In other news ....

Moroccan women controversy: The idea that the Middle East considers their Moroccan Muslim sisters as loose at best, prostitutes at worst is completely unbelieveable to me, living here in this village where women generally cover themselves head to toe whenever they venture outside the home. Looks like ridiculous negative stereotyping isn't limited to the USA, after all.

On the other hand ... coming from The Onion, this article is obviously just a joke and not at all true or typical of Americans. Right? Right???

Currently listening to: The entire Black Keys backlist (thanks, Nicole!) Currently laughing at: You Suck at Craigslist Currently learning from: A brief guide to life Currently quoting: "Don't focus on the one guy who hates you. You don't go to the park and set your picnic down next to the only pile of dog shit." ~ from "Shit My Dad Says"

(* Generous Ramadan)

Kabira and her new toy.

We are about a week into Ramadan, the holy month when Muslims fast from sunrise to sundown. It is a time of extra prayer and charity, a time Kabira described to me as a test of one's dedication to the faith. Kabira and the rest of my Moroccan family have been so good to me these past two years. Latest example: They insist I eat lftr ~ the meal breaking the fast ~ with them every evening. I know they can ill afford another mouth to feed, and there's an uproar any time I try to contribute anything more than a few dates. They've never asked me for a single thing, other than I spend time with them. The other day, Kabira was salivating over the idea of having a pasta machine to lighten the load of making chebekia for the hanut. Chebekia, a sticky-sweet pastry drizzled with honey and sesame seeds, is a traditional part of the Moroccan lftr. Kabira has been making giant piles of it to sell at her shop ~ but the work of rolling and cutting the dough requires several people, and she's been hiring neighborhood girls to help her ~ thus eating away any potential profit. Today, I took her shopping, and we came home with the machine. It felt so good to give something back to this family that has given me so much that I almost feel guilty ~ surely I did this more for myself than for Kabira.

Chebekia.

More on Ramadan. Based on the lunar calendar, Ramadan arrives 11 days earlier every year. My sympathies are with those who must refrain from even water during these sweltering weeks of deep summer. We've been unusually blessed recently with cooling rains, but the forecast shows it'll be skunna hal ~ popping back up into the 110-degree (F) range ~ again starting tomorrow.

Moroccans are Muslim by birth and are not only morally but also legally required to fast. PRI's The World had an interesting piece on Moroccans who are lobbying against laws prohibiting them from consuming food in public during Ramadan, whether they consider themselves believers or not.

Additionally, the "Inside Islam" series, produced by Here On Earth: Radio Without Borders, has a wealth of downloadable podcasts offering a better understanding of Ramadan and of Islam in general.

Counting down. No, I haven't forgotten I have a blog. I was working at an English immersion camp up north for a couple of weeks. After that, I was busy being lazy. I'll try to do better.

But with fewer than three months now before my time here comes to an end, I suddenly find myself awash in paperwork. My description of service document describing the work I've done here. A journal to describe my life and work here for the next volunteer. A long-delayed toolkit of moudawana resources for the Gender and Development Committee to share with all volunteers. My quarterly report, due several weeks ago, actually. Oops.

And then there's the future ~ time to start putting out feelers, working contacts, trying to figure out what might come next, and where, and with whom. Ideas? Advice? Deep coffers?

Palm tree takes a nap.

Sitting here in my house in the desert, fan aimed directly on me at all times (when I'm not taking a cold shower, that is), doing anything to avoid going out in the 110-degree heat, I fantasize about my visit last week to La Majorelle in Marrakech.

The Majorelle garden is a lush oasis of dank dark earth and green growing things, nirvana for a gardener far from her garden. I nearly burst into tears as soon as I entered and inhaled the scent of growth. There's a substantial cactus garden, a variety of blooming exotics (early July must have been the best possible time to visit), ornate fountains and tiles, cascading succulents and spikes, pots and trellises painted in vivid blues, oranges and yellows.

I could live here. Right alongside Yves St. Laurent's ashes.

Yellows and greens and reds, dozens of cactus varieties.

Bamboo, inscribed.

Me in all my hchuma touristy glory.

Sunflower on a rooftop near Bab Boujeloud in Fes.

After traveling north to Rabat for our latest meetings of the Gender and Development Committee (best session yet, btw, lots of new members with great energy and drive), I decided to take some vacation time to visit Fes. Seemed a shame to live two years in Morocco and never have seen one of its most famous cities.

Now I've seen it, kind of. I had a few wonderfully relaxing days in the medina, catching up with volunteers I haven't seen in ages. Got to eat some wonderful food at a very cool cafe run by an American expat. Splurged on a hotel room with my own bathroom, wifi and this crazy invention called air conditioning.

Cool cafe.

What I didn't do is see much of Fes. Faye and I spent most of a day wandering around trying to see several spots on my list. A garden that looked amazing from outside the tall iron gates but is apparently closed to the public. An expensive taxi ride to see the potters/ceramics quarter that just didn't quite work out. A plan C to go walk around in the "ville nouvelle," where a freak but fierce rainstorm broke out just as we arrived.

That all makes it sound like my trip to Fes was a bust. It wasn't. Really, there's nothing I like more than meandering down the narrow, winding lanes of the local souk until I'm tired and sweaty, then sitting down with a coffee or soda in a quiet cafe, with either a book or friends. I got all of that, several days' worth. To me, the perfect vacation.

Rooftops.

Row of red chairs.

Medina alley.

Being as I was in the neighborhood, I was invited to a Fourth of July party at the home of a nearby volunteer. His site is where I had part of my training nearly two years ago now, a little mountain town that has the feel of a village in the French Alps, with its slanted, green-tiled rooftops and dense covering of coniferous forest. I likely wouldn't even have noted the passing of the Fourth, but this was the best independence celebration I've had in a long time. Barbecue, brownies, beer and (water) balloons. Great guacamole. A viewing of "Independence Day," reassuring me that very bad movies don't necessarily have to involve Bruce Willis. Most of all, a wonderfully relaxing day with perfect weather and a group of laid-back, funny, smart volunteers.

Don't we look all-American?

Alternative to fireworks.

At the summit. 'Twas my hippie-chick idea to summit the morning of the solstice.

Four other volunteers and I hiked Mount Toubkal last week. An hour or so up a winding mountain road from Marrakech, Jbel Toubkal is the highest peak in North Africa, 4,167 meters or just shy of 14,000 feet.

We hiked a pleasant trail from the mountain village of Imlil several hours up to a refuge at the foot of Toubkal, where we spent the night. With the sun rising the next morning, we set off over craggy black rocks and a formidable, moonscape-like trek of thick, loose, gravelly rock that later made the descent even more difficult than the climb. Only one brief slot of snow to pass through; though there were plenty of white patches to be seen, most of it was dissolving into the cold, clear streams we could hear rushing past us at various points.

The summit, topped by a bizarre metal graffiti-covered pyramid, offered dizzying views straight down the other side of the peak. No photograph can do justice to our journey, as the mountain cannot be viewed in full, but here are a few snapshots of our experience; if you want to see more, go here.

Sunrise at the refuge.

The trek up Toubkal starts with a scramble via large rocks over a rushing waterfall.

Toubkal's moonscape surface.

As we neared the summit, Eric's pants buzzed: We have cell reception!

Snow, and mountains as far as the eye can see.

A guide at the top.

Beginning the trek. (Damn, I really am short, ain't I?)

I'll explain in a sec. Promise.

First, I wanted to link to a few readworthy items:

* Peace Corps volunteer Raul Moreno gave NPR a fascinating, if very scary, account of the violence outside his front door in Osh, Krygyzstan. All PCVs in the region have been evacuated safely. I cannot even imagine what it would be to witness such violence ... much less have to leave behind my host country loved ones.

* Did you know the Appalachian Trail extends beyond U.S. borders? Neither did I, until I read about hopes for extending the International Appalachian Trail south to Morocco. Oh, tectonics ... and no, I don't mean tektonic ... that's already plenty popular here.

* Fellow PCV Faye has a good take on the Moroccan school system and how it practically sets our students up for failure.

Little things that amuse me.

My dear new friend Laila visited this week from her site a couple hours away. We giggled our asses off at the following:

* Searching the Web for confirmation of the toy she and Nicole saw recently: the above-pictured Benign Girl! Battery operated! Press any button! Don't worry, she'd never hurt you ~ in fact, she's incapable of causing harm!

* The warnings on the back of our bootleg copy of "Happy Feet" weren't quite accurate, either. I thought it was far more than mildly comic.

* Best of all is the "Career Resource Manual," circa 1997, Peace Corps sent me last week as I prepare to close out my service a few months from now. A whole page devoted to explaining this crazy World Wide Web thing. I'm not too concerned ... I'm sure it's just a fad ...

Quote of the Day:

"Each morning when I open my eyes I say to myself: I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn't arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I'm going to be happy in it."~ Groucho Marx

The mother of the groom (right) and a friend dancing for the couple (video below).

Wedding season is in full force here on the Souss plains. On Sunday, well into the wee hours of Monday, I accompanied my friend Malika to a wedding in a nearby village. This ceremony was traditional in most ways, with here and there a modern twist I wasn't expecting.

Malika picked me up in the early afternoon, and we walked the two kilometers or so to the duoar where Malika and her friend, the bride, live. We spent the rest of the afternoon chatting and sharing a tagine with the bride and her family, having pancake makeup slathered on our faces, and making the rounds of other friends' homes. We returned to Malika's house to rest a bit and have some dinner ~ her teenage brother made the fries, while her father told me about serving with American soldiers in Kosovo in the '90s.

After dressing up, me in a used caftan and Malika in a modern, vividly patterened maxi sundress with a turtleneck and leggings underneath, we finally made our way to the wedding tent around 10 p.m. This is usually around the time I'm winding up my evening and making my way to bed, but here the festivities were just getting started.

The couple, bride in Costume Change #1, and the ever-present photographer.

The large, open tent eventually filled with perhaps 250 or so celebrants; women and children sat on the ground in the center, for the best view of the bride in all her finery, while men and boys lined the sides of the tent. This was a change from other weddings I've attended, where there are separate rooms for men and women, and while the genders didn't exactly mingle here either, it was nice to not feel as if I was missing any aspect of the celebration.

Five processionals were required for the bride and groom to make their entrance, each time the bride wearing a different, elaborately embroidered gown and stunning jewelry. The women of their families escorted them into the tent, carrying the bride's train and singing the glories of marriage. The two were guided up the steps of a giant "silver" (plastic) throne, where they held court with all the regal comportment that implies. The couple are encouraged not to smile but to look as elegant as possible. The bride occasionally made eye contact with a friendly face in the crowd and made a slight nod of acknowledgement.

The groom, however, often couldn't hold back his wide, blushing grin, and I felt a surge of affection for them both for that. For that and for the fact that they held hands the entire time, something else I hadn't seen before, and a symbol of affection that looked entirely mutual and heartfelt. I don't know the couple, and I don't know how they met, only that she is here in this very southern rural village, and he is from Casablanca and will be bringing his bride back north with him, far from her family. But I like to think that they might have a truly warm and reciprocal relationship ahead of them.

Howara drummers and little girls.

The music was spectacular, with two "bands" ~ a traditional Soussian troupe from nearby Howara, wearing beige and gold striped djellabas and pounding a variety of drums while chanting, singing, twirling and leaping, plus a strange but effective combination of fiddle, drum set and electronic keyboard, all connected to a speaker system that would have been right at home in a Miami nightclub.

As the couple sat regarding the crowd and being regarded back, his mother got up to make an amazing dance in their honor. She's a large woman who looks like she's used to a life of hard work, but she can shake her hips better than I ever have. She was soon joined by another older woman, later the mother of the bride, and here and there for the rest of the evening, substantial, maternal-looking women occasionally rose to pay their respects in dance.

This opened the floor for a crowd of eager little girls to take to the dance floor. Some in miniature caftans, some in jeans, they too could sway and shimmy with natural abandon. Young boys on the perimeter leapt around, chased occasionally by men wielding heavy sticks. Older boys tried their best to look too cool for the whole thing, but after a few hours they too were circling and stomping. Women dance with women, men with men, all much more naturally than the self-conscious swaying I for one grew up with.

Malika photographing the final costume change as the milk and dates are presented.

Near the end, the crowd vibe changed somewhat as older women cleared out with the early morning hours. A trio of young women joined the girls on the dance floor, to the whispers and consternation of many older women in the crowd. It was evident that some of the young men had been drinking, and fights threatened to break out but never actually did. Some of the young children started to nod off wherever they dropped, while others seemed to have just as much energy as when they started. Finally, around 4 a.m., the happy couple entered for the last time, exchanged rings, and shared a cup of milk and an offering of dates to seal their union. We said our goodbyes and made our way through the dark lanes, guided by stars, and within an hour were fast asleep in Malika's salon. I don't think I've stayed up that late in decades, but I didn't really notice I was tired until I lay down, ears buzzing as if I'd been to a death metal concert. I've added a few videos below; more photos and videos are on my Flickr page.

Or, at least, all this past school year?

The baccalaureate exams, which high school seniors must pass to graduate, are next week; the English portion is Tuesday afternoon. I've been expecting this to lead to a rash of students coming to the dar chebab begging for review lessons at the last possible minute. With one exception (a 23-year-old who plans to retake the test he failed two years ago and has no chance of passing at least the English portion, his English definitely at a beginner's level at best), that hasn't happened.

So I didn't feel too guilty about letting anyone down when I arrived at the dar chebab this afternoon to find myself locked out once again. Grateful, in fact, for an out, an excuse to go back home and take refuge under my zwin new fan.

No sooner had I tucked into Season 2 of "Weeds" (comfort TV, like comfort food) and a bag of Choco Cracks animal cookies ("but this they are for cheeldren," my English-trying storekeeper chided me) than I heard the knock at my door and three whirlwinds of energy entered my home and my life.

Kabira (not my "sister" Kabira, but another girl), Fatima and ~ oh, dear ... Mejha? Mejda? I don't remember the third's name, only her gorgeous sheer lavender headscarf ~ confidently but respectfully, not to mention fluently, asked whether I might help them practice for the bac.

"We have no concerns about the grammar portion, but we are worried about the comprehension and the written section," Fatima told me.

So we read a couple of sample essays together, and I asked them questions about the text. Whereas my typical student would have difficulty answering the most basic factual questions ("How old is Iman?" "What is her favorite subject?"), searching the text over and over in vain, these three could answer the most difficult questions I posed, backing up their answers with further explanation and linking the hypothetical situation to their own lives.

Same with the sample essays. I posed several possible topics they might come across ~ brain drain's effect on Morocco, global warming and saving the environment, and a letter to a penpal describing a Moroccan wedding. They casually tossed off facts and opinions, in a logically constructed essay, off the tops of their heads. All in English.

After I convinced them that they weren't going to have any problem whatsoever in passing their English test, we turned to casual conversation. Music ~ Kabira sang to me the praises of Nirvana, Chris Brown and James Blunt. She gave a mixed review to Eminem ~ "he has good beats and a strong message, but, you know, I'm not in favor of his language." OK, still not exactly my kind of music ~ but a long way from the Michael Jackson and Celine Dion that usually gets swooned over.

I've simply never come across this level of English before in my village, not with my best students to date. All three love the language, which has everything to do with why they've excelled. Not once was their language stilted, not once did they cock their heads in a lack of comprehension. Not once, in fact, did they switch to Arabic to speak amongst themselves.

It's pretty obvious they didn't need me to help them learn English. But if only they'd known how much I've needed girls like them ~ for assistance in the classroom, and for the comfort of having a real conversation in my familiar language.

Inchallah they'll each be off to university this fall and unavailable to help in the dar chebab. But how I wish we'd met sooner. I hope they take me up on the invitation to visit anytime for American iced tea and Moroccan children's cookies.

PS on English lessons

In contrast to my new girlfriends, I've spent the past couple of weeks teaching a mixed class of beginners and intermediates about the past tense. So many verbs are irregular in past tense, but when we do happen upon a "regular" verb, ~ say, "worked" ~ the kids consistently pronounce it as two syllables ~ "work-ed." Equally consistently, I point out that the pronunciation is more like "workd" or "workt." Finally, yesterday, one exasperated kid raised his hand and said, "but you are wrong ~ Teacher (at his school) says it is 'work-ed.'"

Sigh.

Other bloggers, other posts.

The Center for Global Development has an interesting piece this week aiming to keep an eye on Secretary Clinton's new women-centered foreign policy aid plan. A laudable aim, but will it simply further fragment both strategy and funding? Stay tuned.

Muslimah Media Watch has a couple of posts, one creatively funny and one depressing, on the "Sex and the City" sequel. I admit to loving the series ~ fashion and hair porn, nothing more ~ but found the movie an embarrassingly bad self-caricature. Would have absolutely no interest in the sequel if much of it hadn't been filmed right here in Morocco; kind of like Omar Sharif, Morocco is the generic ethnic go-to for filmmakers looking to set a scene in any Middle Eastern location (see everything from "Lawrence of Arabia" to "The Mummy 2," but not "Casablanca"). From what little I've read, it is nothing but one offensive Muslim stereotype after another. What a missed opportunity; these were once intelligent, feminist women who might just have found solidarity with equally intelligent, feminist women who happen to have different fashion ideals.

"There are camels in the yard next door," Kabira tells me, giggling.

Um, okay ~ why?

We don't know. But we go up to the roof for a look. Some of them look back. (She also tells me people have been reporting minor earthquakes in Agadir and Taroudant. I don't have pictures of that.)

You'll be glad to know I finally snagged a fan. Hope it lives up to its name.

My "garden" ~ still growing, Basil seedlings are healthy, cilantro less so, mint didn't make it, canna lilies going gangbusters but in too-small pots.

Where’s this headache come from, interrupting my unusually tranquil Sunday afternoon? Probably from the heat. Summer has set in. Supposed to be at least 95 degrees today, and this is just the beginning. Time to start setting my alarm and going for my morning exercise earlier, to beat the heat. This morning I had a good run despite the heat, laughing out loud to the amazing Bettye LaVette on my weekly “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me” podcast. But after hopping on my bike to get back home to a cool shower and a cold salad, I stopped to talk with my friend Hafida, on her way to souk in Ouled Teima. Minutes after stopping my forward motion, my head started spinning, the landscape closing in on me, and I had to rest my head on the handlebars until my vision cleared. Hafida held my hand and chided me for exercising in this weather. I get a lot of scolding around here for doing things that to me seem perfectly normal. But, yeah, this time, Hafida was right.

Still, I’m lucky. The third story tacked onto the building next door has thrown extra shade down on my courtyard. Kept things chillier than I’d become used to last winter, but I knew it meant my house would be cooler come summer, as well. It’s working. I haven’t even needed a fan yet ~ good thing, too, as I can’t seem to find a suitable replacement for the one I broke this spring, trying to dry out my moldy walls after those unprecedented rains. Hard to believe, now, that such a thing as flooding could occur here.

It’s hot. It’s hot, and windy, and the wind just reminds you how hot it is, while sending dust flying through your house, clinging in a fine layer to everything you own, rattling the satellite dishes on the roofs, the metal gates clanging in unison.

It’s hot, and this is just the beginning. Wore a tank top under a long-sleeved but slightly sheer shirt yesterday, with pants cropped just over the ankle. Felt like the town slut, but I couldn’t even imagine wearing anything more than that. How more women here don’t have heat stroke, wearing a heavy woven djellaba over at least two long layers of tops and skirts and pants, is beyond me.

I’m rambling. I blame the heat.

After a cool shower, I feel ready to tackle the dust, sweeping out my floors and the courtyard, chasing it all with a few buckets of water, which may not really erase the dust but at least tamps it down.

So I’m in a somewhat clean, somewhat cool house. Bonus: At least the daily din from upstairs is missing today; the landlord’s family must be out visiting. It’s gotten bad lately, with Morocco’s partial move to daylight savings time. Most people don’t recognize the “spring ahead,” simultaneously taking full enjoyment of the longer daylight hours summer brings. Thus, it’s nothing for the music upstairs to be blaring, television on full blast, visitors calling up the stairs and being met by return hollering, the 3-year-old running relays up and down the hall or throwing unassuaged temper tantrums, at what to me is midnight, 1 in the morning.

Do I sound cranky? I’m not, really. These things are just everyday life. And necessary lessons to battle my natural tendency to self-righteousness. The noise is not intended to disrespect me or cause me harm. It is my expectations that are outside the norm here, not their daily living habits.

The Dalai Lama has said, “People who cause you difficulties, you should think of them as very, very valuable teachers because they provide us with the opportunity to develop patience.”

So I’m trying to be an eager learner.

Another exercise in patience: I’ve been asked to organize volunteers to serve at a two-week camp for disadvantaged girls this summer. It’s a great concept, arranged by Morocco’s Ministry of Youth and Sports. The frustration has come in the lack of answers to what, to me, are very simple questions on which our arrangements depend. Attempts to elicit such information from my program manager, my Peace Corps “boss” who gave me the assignment, were met with belligerent defensiveness and the insinuation that I ask too many questions instead of just doing my job. Sadly, comfort comes in hearing similar stories, just this week, from at least two other volunteers who I respect and admire greatly. Feelings of being undermined and disrespected transform into a sense of solidarity.

So there you have my week in a nutshell. I do sound cranky, I’m afraid. But I’m not. It’s amazing what little it takes to make me happy. Cold shower. Good book. Iced tea. Cheese. Fellow volunteers. Friendly faces in my village. Green things growing. Time. Actually, I don’t even need the cheese. But it doesn’t hurt. Cheese never hurts.

Rooftop of the Sindy Sud.

(on a lazy Sunday afternoon, I decided, Why Not? and entered a contest to submit a blog entry on my favorite Moroccan destination, hoping to go a little off the beaten path with it. Winner gets two nights at a zwin riad in Fes. That's why this, now.)

Oasis in Marrakech

From the Djemma al Fna in Marrekech, force your way through the crowds promenading along Rue Prince, take a left into the winding narrow alleys of the medina, turn this way and that, past one backpacker hotel after another, past the mul hanuts selling Danon and toilet paper and egg sandwiches and sugary packaged cookies and American toothpaste and anything else you might need, past the rubble of construction either coming up or going down, and eventually, if you've meandered correctly, you come upon the Sindy Sud, one of my favorite places in all Morocco.

Never in my life did I, a middle-aged divorcee from the American Midwest, think I would have a "regular" hotel in Marrakech ~ one where the proprietors not only remember my name but which room I prefer. They indulge my desire to speak my still-fledgling Darija when it would be so much easier to communicate if I gave in to their fluent English. And they never, ever speak French to me. They always ask about my latest Peace Corps project. They always seem genuinely happy that I've returned.

It's a budget hotel, to be sure ~ 60 dirhams (about $7 USD) for a single room, 100 for a double, sinks in the rooms but toilets and showers in the hallway. But it's a cut above the others in my price range, with its clean sheets and clean floors, its always hot showers and its vibrantly tiled rooms.

Tiles in the room.

And the rooftop! The rooftop is the main reason for my delight in having the Sindy Sud as a halfway point between my organization's headquarters in Rabat and the dusty southern village where I live and work. Filled with lush green trees and plants clustered around several seating areas, 'an oasis from the earth-hued, dusty grimy medina below. It is quiet. It is away from the crowds. Fellow travelers may make small talk, but they will never, ever ask you, "Ca va, gazelle?" It's a serene place to read a book while sipping fresh orange juice, waiting for the call to prayer to rise from the several mosques clustered in the Djemma square.

Many Peace Corps volunteers quickly develop a distaste for Marrakech, especially the Djemma area. The crowds, the cost, the touristiness of it all. Even more, the racism and sexual harassment shown to many of our volunteers is indeed often unbearable.

But I have a routine here that I've come to enjoy, one that takes me away from all that. My bus pulls into the station, I argue with various taxi drivers until one agrees to work the meter instead of charging me three, four, five times the actual price. I dump my bags at the Sindy Sud, peel off my sweat-drenched clothes, shower away the rigors of travel, start up my podcast downloads via the free wifi, and head out to feast on a 20 dirham falafel sandwich with fries. On my return, I make small talk with Hicham or Rachid while they retrieve my room key. I head back up to the roof, now cooled with the sun's setting, or retire to my room, to the novel concept of clean white sheets, and the distant hum of the crowd.

This is my Marrakech. Not the snake charmers and storytellers and dark bustling souk of the Djemma, not the bus tours or European restaurants and shops of Gueliz. Not even the western-style superstore Marjane, a beacon of light for expats craving curry powder or alcohol or "real" cheese.

Just a small, inexpensive, family-run hotel that feels more like a home away from home than any Holiday Inn Express ever could.

View from the roof into an alley of the medina below.

Captured this last weekend ~ best laugh I've had in a while. Twenty dirhams = about $2.50.

I decided to splurge on knockoff designer sunglasses instead. My loss?

Atika taking questions from curious girls.

Can I just mention again (and it won't be for the last time) how PROUD I am of my students at the nedi neswi (women's center)? The young ladies who accompanied me to last month's training workshop have almost literally leapt at the chance to share what they learned with other women in our village.

This week we arranged for our new friend Atika, a volunteer with Association Marocain de Planification Familale, to visit our village for a public session on women's health, covering the menstrual cycle, birth control options, SIDA and STIs, breast cancer awareness and more. To accommodate a hoped-for crowd, we used the gathering room at the dar chebab. I knew about 20 women from the nedi would show up, and I would have been happy with that number. At the appointed time, we had a solid handful of ladies on hand. Half an hour later, a darned good crowd. But they kept coming ... and coming ... and coming. I lost count, honestly, at 120 ~ and for any event in our town, that's an amazing crowd. I'd be surprised if a televised World Cup match this summer brings a crowd of that size. We were fairly evenly divided between late teens/early 20s and middle age. I can't tell you how satisfying it is to know that these women were genuinely interested in the topic; got facts they may never have known before, at least not in such concrete terms; and would be sharing that information with still more girls and women.

Between Atika giving the presentation, and Malika, Fatima and Fatna from the nedi making most of the arrangements (not to mention the cakes and tea for post-presentation), I really didn't do a thing but set out more chairs, rush to find a microphone as the crowd noise began to exceed Atika's vocal skills, and keep toddlers from running amok.

Showing contraceptive pill samples, with concrete information on how they work and how to obtain them.

Atika's PowerPoint presentation is comprehensive and factual.

Walking around town with Fatna and Malika a few days before the event, placing fliers at the schools, post office and local stores, handing them out to schoolgirls and encouraging them to share the information with women who can't read, I was amazed by the transformation I can see in these two 20-something women. When I started visiting the nedi, they were eager to meet me but shy, giggling into their hands, eyes cast downward. Here they were striding into the principal's office, at a school they'd left before graduating, talking knowledgeably and confidently about the information we hoped to provide, discussing possibilities for future sessions in the schools (the public schools! Can you imagine that back home?).

Not only that, but after a long sweaty afternoon traipsing around town, they brought me to a little hole-in-the wall restaurant I hadn't known existed (if a bench, two plastic tables and an elderly man behind a grill counts as a restaurant), ordered me a fish sandwich with hot sauce and an ice-cold Coca Cola, and wouldn't even hear of me paying.

All I did was help them gain some new information and make connections with people who have that information. They've taken things from there. Needed my fellow volunteer Vish to remind me that, in fact, that's the point of my being here ~ not to do the work for them, but to give them the skills to do it themselves.

Taking pictures via cell phone for future reference. My job was pretty much limited to child care, including playing with this little zwina.

Here is my first successful attempt at uploading a video. It' s not much, but you get to see Fatna's lovely dimpled smile and hear her introduce me, followed by titters and head-turning:

High school girls (are these your girls from Gfifat, Anna?) who take their running seriously. Girls in my town could learn a thing or two from them.

Morocco's Ministry of Youth and Sports ~ under whose auspices I work at the dar chebab ~ has been organizing a series of races around the country, or at least in our neighborhood. Girls and boys, big and small (not to mention a few old men) ran distances from 1 to 8 kilometers today. The track was the highway that bisects our town ~ runners were bused out of town so they could run in to the applauding throng. Several neighboring towns were represented, and I was proud to see, at least in the younger set, as many girls as boys.

My only job was to show up and take some photos. I wasn't even the "official photographer" ~ my little Canon snapper can't hold a candle to the industrial vidcam hired by the ministry to record every detail. The equally industrial sound-system was thumpin', the MC was rappin', and the crowds were cheering everyone equally.

The runners ranged in age from 5 ...

... to a very fit, and deservedly proud, 70-year-old.

As usual, I was less interested in the actual event than in the people on the margins. So my camera wandered away from its official duties.

Waiting to spot the next group of runners in the distance.

The roadside was filled with onlookers.

Smain, possibly the sweetest of my little neighbor boys.

A group of men standing, sitting, watching, waiting ~ this is a photo that could be taken anytime, anyplace in Morocco.

The VIP tent.

Trophies for the winners.

Best part of the day was getting to play peek-a-boo with 3-year-old Zakaria.

-

For your sake, I hope the old adage about a picture being worth a thousand words holds true. I've decided to go ahead and post a severe backlog of images from recent events ... if I haven't gotten around to writing about them yet, I'm not likely to. Maybe that's to your benefit.

Anyway, several new posts follow ... starting with these two shots of me being all dressed up by my host family to go to a party out in the bled (countryside).

Some of the young women who enthusiastically took on the task.

The young women from my nedi neswi, or women's center, who accompanied me to last month's weekend health workshop in Agadir are taking quite seriously the charge to share the information they learned. We have a big session on gynecological help planned for this coming week, open to all girls and women in the village, kind of a test run before we start visiting the remote outlying villages that surround our community.

But to kick things off, my young women totally took the initiative to plan and execute a workshop at the nedi on making "gladrags" ~ homemade, reusable menstrual pads. From making the announcement to gathering the materials to leading the class, Malika and Fatna took care of everything on their own, absolutely no assistance from me. I was as proud as a mama bird.

The session was well-received, too ~ 15 enthusiastic young women and another 10 older women hovering around the edges, asking questions and offering suggestions while attending to their own needlework. Everyone went home with a new pad and the pattern/materials to make more. This seems like such a simple concept, but again ~ with commercial pads prohibitively expensive, this can really transform how a girl feels about herself during her monthly period. Even better, they had a great time making them together ~ a sense of solidarity and accomplishment. Kudos again to Tanie, Laila and Lori ~ the Peace Corps volunteers who introduced the gladrags at our Agadir workshop.

Tracing the patterns.

Cutting the pads out of old cloth.

Announcement and schedule for the workshop.

Malika studying her Arabic-English phrasebook.

After the workshop, and the yoga class that followed, I marked a major (to me) milestone in my work at the nedi. I was invited into what I call the "inner circle" ~ the women who make hlwa (sweets) in the kitchen, which is also the home of the mudhira, or nedi director, Aicha. It seems like such a little thing: "Wah, Becki, come in and help us bake cookies." But it was the first time I was invited, and I read it as a mutual sense of comfort with one another. Our relationship has been taken to the next level, you might say. Or, at least, I do.

Filling cookie tins with a mixture of jam, sesame seeds and glace fruit.

Aicha makes a yellow cake with a glaze of freshly squeezed orange juice and sugar. It reminds me so much of my mom's "lemonade cake" ~ a much-needed taste of home so close to Mother's Day.

Joy, me and Donna just outside Taroudant.

Last weekend, a couple of neighboring volunteers spent the night with me, feasting on hummus and pasta salad and zucchini bread, watching a waaaay-too-long Brad Pitt movie, all in preparation for biking into Taroudant the next morning. How can I not have done this before? It's only 24 kilometers ~ 15 miles. I used to routinely ride 20-30 miles on a Sunday morning back home. The road is flat as a pancake and two lanes wide; the wind, what there was of it, was at our backs. Yet this was the first time I've made the trek by bicycle. Inch'allah it won't be the last.

The perfect way to spend a lazy, unseasonably cool Sunday morning ~ and with excellent company.

Pit stop for water.

That sandpit in the background used to be a river, the Oued Souss.

Entering the medina.

We then enjoyed a lazy day of shopping, eating and people-watching. I took the opportunity of having friends in the souq with me to play tourist and take a few pictures.

My favorite souq entrance, of Place Assarag, near my spice guy .

Bread for sale at the souq entrance.

When I asked permission to take a couple of pictures, my spice guy insisted I come behind the counter and mug for the camera.

Spices, olives, incense, penile enhancements, jewelry, baskets and who knows what else ~ what can't you buy here?

Back home again, my bike in the parking lot that is my hallway (those other vehicles belong to the landlord's family upstairs)

Rachel is just amazingly photogenic ... and gorgeous on the inside, too ...

Returned to town the very next day to see my stajmates Rachel and Michael, who decided to take a quick trip to see Taroudant. "Quick" means they probably spent at least as much time traveling to/from as they did actually in the medina. I hope they'll come for a longer visit, but we spent a lovely afternoon wandering the souk and hanging out in the zwin cafe.

Mike tests the orange juice, freshly squeezed by the guy with the orange bucket.

I never get tired of the elderly men, who never get tired of sitting and watching the world go by.

I call this nook of the suq "Pottery Barn" ~ the clay cones are the lids of tagines, the official cooking dish of Morocco.

Broken tagines and graffiti.

Mesquin (beggar) in the souk Figs and dates ... a delictable dried variety ...

Menu at the restaurtant we call "the cheap panini place" ~ I love the copyright-infringing use of the little scout from "Up" in the corner ...

I never get tired of taking pictures of Dentist signs, ostensibly for Dad's benefit (but really because they just make me giggle)

Come back for a longer visit, xti!

I recently made a few changes that make my salon much more hospitable. A local carpenter built some risers for my ponj cushions. Lifting them off the floor, in a more sofa-like manner, has made my aging back much happier.

I then decided to move my dining table/desk/clutter collector into the main room, and finally hung an original watercolor by a would-be student who has never returned for class. Snapshots of the folks back home, and various works by my dar chebab kids, round out my art collection.

Speaking of household appliances (or at least furnishings), thanks to Faye I have successfully been telling my first joke in the local language: A young man tells his mother that he's ready to begin looking for a wife. Mom: "Well, what kind of wife are you looking for?" Son: "I want one who is tall, white (i.e., fair/beautiful), and will spend all her time in the kitchen, working hard day and night." Mom: (heavy sigh) "Son, you want to marry the refrigerator?" It's obvious when I tell it that it's an old, old joke, but it still kills ~ most likely because people are so delighted I can actually tell it.

Finally got some bookshelves put up in my classroom. So far, they look a little sad ~ not just for all the open spaces, but for the content ~ or lack thereof. All of these books have been donated from U.S. agencies working in Morocco. Not much thought is put into whether these are books Moroccan children can/will actually use/want (for context, see previous post here). From the wildly inappropriate to the outdated to the simply out of place or downright boring, we've got it covered:

* A 1985 guide to road trips across the United States

* 1999 World Almanac

* a 2000 guide to using the Internet

* "How to Write a Report" ~ 1968 edition

* Youth fiction: "Preacher's Boy"

* Gardener's Guide to Pest Control

* Biographies of Margaret Sanger and Brigham Young

* "The Age of Voltaire" from Will and Ariel Durant's 11-volume "The Story of Civilization"

* 3-volume set: "An Outline History of Switzerland: From the Origins to the Present Day;" "The * Social Structure of Switzerland;" "Philosophy from Switzerland"

* "Shane" ~ the 1949 novel that became a classic '50s Western

* "Each Time, Every Time" ~ an oversized set of colorfully attractive, easily readable graphic novels about AIDS and STIs. Kid-friendly. A bit too kid-friendly for this culture. I want everyone to have this information, but I don't particularly enjoy being the one to translate "I'm passing this white, sticky stuff" to an eager-to-read 14-year-old boy.

I'd give anything for some Shel Silverstein, some Beverly Cleary, some Eric Carle. Basic picture books with beginner words in English. Easy-to-read, youth-oriented texts. Still, even this incongruous collection is fascinating to my kids, who don't usually see bookstores or libraries, who don't live in a culture that places any value on pleasure reading. They love to pull them out and look at them. That's a good start ... and the obsessive-compulsive in me is doing an excellent job of letting them touch and jumble the tomes, resisting the urge to keep things in order. Disorder is good! The books are there to be used, examined, played with, explored. Just don't make me explain "white sticky stuff." Please.

Waiting their turn. Few weeks back, the director of my dar chebab casually mentioned that I should come by the next morning (I don't usually work until late afternoon, when kids start getting out of school) because "women will be here."

OK. I came ~ and was shocked to find the courtyard filled with at one point perhaps 50 women, all waiting to see "the doctor."

OPALS' traveling clinic.

The "doctor" was OPALS ~ one of two major organizations in Morocco that work to combat SIDA (AIDS). They were offering free HIV tests. That's all. I never could get a handle on whether the women realized that and were smart/brave enough to come for the tests, or whether they were hoping to have various ailments treated. I sat with the waiting women, several of whom mentioned having high blood pressure, or rheumatism, or other miscellaneous aches and pains. Were they disappointed? Offended? They didn't seem so.

Late into the afternoon, long after the OPALS truck was gone and I was trying to teach various levels of English in one chaotic classroom, the women kept coming, poking their head in the door to ask where the doctors were. My conspiracy-laden mind started to wander, and wonder: Were the women lured in with promises to be treated by a doctor ... or were they smart enough to *pretend* they had come for other purposes, so they wouldn't feel ashamed to be getting an HIV test? Or am I looking for issues where none exist, and they're simply smart and educated enough to know that everyone should be tested, on a regular basis?

Either way, they got tested, and that's a good thing.

With my new friend Aicha and her little girl, Hajar.

And my other new friend, also conveniently named Aicha.

Getting pulled into the "group picture"