This blog has never been a guide book. I don't recommend Morocco for everybody, I recommend her for the deserving. I will miss Morocco for an incalculable number of reasons, but the following matter to the blog;

Easy Things to Miss:

Drawn-out greetings

The neglect of personal space

“Magharba” the only way Moroccans say 'Moroccans', and no one else

Fes, the biggest small town in the world

Commercials during Ramadan

Bitching about mild, comparatively pleasant weather

Praising G_d for bad weather

The fact there are no trees around my house that do not bear fruit

Subsistence agriculture, generally, especially amongst those who don’t need it

Buying great organic veggies for no money off the muddy ground in souk

Unloading animals from trucks w/ non-chalance

Carrying things for old ladies

Open, respectful affection among men (kissed lots of cheeks)

Making wordplay jokes in Arabic and Tamazight

Learning how to plant wheat with draft animals

The fact that none of this was a big deal at the time

Saying hello to the room/bus/café/anywhere and getting hello back

The bad-ass history of Berbers in Marmoucha

Living in a 100% Berber town

The worldview of illiterate women

Gaining a new appreciation for women, here and in the West

The “guesting” culture

Never ever ever running out of small talk

The 1985 Mercedes Benz Taxi

Explaining a part of a man’s language to him

Learning from my village, and how they scratch it out

Becoming friends with old men with great stories

Putting Shabekia in my harira

Dakshi li kayn, dayn ag illan; how else could you end a sentence in NAfrica?

My go-to jokes… for when I’m in a tight spot (TWSS)

Being endeared instead of feared for my size and demeanor

“Casa sport, kaysift lqbur, blla passport, qabl lftoor.”

Having full conversations with my hands in Moroccan sign language

A few really cool American people

My water project, and knowing I made people’s lives easier

The knowledge that no matter how bad a day gets, you can just go drink tea

Hammou

Aheydus

Teaching my village “That is what she said” and having them use it fluently

Goat shoulder and plum at your wedding!

Shiba, na3na3, l3ashoob camliin in your tea without special request

Hanging out at the Ministry of Health and talking shop

Getting respect from the new Volunteers

The Traveling Sink

The fact that I, once again, lived where you vacation

Barreling through the Northern desert on an old French train

Having that train derail and having to walk

Spending nights on the road with friends

Treating Fes like Las Vegas in the winter

Marjane (admittedly)

The fact that I lived on an apple orchard in a desert country

4 full seasons in Marmoucha

Finding a bomb during a toilet survey

Teaching in my schools, and getting good at it

Getting the replacement that I wanted, and being right about him

Good sleep

Facial tattoos, especially those of my host Mother, Fatima

Making fun of Guigou

Unpretentious gastronomy

Never having to worry about where you will eat or sleep, anywhere, ever

Jerry-rigging everything, and making it work

Not having running water, and learning to appreciate the resource

Dispelling or properly ameliorating myths/fairytales/rumors about life and people in Europe and the US

The Barbary Macaque

No cars, anywhere, really

Being held in high regard by the village, and being asked for help in tough situations

Encouraging bright young students who don’t get much encouragement

The looks on faces when they really can’t figure out why you speak Arabic, Berber

Being asked to prove that I am an American National

Watching large groups of grown men completely F simple tasks up

Being assigned simple tasks around the family farm

Doing the books for the apple farm, and learning a bit of the business

Learning something at 9:00, applying it at 9:03

Discussing important, sensitive, world issues and nobody takes it personally

Working with educators

Doing health education

75

Doing my laundry in the river with the women

Living in a remote part of the Middle Atlas in Morocco, I have become accustomed to a certain pace of life. What I expect out of a day, week, or month has been re-calibrated to bled living. Looking back on my life in the United States, I am foxed by my productivity. I could complete a number of tasks simultaneously (Americans even have a name for that), and many in a single day. Work, school, social life, exercise, personal hobbies, and random adventures could fit into a single 24 hour stretch with 7 hours to spare for sleep. Here, one hopes only to achieve a simple goal like grocery shopping, bathing, or holding a meeting with work counterparts. Time allotted to a recognized form of western social interaction like drinking a beer involves a multi-day commitment. A quantifiable performance of professional duties like teaching a class, holding a meeting with local government, or communicating with superiors in the Ministry requires a series of informal meetings, chance encounters, and the development of professional-looking documents stating “Purpose” to satisfy a lumbering post-colonial bureaucracy.

Motivated, educated, idealistic young American Peace Corps Volunteers are well-suited to rise to this challenge, but that doesn’t mean that some of the local “chill-the-fuck-out” attitude doesn’t rub off in the long-run. Successful completion of a day’s goal before lunch often meant I spent the afternoon hiking, watching movies, or drinking tea at my neighbors and watching Arabic-dubbed Mexican soap operas. This pace of life is quite agreeable, especially when your mediocrity is praised by locals as hyper-productivity.

In the last few months I have made some moves. Got into a grad program at the American University in Cairo, secured a fellowship, made the necessary arrangements therein. In May, the group of PCV’s I came to Morocco with left, I stayed due to the fact that I was in the USA convalescing from the broken leg for 4+ months and need to satisfy the 24-month commitment. In the time since they left, I have dealt with the business-end of my year-long potable water security project that has created or improved access for 600+ (and did some other cool stuff), helped organize and fund an environmentally-themed summer camp in a local town, began a sanitation survey for our commune with my replacement, and wrapped up a health education curriculum for the local primary schools.

In the next month I will finishing my service, saying all the necessary goodbyes (including a very tough one), giving away all my stuff, doing medical check-ups, leaving Morocco, going to America for 2 weeks to see a lot of important people, and then going to Cairo to find an apartment and start school and work.

This is a significant acceleration of pace compared to the last 2 years. After a few busy hours and a heavy lunch, I begin to feel the gravitational pull of my couch, cat, computer, and cold coffee. To combat this and order my affairs I started using two modern devices; a calendar, and a clock. I have been giving myself tasks and times by which to compete them. Yield is up, leisure is down. After 2 years of integration, assimilation, capitulation, and relative relaxation I am getting my wind and legs back.

Soon I will have running water, reliable electricity, a home that protects from weather, internet, graduate level-courses to attend, a vehicle to drive, and a bunch of really fancy humans around me getting really stressed out about a bunch of things that aren’t really that big of a deal. I will be tempted to say things like “hey man, be thankful for all this” and be the victim of an aggressive ocular assessment.

Not to say it isn’t overwhelming, but I really am thankful for it. My days are now filled with mandatory duties with direct consequences. My job is to get a bunch of different places that are far away from each other and make the best out of it all. While I am satisfied with what I have accomplished in this country, I have learned much about what I understand as the minimum requirements of happiness. That is, by meeting basic material requirements and building a sturdy scaffold of good people around you, you can be happy. Beyond that, invented and in-bred expectations force people to measure life, grade themselves, and freak out.

Soon I will step off my last sheep truck, get out of my last ‘85 Benz, take my last French colonial train from the sweaty Gare de Fes, take my last Petit Taxi ride, and step onto a 747 again. I couldn’t be coming from a better place. I couldn't have a better mindset. I’m pretty stoked, and really thankful.

For over 5000 years, North Africa has been inhabited by Berbers, or Amazigh. For at least that long I‘m sure, Berbers have been yelling at each other in a slew of unintelligible guttural sounds and hacks that confuse and frustrate the untrained ear.

For a majority of those working with the Peace Corps Health and Environment Sectors, Berber is the lingua franca of our work. Assigned to mostly rural (and thus predominantly Berber) areas, those who wish to integrate into their communities and perform meaningful work are charged with acquiring working ability in these languages. For many, it is too large of a task. A language with no similarity in sound, usage, or structure to those we are familiar with, Berber is often impossible to learn.

For some reason unknown to me, I have an affinity for the language. After being assigned to an extremely isolated corner of the Middle Atlas mountain range, I discovered that my area had its own distinct language in which pronunciation, verb usage, structure, and nouns were completely different and bore little similarity to the Berber spoken in other parts of the country or even that which is spoken in the greater Middle Atlas region. Tamarmoucht, as locals call it, is an insane mixture of Berber and Arabic with organic and imported elements. Upon my arrival here, I was pretty intimidated by how very different it was to the Berber I learned in training, and how it apparently followed none of the “rules” of more widely spoken dialects.

I cannot estimate how much time I have spent studying the dialect, but during my first six months I know I practiced and studied at least 20 hours/week on vocabulary. I also spent countless hours chipping away at conversations of limited substance with my host family, with whom I stayed for four months.

Well over a year later, I have gained a deep appreciation for the richness of the language, and have more fun speaking it than I ever imagined. I am no longer limited by tongue- and throat-tiring pronunciation and constantly changing verb usage. I can think of 5 ways to say “chop wood” in Tamarmoucht. I was once interviewed on a Berber-language radio show about a cultural festival I was working at. I love speaking Berber.

Like many other things in life, Berber language abilities snowball. Once you learn a little, your desire to learn more increases. The more you desire it the harder you try, and the harder you try the better you get, and the better you get the easier it gets to keep getting better and better and better. Although I personally do not believe it is possible to achieve total fluency in Berber, I think you can become something resembling a fluent speaker. Lately, though I am white with blue eyes and blond hair, look, act and dress “western” or American, people have been asking me where in Morocco I am from. This is an extremely gratifying question to be asked, and one I often indulge by asking people to guess by the way I speak and look. The answers I get are hilarious and fun.

The best thing about speaking Tamarmoucht is open doors. In this region, I feel I can go anywhere and do anything and be taken care of because Berbers just want to sit and hear me talk. To the north of my Commune lies a vast expanse of rough mountains, rivers, forests and high plains. The existing human infrastructure in this region is cursory, and reflects well-worn nomadic routes more than trade connections. Exploring on foot in these areas is insane. With language, I can walk into any far-flung village and be invited into homes, where time has stood still for decades. Most of the families survive on herding and traditional crops, and work from sun-up to sundown. Talking with these people and contributing my services as a health educator for a few hours is one of my favorite things to do in this country.

I am always fascinated by how far I do not have to go from my home to find adventure and feel like I am in cultural outer space. Often there are things happening within one hundred meters of my home that I have no understanding of.

My next near-home adventure is going to be trekking out to the high plains about 20km from my house to meet up with some semi-nomadic herders. These families walk between 100 and 300km seasonally to green pastures in the Middle Atlas region, carrying everything they need on mules and their backs. They build their wool tents on high-altitude plains and next to springs and stay until it is too cold to stay so high. During longer treks, I have run into a few families and been invited into their tents for a meal. They often lobby for me to stay. I never take the invitation because it would be a huge stress on their supplies to feed an extra big mouth. I am planning to take 4-5 days, pack in some food for a family, show up at a tent and stay there, doing whatever chores or duties they assign me.

We can all reasonably expect the New Year to be “different” from the previous year. For me, I have found myself hoping my year will not be as intense as the year before. I guess it is just me wanting my life to slow down. I can honestly say that I thought 2009 would be that nice, easy year.

A year ago I spent New Year’s at a friend’s house with a small group of people. The next day I made the familiar journey back to my house in Marmoucha where I was beginning the first stage of a water project that continues to this day. I taught some lessons in some rural schools before making a trip down to the Marrakech region to snowboard for my birthday. At Ouakaimedden, I bought a snowboard to bring back to Marmoucha and ride the many peaks around my house. I even got to do a first descent on my birthday. That week and those adventures is documented in an earlier entry titled “3 Close Calls.”

My 4th close call was the real thing. Broke my leg, got medically separated from Peace Corps. At this point, I knew 2009 had no plans to make things easy on me.

In the 4 ½ months away from Morocco I had 2 surgeries on my leg. In the healing time, I went to Colombia and Venezuela. This trip allowed me to live day-to-day, forget about my potentially permanent disability, try to forget about losing Morocco, and prove to myself that I could deal with the lows of life the same way I deal with the highs: by myself. A couple months in Latin America and then I was back in the USA. The best part of breaking my leg, and one of the reasons I have found peace with the event was that I got to hang out with my Grandmother while I was home. When I got healthy, I would have a light surf session in the morning in the freezing New Hampshire waves, and then go hang out with my Grandmother. It was perfect.

After months of struggling with Peace Corps, I finally got to return to Morocco. I picked everything back up and it was like I never left. Work went smoothly and I couldn’t help but think everyday that I had missed out on spring and done irreparable damage to my project’s progress for not being there for so long. The regret will always be there. Even as I write, none of that time spent injured and exploring seems real. I can’t believe that happened.

I unintentionally got into a relationship with an American girl here in Morocco. It is not my style to not be single. In October I took a vacation and met this older woman in Barcelona. There is only one way to describe what happened; I fell in love with her. Then I left her Barcelona and came home to Morocco. I’m really glad it happened because now I know what that feels like. I will mistake some other feeling for love. Its like having litmus test in my pocket, I will never fake myself out. Unfortunately, she was getting married so yea that didn’t work out.

Summer passed and November came. I went to Cairo to start planning my next life step, which also doesn’t seem real. When I got back my best friend in Morocco closed her service and went back to the USA. Not fun. Later that month I lost my Grandmother to cancer. Though I knew it was coming, and I had been preparing for her death for a long time, when it happened I felt thousands of miles away. I was.

I felt like I was flopping around like a fish. I didn’t know how to feel about being in Morocco, about my work, about my community, or about my future plans to be away from my family again. I expected someone to kind of swoop in and give me advice, put my head right, remind me of who and where I was. I shouldn’t have expected that. As I mentioned in an early blog, when it comes down to it, you have to pick yourself up and you can’t expect to have people help you out of a rut. I guess, if you’re a fish, you have to flop yourself back into the water. Don’t count on any waves to bring you home.

I thought 2009 was going to be just me in my village working and loving Morocco. I had no plans to leave the country, instead I went to the US, Colombia, Venezuela, Spain and Egypt.

Predictions for 2010:I expect 2010 to be calm and restful. I doubt I will learn anything or be tested. Nobody will die or be born. My passport will not acquire any unplanned markings. My body will stop showing signs of age. If I become romantically involved it will end in a long, successful marriage. The weather man will always be right. I will suffer a gunshot wound. I will step confidently onto the icy ledge of life and pass with impunity. Also I will cure AIDs and unfriendliness and design a universally-accepted peace plan for Afghanistan and be rewarded incongruously.

Cairo, 11.20am

I feel awful that I haven't written in so long. Ever since I returned to Morocco I have been using my time to focus my energies locally. I have neglected emails, phone calls, letters, etc.. for no reason other than I really do not feel anything of great interest is happening.

I have been working alot; teaching in the schools and running my Potable Water Security Project. I have been traveling a little bit. I went to Barcelona and had an exceptionally strange emotional experience with a woman. We started a beekeeping cooperative in my village. Now I'm in Cairo at a water management seminar and interviewing for a fellowship. That is all.

I have been learning more Arabic. I can even speak to Egyptians. It is fun and frustrating to go back to feeling like a 6-year-old with language. I remember feeling it when I first got to Morocco and moved into my village. I like this helpless feeling and I also like the rush of excitement when you accomplish something trivial like talking about last night's match.

My leg is better. Everytime I meet a foreigner in Morocco I introduce myself and they inevitably say "Oh you are that guy who...blah blah." This is one way for people to pretend they know me, when they actually just know one weird version of the leg-break story.

Egypt is cool I guess. I came here to figure out if I can live here and be happy, and also to interview for this thing. The University is funny. It is like a fashion show. Thousands of Egypt and the Middle-East's stratospherically-wealthy youth walking around with Lattes and big sunglasses. That part of it makes me want to run away. The fellowship is cool, though. I would be doing similar work to what I do now, but on the research and academic end while gaining my Master's. Sounds Ok.

I had a girlfriend, kind of. I mention that because it has been a really long time since I last "dated" anyone. Anyways that is done.

Morocco is wonderful. One of my best friends, Briana, is leaving and it is a heart-breaker. She is one-in-a-million and she will be missed. Other than that everything in the Kingdom is good. My dog, Maybe, is huge and beautiful. Whitey is healthy and happy. Winter is coming on easy this year. In the spring my parents may come.

This past week I had surgery to remove the screw that was holding my leg together. My first unassisted steps since the accident were quite painful, and my leg looks like it belongs on Benjamin Button, but I can walk. With my recovery on track, I have the opportunity to return to Morocco to continue my Peace Corps service.

Good news, right?

Since I broke my leg I have been forced to re-evaluate alot of things in my life. I will not go into all of my conclusions here, but the important ones follow:

-It sounds cheezy but, life doesn't come with a map (but alot of people will try to sell you theirs)

-I will not always come out of things unharmed

-"You're not alone" is BS. When it comes down to it, you absolutely are (but it can be nice to hear)

-Self-determination is the key to my happiness

When I found out I wouldn't be going back to Morocco for a few months, I thought to myself "that doesn't change anything, I'll finish what I started." In fact, I have kept a scrap of paper in my pocket this whole time which has a note that I wrote myself on the plane with reasons why I must return.

But alot can happen in 3+ months. I went to South America, I re-thought some things, I put in some applications for grad and law school, and I found photography.

Peace Corps service is really difficult. You have to learn a couple new languages, a culture, start a new life, make new friends, self-direct work and execute in tough circumstances, integrate and gain acceptance into a skeptical community, just for starters. Being away this long the mind naturally wanders on to the next adventure, and trying to get it back on track to Morocco has proven difficult.

Then I pull that note out of my pocket.

Why I must return

-The kids (the center of my work, and most of my days)

-Larry & Whitey (my dog & cat)

-Ait Hamza (the village where two very awesome friends live)

-Bou Iblane (the mountain)

-Fes

-Tamarmoucht (the local language)

I look at this list and I compare it to a list of other things I could be doing, and I realize that the things I love about Morocco will not wait. Law school, a photographic odyssey through Pakistan, all those other things will.

I have made my decision.

I am starting to fall in love with HDR, but I have a tendency to over-do things. I have now processed about 50 images, and 80% of those are way outrageous looking. Here are some examples of appropriate, unoffensive usage.

North Side Park, Hampton, NH. I grew up on this beach. It is still my favorite surf spot, spear-fishing spot, chill spot.

North Side Park

नोढ़ साइड पार्क

The last two photos are of a barn on Newfields Road. I have driven by this barn hundreds of times in my life, and it never gets old.

These are my first attempts at high dynamic range photography. Enjoy, comment, suggest. Let leisure dominate.

The previous photos are of Fort Rock Farm. This Exeter landmark was recently "saved" (sorry for the pun) from a local church that wanted to place a massive church on the grounds. The greenway lobby has successfully fought off this development. Both sides of the story are better told at the conflicting groups' websites below. I love the grass, flowers, and contrails...I could do without the controversy. http://www.savefortrockfarm.com/ http://www.nhpr.org/node/14120 The next 2 photos are of a place that serves as my soul base when I am in the US. It is my Grandmother's house (the most impressive woman I know and a person old friends still visit without me there) and also where my family assembles for BBQs, drinking, yelling, catfights, and most importantly...beach parties because North Side Park and the best surf break in NH is 400m away.

After years of traveling, moving, different jobs, WWII, 4 boys (including my father), and countless other hurdles; my Grandparents declared--very appropriately for the region--that they were "Done movin', done workin', and Dunfrettin." This mantra is a real part of my approach to life. It is very far away, but a huge source of hope optimism.

So I just started experimenting with HDR (High Dynamic Range) photography, and my results make me want to throw up but I have gotten positive feedback from other people. Look for yourself, I would love some comments/suggestions.

Facebook is--on balance--is not so lame.

Craigslist facilitates serial sketchiness, rape, murder. As well as the proliferation of offensive (but economical) home design. Unabashed promotion of fat-person sex is not my biggest objection (they are entitled to pleasure outside of that which I assume is rampant at places like Popeye's, Red's Shoe Barn, and public transportation)

Twitter is just terrible. TIME Magazine suggests--quite literally--on Twitter's website that Twitter is "killer."

MySpace is something I will never participate in.

Facebook, unfortunately, is also interested in tolerance. At one point Facebook only allowed certain university students access. Now the ridiculous fat kid with a bowl-cut from junior high that used to threaten to "meet me at the grave YAHD" and beat my face is looking for my Facebook hand in friendship.

He would have been 620.

I started looking through my 619 friends. I decided that, not only do I not have room for #620, but 619 is non-representative of my human asset profile.

I began deleting. Who did I target?

Met you once in a foreign country...X

We had a drink one time...of course not

High School...almost complete, actually

Generic name...sorry

Camps...well, which one, eh?

College friend...you never gave me the $15 to finish that essay.

College friend in Hong Kong...I never gave you that 150HKD that Economics essay.

Generally, if I took more than 0.5S to retrieve your name and face from my memory bank...later.

I recommend it.

Here are my favorite photos from Venezuela and Colombia, Early 2009. This is my first trip with the Olympus E-420, a camera I graduated to after years of point-and-shoot frustration. I welcome comments and suggestions for improvement. Enjoy.

I picked up my last souvenirs yesterday from Bogota. A kitchy poncho, some soccer stuff, and a nasty head cold. Spent one more night in Zona Rosa with a group of Dutch guys and some Colombians who picked us up off the street and told us to follow them. I watched one of them get a bottle broken over his forehead and later try to explain to me that ¨This is why people love Colombia¨. I didn´t know what to say.

I´m going back to the States to consult with doctors and hopefully convince them to take the massive screw out of my leg. If all goes well my schedule could look like this-

Tax Day: Bogota-Boston

April 20th: Meeting with the surgeons

By 4/30: Getting the operation

May 1st: Walking without assistance

May 10th: This is my target date for getting on a plane to return to Morocco.

This is all very tentative and subject to my intense desire to have things move quickly.

I am not sad to leave Colombia because its on to bigger and better things. One of the things I find really exhausting about travelling is other travelers. Everyone has got the same stories, has been the same places, has the same complaints about Colombians, and convinces themselves that life on the backpacker trail is a test of mettle. I think my days of backpacking in a predictable destination like Colombia may be over. This is my 4th trip to Latin America, and each time I have spent 1-4 months. I expected Colombia to be a little more exciting and dangerous, more difficult to travel in, just crazier. In comparison to the rest of the region Colombia is super developed and a little vanilla.

No beef, though. If I have a chance to come back to Bogota I will not hesitate to do so.

Minuto de Maria, Ciudad Bolivar, Bogota, Colombia

A series of incredibly poor transport decisions left me stranded at 9PM, April 8th at the only local connection in South Bogota. The station is a ramshackle lean-to of metal and cement, and it screams bad neighborhood. It is definitely the kind of place I am willing to shell out a large amount of cash to a taxi driver to wisk me away from.

As I walked out towards the half-dirt road looking to grab the first taxi, a man grabbed me from behind and pulled me violently towards a cement wall in the shadows. Automatically in survival mode, I swung around to free myself from the grip. Before I even recognized the young man behind me as a military police officer, the urgent look in his face registered in my mind. He tells me to come with him, dont worry, just get back inside.

I follow him and after about 20 steps he turns around and begins to ask me what I am doing here. I tell him I am just pássing through, I am on my way to La Candelaria in Central Bogota. He shakes his head and informs me that no transport comes anywhere near here within an hour of sunset. I ask him why. He replies with shoulders shrugged, ¨cuz this is Ciudad Bolivar.¨

I had heard some things about this area. Generally South Bogota is not a good spot, and Ciudad Bolivar is apparently the worst of all therein. Beyond that I had made it into Minuto de Maria which, I now know, is famous in Colombia as contributing a hefty portion of the countrys murders. Quite simply put I had wandered listlessly into what the police told me is the second-worst neighborhood in Latin America, right behind some of the famous favelas of Rio. This is a place where FARC still lives, where paramilitaries have held control until recently, and where an injured white boy with a bag full of money and goodies is not just a target...but a lock.

I discuss my options with the concerned military police officer. Taxi? No driver will consider it at night. Can I go with the Police to a place with taxis? The police get shot at when they move at night. He commands me simply to stay back in a shadow as he goes and talks to his friend. Within minutes a portly man with car grease all over him extends hishand to me and smiles. He introduces himself as Miguel and orders me to follow him into his really sketchy shop.

Inside he tells me I will be staying the night at his place, a small hole above his repair shop 50 meters from the buses. He leaves the shop and says he will be back shortly. The look on my face at this moment must have betrayed all of the things I should have been feeling.

When Alejandro comes back he is smiling. He asks me very pointedly, what the fuck am I doing here? This is not a good call. I try to assure him I didnt plan it this way. He just shakes his head at all of my answers and replies ¨No¨. I stand there with my hands upturned like a little kid.

Alejandro breaks down what has happened in just the last month in Minuto de Maria. The fast-paced Spanish he speaks is difficult to understand, but words like narcotrafficante, se mata, FARC, armas, ejercito, etc.. register quickly.

We sit that night watching news in the shop and eating a rice dish that definitely tastes like is has been prepared in a war zone. He sets me up on the couch with a blanket and we shut off the lights. He tells me he will get me on a bus in the morning to central Bogota. I thank him and tell him I know it is dangerous but how bad can it be, I mean, if he lives there? At the moment I finish this question, a roaring truck engine passes outside and the blast of 5 gunshots rings out.

Following the truck sound is the sound of more trucks, or what could be military jeeps. We hear gunshots down the road, 10 maybe.

In the morning we find out 2 men had been killed. A police officer was wounded and the wall of the building across the street from Alejandro had two obvious bulletholes.

After an emotionally and physically unpleasant couple of months I woke up this morning stoked. I had spent the last night until late out on a fruit truck with some guys I met here in Merida, Venezuela. I was excited to check out the photos I had snapped. I did that over a massive breakfast of rice, beans, plantains, arepas, eggs, papaya juice, coffee, and spicy fish sauce which cost me 10Bolivares, 2 Dollars. It is hot. Everyone is up early and I look up at the snowy peaks of the Andes and I think to myself, THIS is nice.

After that I hit the street with my camera and crutches. I make it only 10 metres before the first person stops me to ask about my leg, where I´m from, how I got so tall, etc.. I answer the questions, smile, get smiled at, and move on. A man is carrying a large amount of flowers. I ask him if I can photograph him. He is flattered. He gives me one. I am spotted by a group of men playing cards in the shade. They look at me suspiciously so I approach them and disarm them with a smile and a local greeting. They smile back and invite me to play. I don´t know how.

I buy a cigarette and smoke only half of it and give the remainder to a man who wants money but will accept about anything. I witness a bus brush up against a car in the street. A large argument ensues which ends, confusingly, with the owner of the car getting on the bus and driving off. I remind myself that I am in Venezuela.

I photograph some political grafiti and a large poster of Hugo Chavez. A man asks me what I am doing. A conversation about Chavez ensues. It is fascinating.

When we finish I wander into a smoky hole in a building which turns out to be a restaurant. I grunt to indicate my desire to eat. Thick chicken soup, fresh fruit juice, wild rice, beans, plantains, and a large, messy pile of tangled and fried pork parts topped with a spicy fruit jelly. It is unbelievably delicious. 12Bolivares, or 2.35USD.

After lunch I wander into a cemetary and am attacked by dogs. I employ the standard skills anybody who has lived in Morocco for a part of their lives has; rabid dog defense. The dogs are surprised by my proficiency, back down, and later pose for pictures by the grave they guard.

I find a spot to sit and read. I kill the afternoon reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Not Venezuelan but close enough. By the time I´m done it is time to eat again. I don´t want to sit and eat so I explore the various stands, carts and stalls of Merida and order the things that scare me and impress Venezuelans. This works and I am quickly full and tired. I pour myself a rum from the Posada owners´bottle and sit on the front step until the town falls asleep.

Tomorrow I will leave Merida and go do this same thing in San Cristobal.

A quick note for friends wanting to hear the leg-break story:

NOT YET. I will be putting together a full, accurate account of the day and the consequences. Please be patient.

I WONT

This whole thing makes me sick, all the people that used to support my adventures.

Now everything is about getting 'on the edge photography'.

When dudes with way less skill do stuff less cool than us.

Who will step up?

People walk so fast here. Commercial breaks take forever. Commercials are all about depression and weight loss drugs. Lots of different types of people, you wouldn’t know. Everything is illegal. Everyone knows what happens next. Morocco? Africa? Ew. Don’t walk on the grass. One person per car. Big coffees. Televangelists. Infomercials. Low-ambition art. Sirens. Causes for sirens. Elevator music. Elevators. Profound, complete, dedicated conformity. Xenophobia. Don’t say Hi. Put it on the credit card. May I see your ID? I’m sorry sir, we don’t allow (blank) here. At the 2nd gas station take a left, pass the Shopping Plaza, and after 15th stoplight, you will reach Wal-Mart. Packaging.

What ever happened to coming home, the most wonderful feeling in the world? What ever happened to me missing things from here? Don’t I want a cold beer and a hamburger? Is this where I’m from?

Disillusioned doesn’t begin to describe the feeling. I know America is the same, and I know I’m remembering it correctly. I just can’t remember how I liked it here, how I lived here.3 weeks in Washington and nothing got better.

I know part of how I felt was due to me being injured, that part is given. Still, none of the things you would think of as comforting worked. The food, the people, the TV shows, the music, the bars, the streets, none of it warmed me up to America.How, after this experience, can I ever convince myself to come back home instead of pursuing a new destination, a new chapter in the life of the budget jetsetter?

The Secret Healing Destination: Preface and the Answer to the Common Question of “Why?”

The leg needs to heal on its own. There is nothing I can do about that. The government has told me I can’t work and I cant go back to Peace Corps until my second surgery. So what do I do? Nothing.Waiting at my parents house with no mobility and nothing to do for a couple months sounded horrible. Might as well break the other leg.

I had to make a plan--and fast--before despair set in. I thought about the things I probably can’t do; like work, travel, something fun. Then I thought about why I can’t do those things; all because other people said so, mostly the Peace Corps and my family.

I needed to do something for myself that was self-directed and of my choice, after being subjected to poor external decision making for over a month. I needed to chase something.I am getting on a plane and going somewhere I know will be a challenge. I am limited by the crutches but that is the only limitation. I’m not saying where because it will be fun this way. My hope is that the injury limitations will slow me down enough so that I can take good photographs, eat good food, and relax and heal.

This destination is dangerous, so it will take my mind off my healing leg, forcing it to heal faster. This is sound reasoning.

While developing, this place has hit some snags. Yet with all of its troubles and its poor global image, this place has a lot to offer to a hobbled youngster armed with a camera and curiosity. I aim to discover this country the best I can in a month and a half. The best part of all of this is the juices are flowing again. I’m stoked to see, eat, ride, smell, talk, and live differently. From Morocco to USA to this place is a lot to handle, but I’m excited.

A Note on the Handling of My Case:I’m bitter about the way things turned out here. The way Peace Corps handled my case was governed by that most American of bureaucratic themes; fear and avoidance of litigation.

Everything they did was designed to minimize their liability; even if it meant sacrificing (what I see as) the Peace Corps mission, my happiness, my holistic health, and my faith in their M.O. as an agency.I can safely say that most of my concerns, fears, desires and personal interests were ignored through the process of handling my case. There is a very distinct feeling--for me it is a tightening of the muscles between the shoulder-blades and a cold sensation in my stomach--that comes when you’re not being listened to. When you realize that you really are not in the driver’s seat in your own life’s decision-making, well, it feels terrible.

Trying to navigate the web of bureaucrats was like herding cats, and being caught up in this whole process made me question everything I thought I knew about Peace Corps and the way they interact with Volunteers. I feel like a leper. I also cannot get around the fact that I have pretty much been thrown out in the cold (they still haven’t paid me anything or sent me my stuff from Morocco) during the worst economic times in decades.If it weren’t for my friends and parents and my own personal savings I would quite literally be penniless, jobless, homeless and shirtless with a broken leg put out onto the street outside of Peace Corps headquarters in Washington told to come back when I’m not disabled. If a reader has a different take on this I would love to hear it.

The way I look at it, if I didn’t have my own safety nets in place, I would be really screwed. What about people that don’t have safety nets?

I’m bitter, but it doesn’t change my intention to go back to Morocco and continue my work. If anything, it makes me more determined to carry on my work in Marmoucha. I’m just disappointed in the Agency that I had really believed in and trusted.

After the worst winters on record in Western Europe, Canada, the United States and now, Africa for avalanche deaths, I feel I should plug AIC's and also the 2000 Edition of Bruce Temper's book on backcountry safety. While we are years away from being able to provide AS Courses for free for everyone, there is a growing sense from people in the backcountry community that we need to educate the newcomers. Courses are ideal, but info never hurts.

State Avalanche Information Centers and Temper's book are super accessible, easy to understand, and straightforward. Colorado's AIC has made a 5-star website with easy tutorials and links to local safety courses, a must-do as the backcountry begins to get more and more visitors.

"Cornices are the fatal attraction of the mountains, their beauty matched only by their danger. Cornices are elegant, cantilevered snow structures formed by wind drifting snow onto the downwind side of an obstacle such as a ridgeline. Similar to icefall avalanches, the weight of a falling cornice often triggers an avalanche on the slope below, or the cornice breaks into hundreds of pieces and forms its own avalanche—or both. Be aware that cornice fragments often "fan out" as they travel downhill, traveling more than 30 degrees off of the fall line. Cornices tend to become unstable during storms, especially with wind, or during times of rapid warming or prolonged melting. Each time the wind blows, it extends the cornice outward, thus, the fresh, tender and easily-triggered part of the cornice usually rests precariously near the edge while the hard, more stable section usually forms the root.

Similar to icefall avalanches, cornice fall avalanches don’t kill very many people. And similar to slab avalanches, the ones who get into trouble almost always trigger the avalanche, in this case, by traveling too close to the edge of the cornice. Cornices have a very nasty habit of breaking farther back than you expect. I have personally had three very close calls with cornices and I can attest that you need to treat them with an extra-large dose of respect. NEVER walk up to the edge of a drop off without first checking it out from a safe place. Many people get killed this way. It's kind of like standing on the roof of a tall, rickety building and walking out to the edge for a better view. Sometimes the edge is made of concrete but sometimes the edge is made of plywood cantilevered out over nothing but air. It feels solid until, zoom, down you go. Check it out first.

But cornices aren't all bad. You can use cornices to your advantage by intentionally triggering a cornice to test the stability of the slope below or to intentionally create an avalanche to provide an escape route off of a ridge. " Staying Alive in Terrain, Page 27

AIC's provide every kind of explanation, and easy follow-ups for Avalanche Safety Courses. Like this:

Squeamish folks or lay-people might think cornice tests are dangerous but they have been standard techniques among ski patrollers, helicopter ski guides and especially climbers for decades. Cornices are the "bombs of the backcountry." First, make sure no one is below you--very important. Next, simply find a cornice that weighs significantly more than a person and knock it down the slope. A cornice the size of a refrigerator or a small car bouncing down a slope provides an excellent stability test. The smaller the cornice, the less effective the test. You can kick the cornice, shovel it or best of all, cut it with a snow saw which mounts on the end of a ski pole. With larger cornices you can use a parachute cord with knots tied in it every foot or so, which acts like teeth on a saw. Throw the cord over the cornice or push it over the edge with an avalanche probe. You can saw off a fairly large cornice in under 5 minutes. It's best to work with small, fresh cornices and not the large, old and hard ones. You can also trundle heavy rocks down the slope, which work just as well as cornices, but they’re often harder to find. This is also a great way to create a safe descent route during very unstable conditions. In other words, make an avalanche and use the slide path to descend.

Caveat:It doesn't take much imagination to see that knocking cornices down avalanche paths can be very dangerous. ALWAYS use a belay rope on slopes with bad consequences and practice your cornice techniques on safe slopes until you get the techniques worked out. Cornices have a nasty habit of breaking farther back than you think they should. Be careful.

People walk so fast here. Commercial breaks take forever. Commercials are all about depression and weight loss drugs. Lots of different types of people, you wouldn’t know. Everything is illegal. Everyone knows what happens next. Morocco? Africa? Ew. Don’t walk on the grass. One person per car. Big coffees. Televangelists. Infomercials. Low-ambition art. Sirens. Causes for sirens. Elevator music. Elevators. Profound, complete, dedicated conformity. Xenophobia. Don’t say Hi. Put it on the credit card. May I see your ID? I’m sorry sir, we don’t allow (blank) here. At the 2nd gas station take a left, pass the Shopping Plaza, and after 15th stoplight, you will reach Wal-Mart. Packaging.

What ever happened to coming home, the most wonderful feeling in the world? What ever happened to me missing things from here? Don’t I want a cold beer and a hamburger? Is this where I’m from?

Disillusioned doesn’t begin to describe the feeling. I know America is the same, and I know I’m remembering it correctly. I just can’t remember how I liked it here, how I lived here.

3 weeks in Washington and nothing got better. I know part of how I felt was due to me being injured, that part is given. Still, none of the things you would think of as comforting worked. The food, the people, the TV shows, the music, the bars, the streets, none of it warmed me up to America.

How, after this experience, can I ever convince myself to come back home instead of pursuing a new destination, a new chapter in the life of the budget jetsetter?

The Secret Healing Destination: Preface and the Answer to the Common Question of “Why?”

The leg needs to heal on its own. There is nothing I can do about that. The government has told me I can’t work and I cant go back to Peace Corps until my second surgery. So what do I do? Nothing.

Waiting at my parents house with no mobility and nothing to do for a couple months sounded horrible. Might as well break the other leg. I had to make a plan--and fast--before despair set in. I thought about the things I probably can’t do; like work, travel, something fun. Then I thought about why I can’t do those things; all because other people said so, mostly the Peace Corps and my family.

I needed to do something for myself that was self-directed and of my choice, after being subjected to poor external decision making for over a month. I needed to chase something.

I am getting on a plane and going somewhere I know will be a challenge. I am limited by the crutches but that is the only limitation. I’m not saying where because it will be fun this way. My hope is that the injury limitations will slow me down enough so that I can take good photographs, eat good food, and relax and heal. This destination is dangerous, so it will take my mind off my healing leg, forcing it to heal faster. This is sound reasoning.

While developing, this place has hit some snags. Yet with all of its troubles and its poor global image, this place has a lot to offer to a hobbled youngster armed with a camera and curiosity. I aim to discover this country the best I can in a month and a half. The best part of all of this is the juices are flowing again. I’m stoked to see, eat, ride, smell, talk, and live differently. From Morocco to USA to this place is a lot to handle, but I’m excited.

A Note on the Handling of My Case:

I’m bitter about the way things turned out here. The way Peace Corps handled my case was governed by that most American of bureaucratic themes; fear and avoidance of litigation. Everything they did was designed to minimize their liability; even if it meant sacrificing (what I see as) the Peace Corps mission, my happiness, my holistic health, and my faith in their M.O. as an agency.

I can safely say that most of my concerns, fears, desires and personal interests were ignored through the process of handling my case. There is a very distinct feeling--for me it is a tightening of the muscles between the shoulder-blades and a cold sensation in my stomach--that comes when you’re not being listened to. When you realize that you really are not in the driver’s seat in your own life’s decision-making, well, it feels terrible.

Trying to navigate the web of bureaucrats was like herding cats, and being caught up in this whole process made me question everything I thought I knew about Peace Corps and the way they interact with Volunteers. I feel like a leper. I also cannot get around the fact that I have pretty much been thrown out in the cold (they still haven’t paid me anything or sent me my stuff from Morocco) during the worst economic times in decades.

If it weren’t for my friends and parents and my own personal savings I would quite literally be penniless, jobless, homeless and shirtless with a broken leg put out onto the street outside of Peace Corps headquarters in Washington told to come back when I’m not disabled. If a reader has a different take on this I would love to hear it.

The way I look at it, if I didn’t have my own safety nets in place, I would be really screwed. What about people that don’t have safety nets?

I’m bitter, but it doesn’t change my intention to go back to Morocco and continue my work. If anything, it makes me more determined to carry on my work in Marmoucha. I’m just disappointed in the Agency that I had really believed in and trusted.

Just by reading previous posts on this blog, one could deduce that I tend to push myself and the limits of what should be done. As evidenced by my last post, I pay dearly for mistakes I make and experience close calls quite often. I usually come out of bad situations unscathed, surprised, and most importantly, wiser. There are things about this world that are not meant to be understood. There are other things that can only be understood through a very direct and unpleasant first-hand experience.

Those who share my lifestyle can easily review a handful of examples of intense moments where a lot hangs in the balance. This is adventure. There is no adventure without fear, uneasiness, close calls, luck, tough decision-making, etc. True adventure does not exist in the comfort zone, the familiar, the expected, the realm of constants.

“No regrets when you get back safe.” has always been a mantra for me. The experience, learning, and mettle that comes from hellfire-on-earth situations always are worth it. Always. Lots of times scars are part of the deal. When shit gets real the mind is scarred too. These lessons are among life’s most valuable.

I have always felt this way, but then again I have always gotten back safe. That all changed on Thursday, January 29th 2009 on Ish Askor, a few hours’ walk from my house in Talzemt.

I am not gonna review the details of the incident here. There are a lot of good reasons why, and they are mine alone. The way I feel and think about it changes from moment to moment, and I am not ready to broadcast this one.

But the important detail is that I didn’t get back safe. I broke my leg and had to orchestrate my own rescue at significant physical cost. Now I’m laid up with nowhere to go but into my own mind to replay things.

It really is the end of an era for me. I finally hit the wall. I found my limit. I know exactly where it is. I regret it.

But whatever, now I have a very new challenge to face; a long recovery process undertaken under less-than-ideal conditions. As of February 4th, the situation looks like this:

Go to Washington and get a screw in my leg

Recover in 45 days

During that time make life happen, make sure this doesn’t change me

Get out of the cast and start trying to get strength back

Hope and push through this like any other challenge

Try to focus on getting back to what I love;

being a Peace Corps Volunteer, being up, chasing new things.

The worry is my inability to get out of Washington in time. If there are complications with the surgery or treatment which push recovery time needed in Washington past 45 days, that will signal the end of my service. Therefore, surgery and healing need to go flawlessly, or else the future of something I love (PCVing in Morocco) is in jeopardy..

I have a network of amazing people around me. Everyone from Peace Corps staff and Doctors, to the guys in the hotel I am staying in, to the Volunteers who cycle in and out of Rabat, to Moroccans on the street, they all rock and encourage me. I’ll be going back to DC, where I went to school so hopefully my friends who remain there will keep me company.

A cool thing is that all Medically Evacuated PCV’s face nearly the same situation. We all are sent to Washington for treatment, and from what I hear that part is awesome. Just think; tons of Peace Corps Volunteers (people with the best stories ever) sitting around telling the stories of how they got hurt in their country. I might get pretty gnarly.

I am decidedly not happy about going to America though. This is not what I want to be doing. Everyone has been saying that it will be fun to be there and eat American and go to bars and speak English and all but for me I just really don’t miss it enough. At this point in my life I don’t miss america when I am away, I have found adaptability abroad to be a huge asset. If I am honest, aside from seeing my parents and a very slight few people, I don’t look forward to any of this.

*Note on Journey to Morocco to USA*

I gotta put this out there. AIR FRANCE=EVILLLLLLLLL

If you are ever faced with a choice of whether or not to take Air France in your life, I am begging you not to. Take any other airline. Take a bus or a boat, f-ing walk I don’t care do what you have to do to. JUST DON’T FLY FRENCH.

I have never encountered a less professional airline. I am embarrassed for the French that their country’s name is tagged to this airline. The absolute lack of accommodation for the injured was disgusting throughout this journey.

Here is the story.

Got woken up and driven to Casablanca airport for a 755AM flight. Business Class Casablanca to Paris to Washington. 3009.90USD was the ticket price. One way. Our accommodating government sprung for the ticket to make sure my journey was comfortable while I was in pain.

Unfortunately at every opportunity they had, Air France tried to fuck my leg up.

We requested a wheelchair when we booked the flight, there were none in Casablanca.

I hopped to the gate

When I asked for a manager, I was told to deal with the pain “Can’t you walk on it a little?” I was asked at one point

After bitching enough, I was able to get a wheelchair in Paris BUT After bringing me to the lounge, they took the wheelchair away for a 4-hour layover. I had to pee so bad and I simply was denied that privilege.

Every employee I talked to gave me attitude and suggested something other than what I was asking for.

I got a wheelchair (from a random Moroccan) to take me from the lounge to the gate but Air France wouldn’t let me take it on their jetway.

Security dropped another guy’s bag on my knee (seriously)

Finally on the plane for the last leg, the seat had nowhere to elevate my leg, when I asked about it I was pretty much told to deal with it.

While generally the conquering of the Middle Atlas on a snowboard is going well, in the past 10 days I have had some, well, hang-ups. This is all part of winter mountaineering and snowboarding. Neither of these activities are inherently safe but if you live where I live safety becomes a relative term. So if you are reading this don’t freak out and get all “Be safe, Casey blahaah!”

But seriously Mom don’t read this.

January 14th

My birthday present to myself was to teach a health lesson in my school in the morning (which I love) and in the afternoon make my way up to the closest big mountain to snowboard. I took my snowboard to class (which caused quite a stir) and when I was finished walked straight up. After a 3-4 hour hike I was standing on the drop-in of the 5th highest mountain in the Middle Atlas and about to become the first person to ride it. Happy Birthday.

The drop was gnarly, and on most days I would chose a different line. Still I had to bag this line. So after pointing it down the drop I made a slow lean which turned into a huge, deep, unbelievable turn in chest-deep powder. I was charging so the spray was massive and blocked my vision from 3-oclock on. When it cleared and I leaned back to the fall line and I saw what my huge, deep, unbelievable first turn had done; avalanche. I have never seen a slope let go that quickly and that evenly. It was like watching a bead curtain in a hippy’s doorway fall to the shag carpet below; the snow slid and balled up in perfect lines. It was amazing.

Upon seeing what I had done I figured the snow below me would give way with it, but it didn’t. I rode right along the edge of the slide for about 35 metres and then ducked in behind a large cliff totally safe. I watched 6-foot diameter blue ice balls rumble down the slope and finally come to a stop and I felt totally disconnected from the incident. I watched it as if someone else had triggered it. But yea it was me. I sat there not thinking about how close that was to being really bad, but instead about how I had probably never caused anything that large to happen in my life. Think about it: what is the largest force of nature that you have triggered? For me it was either when we cut down a huge tree in my backyard when I was in high school or in Franconia Notch in New Hampshire when I triggered a rock fall which took out a pine tree. That is, until this avalanche.

January 24th

Big snow on the 23rd guaranteed two things: I would be stuck in Talzemt for the weekend and I would be snowboarding.

I went back to Tissidel but this time I wanted to try another line that was higher on the fun factor and lower on the risk factor. I got up at 5 and walked to Arik’s house (my sitemate) where I grabbed my gloves that I had left on my birthday. The snow hadn’t stopped but I figured it wouldn’t continue much longer. He warned me that it might and I assured him that I would gain the ridge, and if the weather didn’t let up I would come back down right away.

I gained the ridge and started the walk towards Tissidel. The wind slowly let up and the snow stopped stinging my face. Within the hour the clouds gave way and there was some sun. I was stoked because this is exactly what I wanted to do; get up there with good weather and bag the powder before the sun killed it. Great.

About halfway to Tissidel summit my fortunes turned. I looked North up the ridge and saw a wall of grey sweeping up the valley like a frozen sheet. I knew I was in for it.

When the sheet hit the ridge there was no snow in the wind. The wind was cold and fast, probably about 40mph. It made walking really tough, especially along the edge of a ridge with my snowboard acting like a sail on my back. I know the ridge well and knew I would be coming up on a chute that would take me back down and out of the worst of it. 5 minutes after the wall hit the windspeed cranked; 50mph+ and hard snow blowing in any crevice. 5 minutes later 60mph+. 3 minutes later it was out of control. I have been in 70mph winds before and this was worse. I just hit the deck and started crawling, knowing if I stood I could get blown clear off the ridge. I remember I had my Ipod on and the volume was turned to the maximum, but all I could hear was the wind. It was a shitty situation but I was in good spirits, I don’t know why.

Like I said I know the ridge pretty well and after about 30mins of flat-on-my-stomach crawling I peeked over the edge and saw a familiar tree. This tree is straight out of Dr. Suess and I took a nap under it once last summer when I was hiking. I knew that nearby that tree was a large rock overhang so I crawled to the edge and felt my way down. The visibility at this point had deteriorated so badly that if I hadn’t been on a spot I knew well, it wouldn’t have been safe to move.

I was happy to discover that the snow blowing up the ridge had created a formidable wall against the outer edge of the overhang, and there was a perfect spot to sit underneath it. I used my snowboard’s sharp edge to cut sturdy blocks of hardened snow and built a wall that plugged the wind alley through the overhang. Then I put my snowboard down, laid on it and piled snow around me and put my backpack on my chest. I decided I would wait out the storm there.

After an hour of waiting I got really bored and started playing Snake Xensia on my phone under my jacket. I got a bunch of messages from my friends in Immouzer, including Arik, being all worried and scared that I was frozen on the ridge. I let them know that it was a bad situation but it would be fine.

2 hours passed and the wind had let up a little bit but the visibility had gone from abysmal to no longer reasonably called “visibility” at all. A better term would be whiteness. I got up and made my way along the rock ledge where I knew of one spot I could descend. I moved away from the ledge and stepped onto some deeper snow which let go underneath me and I went with it for about 10metres. Up until this point, I had not been scared or nervous about the situation, just cold and surprised. But now, being away from the guiding rock ledge with no way to climb safely back up and with no bearings except for up and down, I was nervous.

With no options, I just dug a hole. I sat in my snow hole and waited. There was no other solution. Below me was a passable slope, but it was steep and I knew of 3 large cliffs between me and the bottom. Thus, I sat in my hole. The wind whipped over the top but in the hole it was fine. I spit in the palm of my glove and stuck it out of the hole to see how fast it would freeze. This was good fun.

The hole was not warm like the fort that I had built above and I was really mad at myself for prematurely leaving the fort. The hole was OK but if everything went bad and I had to try to wait out the night up there, the hole wasn’t going to work. So I waited some more and spit in my glove a couple more times.

I began to devise a plan to descend to the first cliff and hurl myself off of it into the snow on my back. From there I would roll into the cave. You see, the snow was deep deep deep and walking in it just meant getting stuck. Walking upward meant risking compromising the slope and having it come down on me, which would wash me over the cliff. In my plan I would be able to go down and over the cliff on my own terms. I had to go down no matter what.

Just when I put my admittedly non-ideal plan into action and started moving down the slope the visibility broke. I got so excited I ripped off my gloves and began to strap on my snowboard. Strapped in and ready to go I went to pick up my gloves and one fell out of my hand. I looked at my hands and didn’t recognize them as my own. They were pink and frozen. Taking gloves off is a no-no in these conditions but whatever I was psyched.

I put my icicles into my gloves and pointed my board at the first cliff. I floated it and landed in what could have been 8 metres of drifted snow. Crazy. I made a couple conservative turns and then pointed at the second cliff and landed the same. Upon landing I saw nothing but snow and the last cliff, and I saw no reason to turn or check my speed. I was elated that after being worried that I wouldn’t be able to get down at all, now I was doing so in style. I floated the last cliff and landed uniformly, with really clean speed I just put my arms to the side to feel the wind. It was fast and fun and I was ok.

I rode it down to the village below and the first house I came to was a guy I had met in the bus a few days before. He just looked at me like he was thinking…how?

“Salaam u aleikum” I said.

January 25th

So I was super wiped out from the 24th and I went to bed at like 7pm. I woke up in the middle of the night and made some food. As I sat there eating it I was thinking; I should definitely go back up tomorrow. The weather was going to be a lot better and I could get some good snow so why not?

I met up with my transport guy at 6 near my house. He drove me out to Ait Benhaissa, the village where I spent the first 4-5 months of my service.

I planned on bagging Ish Ayurzi, a 2350 metre peak with a beautiful chute down the center that is lined with cedars. I started walking to the base and when I got close to the river that separates the mountain from the village I realized that the warming temperatures over night had taken their toll and melted a fair amount of snow upland. The river was raging a mean brown with the low rumble that indicates moving rocks. There was no safe place to cross so I decided to make my way upstream towards where the river joins a smaller stream.

I looked and looked and found only sketchy crossings. Usually I am pretty daring crossing rivers but this was different because it was winter and I had a bag and snowboard strapped to me.

I found one spot to jump across but it was a big gap. I had to think about it for along time before I decided to do it. I went for it and everything turned out fine except for the part where I fell into the river. I had come up short and slid down the rock into the icy snowmelt and was immediately swept along. Luckily, I got washed up on some rocks only about 5 meters downstream. Still, I had taken a quick beating on the rocks. I pulled myself up and slowly regained composure. When my wits came back I realized how close that really was. I experience dangerous stuff often but I am usually in control. Being in that river and being at the mercy of the current was a moment of complete surrender. It was awful and I will never be at peace with that feeling.

At that point I realized now I was in a much worse situation than I was just minutes before; now I was on the other side of the river which I found out with my attempt one cannot safely cross.

After some deliberation I decided to make my way up the mountain and away from the river. From higher up I could make my way back to the village where I could summon a donkey if need be to cross. I was wet, shaken, but not that cold. In all honesty, I was just worried about my camera and Ipod.

I started gaining elevation and I hit a nice rhythm. I was walking along and there were some of my summertime friends; the monkeys that hang out here and down by the river in the caves. Before I knew it I was nearing the top of the piste and thinking that since I had now invested a 5am wake-up, a hike, a ND experience, and more hiking, then I might as well finish the piste and get some snowboarding out of it. So that is what I did.

I dropped in and was banking smooth turns in deep, corn snow and watching cedars fly past me. It was awesome. I made about 15 good turns and had a lot of speed. I came off of one turn planning to pop up onto a snowdrift when either 2 or 3 monkeys sprinted out from behind the drift. I veered with a lot of speed to avoid them and hit what I think was a thorn bush. Whatever it was it had enough root structure to throw me into a high-velocity cartwheel.

Yard sale, everything goes.

It would have been an awesome wipeout to watch because it was so ridiculous. By itself it was pretty good but with the monkeys it was priceless. Unfortunately, Middle Atlas ski pioneering, like most of my activities, are undertaken solo. I guess I kind of got to see it.

Nonetheless, I gathered my scattered belongings and made my way back down to the base. That incident was this morning, and even though I had to deal with the impassable river again, I don’t think I have stopped smiling since. The camera has gained back its function as of 5oclock. The Ipod doesn’t look good. Worth it? Eh.

CONCLUSION

I don’t know who reads this, and I doubt any PCV’s do, but if anybody is in the neighborhood of North Africa and wants to get in on some snowboarding and winter mountaineering let me know. I hate that I have to do this stuff alone. It actually boggles my mind that there is not anyone else out here doing it. Self-motivating for these kind of activities is exhausting.

It is difficult enough to try to get the Americans around here to even hike in the summer. Everybody is from SoCal and some of them don’t see snow until they come to Morocco. A lot of the lines I want to ride out here are just too much to do alone. I am down to push the limits but spots like Bou Iblane and Bou Naceur are too big, too deep, and too far out for solo.

So far the only people I have convinced to ski with me were French X-Country guys who live in Casablanca. They agreed that it was sick that I lived in a place like this, but it comes to a point where if there isn’t anyone to share these experiences with then memories just stay yours and stay with you and if you recount them you sound stupid. If you share them with someone you double the memory assets; equal amounts in different banks.

So yea if anyone reading this has some time and a winter sports itch please come scratch it in MARMOUCHA.

One of the most exciting parts about living out here in the middle atlas is knowing that soon this area will inevitably be discovered by tourists, like the rest of Morocco. Granted it will take a different type of tourist than the tour bus crowd to explore these mountains, it will one day no longer be undiscovered. Being here when almost everything is new, uncrossed, undocumented, and most importantly for me, unskied, is invaluable.

The week of my birthday was dedicated to firsts. My first time snowboarding in Africa in Oukaimeden near Marrakech, and my first experience with unskied terrain here in the middle atlas.

Skiing and snowboarding in the middle atlas region has understandably been limited in the past to three centers; Mischliffen, the ski randonee (cross-crountry or nordic) area of Jebel Hebri, and Bou Iblane. Mischilffen and Jebel Hebri both to this day have operational ski lifts with limited capacity and even more limited usage. Nonethless, it is fun and the snow is good. It is also exceptionally cheap. The clientele can be described as primarily Moroccan day-trippers interested in riding the lift to the top without skis and returning the same way. A spattering of Moroccans skiers from cities (native Middle-Atlas skiers are very rare) and a few tourists interested in the simple novelty of skiing in Africa. There are a few events put on by FRMSM, or in English the Royal Moroccan Ski Federation, but those have died off in the past few years. To be fair to Mischiliffen, the terrain is beautiful, and can be likened to a small eastern United States ski resorts with the added bonus of skiing among massive cedar trees and monkeys. It is unique, cheap, fun, and can offer a serious skier a few very nice, solitary turns.

The east face of Bou Iblane Massif is home to the skeleton of an old French lift that has long since been disassembled and cannibalized for scrap by crafty locals. The French built the lift as a home comfort during colonial times and after Morocco’s independence had no incentive to maintain it. Nonetheless, early French ski pioneers were able to explore the majority of the 30km-long massif and claim most of the difficult lines. Still, ski exploration was limited to the route between Bou Iblane and Jebel Tazzeka near Taza, and the Massif itself. There are no locally or officially confirmed reports of the highest peak in the region, Bou Naceur, ever being attempted. Nonetheless in all of this there is the chance that a stray French soldier has at one time journeyed there with skis.

In the Marmoucha-Tamgilt-Ribat el-Khair sector, there are a number of large peaks that were simply too remote for ski pioneers up until the paving of the sector’s roads. Now, even after large snowfalls, local transportation is available between 3 and 5 days after the weather events. Being uniquely positioned (speaking the very specific local dialect, having all-access permission from local authorities, and holding many Nuqql owners (small buses) as my closest friends, and living within walking distance of all of it) I am now in a position to claim all of these peaks on my snowboard.

The first on my schedule was the high-point of a long ridge which can be located locally by using the name “Tissidel”. Tissidel is the bearing point for most nomadic herders in between Ait Hassan, Ouled Ali, Tazemourt, and the edge of Ouaoualzemt, where herders who are not from the valley should consider making way back towards their own land because of tribal tensions dating back thousands of years. This peak is the edge of Marmoucha, and an unofficial ethnic border. The peak itself rises to 2600 meters and is the southern-most of what can be considered the “rooftop” of the middle atlas.

The hike for me from my front door took six hours with the last 3 in snow to waist. Even the sun-exposed ridge forces hikers into deep snow because of unstable cornices on the ridge’s edge. The descent I estimated at 1100 meters with the fall line, with the option of descending another 300 with good snow and 500 on cross-country skies. The take off is impossible without significant recent snow, as a 30 meter drop faces afternoon sun with no collection point because of its steepness, but the rest is a very challenging, and very rewarding 38 degree slope with chest deep powder.

On Wednesday I will hopefully be completing a small first-timer called Ish Ayurzi in Ait Benhaissa in the Northern reach of Talzemt commune. This 2540 meter peak is home to some of the highest altitude cedars in the region and contains a due North-northeast chute. I will be completing this peak before 9am as the only hour for good light is sunrise with reflective light off of the opposite snowfields on Ish Nfadna. Later in the day attempting this peak would be too dangerous.

So after my last entry I felt I should clarify some things about life here. People sent me messages like; “Oh Peace Corps sounds so hard,” and “Do you hate it there?” I don’t know where people picked up this sentiment but I want to be clear; I have yet to hate anything about this place or my time here, and while Peace Corps can be tough sometimes it is mostly because of where I live; I got placed in a really difficult part of the country. I asked our programming staff for exactly this: put me in the highest, coldest, most remote place you have just don’t put me in the Sahara or somewhere there is a lack of work.

The fact is while life can be really challenging where I live, those who know me are aware that I love challenges. Having obstacles to getting things done everyday motivates me to go and do them. Little challenges turn everyday tasks into adventures.

Just yesterday I was looking for the local school superintendent, so naturally I went to his office in the school. Not there. Where is he I asked? Somewhere in Immouzer one teacher answered. I spent the rest of my morning tracking down this guy like a detective. Went to his house, his favorite coffee joint, the Youth Center, the Youth Center manager’s house, walked the main drag a few times, and talked to everyone I knew on the street asking them “wesh tshuft Mimoun, lmudir dial mdrasat n Talzemt? La? Safi shukran asidi.” All along this way I am getting invites for tea, late breakfast, offers to help, invites for the Prophet’s birthday, congratulations Obama speeches, everything.

Nobody is disrespectful or doesn’t want me around. People seem to love talking to me and asking me questions. On the street everybody waves and yells my name. I have never had more people know my name and know things about me concentrated in one place. I am not embarrassed to ask for help so everyone now is looking for Mimoun the superintendent. We end up finding him and the villagers rejoice. I meet with Mimoun for about 10 minutes about designing a new health curriculum for our schools. He agrees quickly and we conclude our business.

Even though Marmoucha is a small world, I learn tons of new things on these adventures.

“Hey Casey did you know your neighbor had a baby this morning?”That woman was pregnant?

“Hey Casey did you know that tomorrow a bunch of us are leaving with our families to live in tents and herd sheep until spring comes?Isn’t spring 4 months from now?

Sounds lame but my favorite thing to do is learn new and random things about people and places. The fun little tidbits that come out about my village and the people are what make the little everyday adventures memorable. In the states my everyday was usually fun and interesting, whether it be with work or school or going out in DC or surfing or whatever. Here it is incomparable. The things that I eat, do, hear, say, drink, ride, buy, look at, wonder about, and experience are so far from what I ever expected my life to include that sometimes I question whether I really lived in the states a year ago or whether I really live here now.

Winter is not a joke in this part of Africa. These past few weeks have been a wake-up for me in that I have realized how much the weather shapes life here. I experienced the fall floods and the massive toll it took on the region; taking out people, roads, houses, livestock, bridges and roads. We still have not fully recovered from the damage and are now starting to see the effect lost crops had on incomes.

Starting around the 5th of December the weather turned mean with wind and freezing rain. After that the rain turned to snow and ice and didn’t stop for two days. When it cleared people rushed out to shovel off their roofs to prevent collapse. Every family kept their sheep in the barns, huddled together for warmth. Entire families sleep in the kitchens of their houses to keep warm and don’t peek out until 10am.

Early December means l’Eid al-Adha, the largest Muslim holiday. Marmoucha celebrated the way everyone does; they get the fam together and host guests and grill up large animals on kebabs. The only difference between Marmoucha and everyone else was that Marmoucha celebrated l’Eid for a week stuck inside their houses. After the holiday no transportation came for 5 days. If someone needed out of Marmoucha they had to walk. So they did. Some had to walk 5 kilometers, some 20, some 25. Some more.

That week marked the first of four weekly souks (markets) that didn’t happen due to snow and damaged roads. No vegetables. No meat. No butane gas to keep warm or cook. No firewood. If you could get to town centre, you didn’t find much there. It was like living under Stalin, and I bet the weather wasn’t much different.

Winter is not a joke in this part of Africa. These past few weeks have been a wake-up for me in that I have realized how much the weather shapes life here. I experienced the fall floods and the massive toll it took on the region; taking out people, roads, houses, livestock, bridges and roads. We still have not fully recovered from the damage and are now starting to see the effect lost crops had on incomes.

Starting around the 5th of December the weather turned mean with wind and freezing rain. After that the rain turned to snow and ice and didn’t stop for two days. When it cleared people rushed out to shovel off their roofs to prevent collapse. Every family kept their sheep in the barns, huddled together for warmth. Entire families sleep in the kitchens of their houses to keep warm and don’t peek out until 10am.

Early December means l’Eid al-Adha, the largest Muslim holiday. Marmoucha celebrated the way everyone does; they get the fam together and host guests and grill up large animals on kebabs. The only difference between Marmoucha and everyone else was that Marmoucha celebrated l’Eid for a week stuck inside their houses. After the holiday no transportation came for 5 days. If someone needed out of Marmoucha they had to walk. So they did. Some had to walk 5 kilometers, some 20, some 25. Some more.

That week marked the first of four weekly souks (markets) that didn’t happen due to snow and damaged roads. No vegetables. No meat. No butane gas to keep warm or cook. No firewood. If you could get to town centre, you didn’t find much there. It was like living under Stalin, and I bet the weather wasn’t much different.

Fall in Marmoucha. Summer ended. In-Service Training came and went. The leaves changed colors and fell, just like in New England. The cold creeps in more and more everyday. Less and less vegetables at souk. Going to bed earlier and earlier as the night gets longer and threatens to freeze people. Snow has come and gone twice now. It sits pretty thick up on the mountains.

6 months now since I left Ouarzazate for my current home and work is finally starting in earnest. Did a very complete survey of everything community health-related and turned it in to Rabat and the Ministry of Health, now I get to design projects around the things that we have identified as priorities. For most of Marmoucha flood relief is the name of the game. The projects are huge and run the gamut from vital infrastructure rebuilding to water source protection and erosion control to restarting income generation projects. Everyone is on board. The associations are ready to organize, the guys are ready to work, and the Ministries and NGOs are tripping over themselves to spend their foreign relief cash.

I am in the middle of all of this wearing many different hats. The motivator. The expectation lower-er. The erosion expert. The hydro-engineer. The cartographer. The accountant. The botanist. The microbiologist. All laughable.

Everyday I field requests and end up just directing one person to another. I am so surprised how little impetus it takes to get people moving. I just connect people with other people. Little people who need big people to get their needs met and big people who need little people to work, but neither know where to find the other.

It also surprises me how willing people were going to be to just sit their and feel sorry for themselves. I feel like if I wasn’t their to get them going and help them analyze their needs, they would just endure it and mope. The meetings that I have assembled were not going to happen without my impetus, yet when they got together people treated the projects like they needed to happen right now. I really wonder how long it would have taken for people to get the ball rolling to solve their own problems. Maybe a year, two, or never.

Nonetheless I am not going to have the problem that some PCVs have; not enough work. Along with the big ticket projects that need grant proposals and large-scale coordination are the little projects. Monday is a Ministry of Education meeting about staffing issues. Wednesday is my youth soccer tournament and trash clean-up. The week after half of Talzemt will begin their first health education lessons in primary schools with me teaching. Two weeks after that the other half begins. In a month I will be running a constant circle of six schools with 25-40 students each with health lessons that will probably take me all the way through May 2010 with only Summer 2009 and Ramadan as a break. Huh

Many years ago, daylight savings time was introduced to economize agriculture in the United States. The simple “spring forward” and “fall back” concept has accounted for an incalculable increase in productivity without extra strain on resources. Centuries later we recognize daylight savings time is useful to cut down on energy use. All around, most people in the world agree that daylight savings time is a useful tool to trick ourselves into improving our situations.

Morocco also uses daylight savings time. Next year Morocco will be celebrating the 2nd year they have used it! To be clear, it is a country’s own decision what time to use. Morocco sits geographically on the Greenwich Mean, and could synchronize life with London, but whatever, we’ll just use Reykyavik time, thanks.

So after centuries of holding out, Morocco finally broke down and embraced the “new trend” of daylight savings. They chalked up the change to a “soaring energy bill.”

Daylight, savings, and time are all things hated by Moroccans. Daylight is shunned and people prefer to sleep inside and wait out the dark to make their rounds. Savings is senseless and anytime someone comes across money in my part of the country, it is quickly spent on practical things like fireworks, electronics, fake Diesel jeans, and hair gel. Time, finally is hated in terms of its specificity. If you set up a meeting with a Moroccan and ask them “what time?“, often the answer will be, “well, you know, afternoon or whatever.” And then when the specific time is asked they get offended, like, “what do you think I cant keep an appointment?!” So Rabat decides Morocco has daylight savings time this year to save some money. Most people in the world have no problem agreeing on a single time for events, here nothing can be that simple. With the institution of daylight savings time, there has been created two races, two classes, two castes, if you will; those who follow “new time”, and those who don’t. There is no “old time,” just “not new time.”

The people who don’t follow new time are farmers, workers, housewives, rural people, etc. For these people, what the fuck is time? The New Time Followers run transportation, own time-sensitive business, and have a stake in what time it is. Unfortunately these groups of people have to do business together, meet, talk, trade, cooperate.

In a country of fantastic pre-existing uncertainty about time and its meaning, the institution of daylight savings time has brought an extra uncertainty. Now a time can mean anything. 2 PM can mean 2PM New Time or not new. Furthermore some people are in disagreement on which way the time changed when the time changed. Did we add or subtract an hour? If we added an hour, than is 2PM now 3PM? So are we going to meet at 4PM? If we run on old time for our last meeting, do we have to run on new time for the next one? What time is it?

So we go through most of the summer in this way, and people get used to what time you’re on. It ends up working, I guess.

Ramadan comes this month and New Time ends. We go from time not being certain to truly not existing in any meaningful way at all. Breakfast? 2 hours before sunrise. Work day? Whenever you aren’t sleeping in the day, and aren’t too pissed off from your lack of nutrition. Dinner? Anywhere from sunset to breakfast, but sometimes breakfast and dinner are the same thing.

The only thing worth keeping track of is how close Ramadan to being finished. As it stands now, 21 days.

As I have been saying, Ait Benhaissa is among the most beautiful places I have ever seen. The aesthetics of everyday life here can appeal to anyone. An amazing balance of man and nature exists here, its as if nature has ceded ground to some of mans comforts while maintaining her identity, and vice-versa. People are wonderful in everyday interactions, and I feel welcome to relax and explore here.

To be a new Peace Corps Volunteer sent way out here in the Bled to start from scratch, be these people’s first contact with the west, and be in development work is amazing. It is an unique and irreplaceable situation. There has been what can only be called a honeymoon period, where everything seems so new and different and exciting that you deny that anything bad could exist here.

I started discovering these problems when I began my business here in earnest. Task one: find a safe, secure, and independent home which Peace Corps Washington would approve. Negotiate, and live in said house.

I will start by saying that the concept of a single male coming and wanting to rent a house is completely alien to people here. Think about it, single men live in their parents houses until they are married, and no one rents their house. They all built their houses from mud bricks and materials you can find within 20 kilometers of the site. It goes without saying that in Ait Benhaissa’s housing market, there are no “Real Estate Agents”. If someone needs somewhere to stay, they aren’t going to have to find their house on their own, they will have family. Why would you be here if you didn’t have family, right? Finally, anyone moving here would theoretically speak fluent Marmouchan Tamazight. I am not going to put myself down in any way concerning language--I am really good--but dealing with such a complex and foreign idea within my happy group of Berbers is a crazy challenge.

So, in my search for houses, I have had people tell me everything from “move in tomorrow” to “you will never find an empty house in Morocco”. I have had people set up meetings only to break them, bang on my door to show me a vacant dirt-floored sheep room without windows or electricity, sign a contract and break it after I moved in, and jerk me around for weeks only to tell me, unequivocally, “no”.

Within each of these encounters is a fair amount of community PR scheming. I am the first of what may be a long line of PCV’s in my town, so I need to endure all of this bullshit with a smile, or risk endangering the Peace Corps mission, and my own ability to conduct my projects.

Dealing with this stuff has been horrible. I have found so many sketchy people in my town that it makes it difficult to trust anyone. Aside from that, the people I spent 3 months asking for nothing but their friendship didn’t warn me about the criminals and sketch balls I was talking with about business. It was really frustrating.

I didn’t give up though. I kept asking people, telling them about the requirements, my situation, everything. Soon people in a neighboring town that is part of my commune started hearing about my dilemma. Offers of houses started trickling in from a place called Ait Youb, the center of the commune. I checked a few that had limited promise. After a while I got word that the top guy in the High Commission of Water and Forests wanted to show me a house. I thought it was strange that he hadn’t been the first to offer since he was one of my first contacts in the region.

So one day I set up a meeting with him, Lahcen, at souk. After souk he took me to the house. It was in the middle of a beautiful apple plantation with views of what I call “El Capitan”, a close cousin of the famous Yosemite landmark, but in Morocco, and named Shay‘at. It was an amazing place with plentiful water, access to transport, fruit trees everywhere, and people who had heard only good things about the American living 10km down the road. Perfect.

Lahcen was cool about all of the requirements concerning the house, and agreed to bring it up to Washington standards quickly. I told him I would be calling Peace Corps to send someone to inspect it soon. We left after a big lunch and some requisite kisses that follow any business deal here. I walked out thinking about how my landlord is a top dog in a government department in which I need contacts, and his repeated invitations to break Ramadan fast would provide me with many. The house was not perfect but the situation was as good as it could get.

A week went by and Peace Corps was on the way to check out my new house. I planned on moving in shortly thereafter. The day before Peace Corps intended to come to Ait Benhaissa I found out that people were really sad/offended/whatever that I was going to just leave Ait Benhaissa, like I was too good to live there. Obviously this idea was ridiculous. I had tried to the ends of my wits to live in Ait Benhaissa, I loved it there, despite its, ahem, quirks.

Hurting, I called off Peace Corps visit to Ait Youb to check my house. I decided to look again in Ait Benhaissa. I was met with the same problems, oppositions, questions, confusions. The search has been fruitless and frustrating, and has left me questioning everything people tell me, questions that extend way past work and Health problems and housing.

I occupied what can only be called Moroccan housing limbo for awhile and decided to go ahead with the house in the neighboring douar, Ait Youb. I called and set up a meeting with Lahcen and got Peace Corps to send someone to negotiate their end. Everything worked out great during the negotiation and I got everything I wanted and more. We all walked away happy.

Obviously the news of the contract traveled faster than I could back to my Ait Benhaissa. The kids are pissed, the Nurse in my clinic is convinced I am going back to America, and people cannot seem to get over that simple question about me leaving; “but, why?”

My house is in a place called Ait Oualagh. Not a pretty name but equally as naturally beautiful as Ait Benhaissa, and more so in a number of ways. It is a full 10km closer to the souk town, internet, the other Volunteer, and the major clinic in the Commune, along with the rest of the government buildings. It is a massive improvement as far as wintertime goes, as well. I will not have to hike 5km in the snow to pick up transportation, it will come to my door.

Also, I get to start over. I don’t like the way I went about meeting people in my community, and any image problems stemming from my inadvertent dealings with criminals during the housing search will be ameliorated. People are very much impressed by my language because they get to see me after living here for a few months, not as a green volunteer who still uses all the southern Tamazight he learned in Pre-Service Training. Also I get to live in a place where people will not see me going to the clinic, and I can develop my image as a Health Educator instead of a hospital worker who hangs out with the wife-beating, dog-killing Nurse.

Ait Benhaissa is becoming more and more my home everyday. I don’t feel as new here anymore, and people get used to see me walking along the paths that snake through my village. None of the kids try to speak French to me anymore and everyone knows I live here. People are talking to me normally (as normal as Tamazight can be) and asking me questions about everyday stuff.

My conversations have developed into more sophisticated enterprises. My vocabulary is wide, includes both Arabic, Tamazight and Southern Tamazight and my pronunciation works. The subject matter has evolved from “Me Merican like weather nature here I work company but not company America” to speaking confidently about topics like education and government plans for our village.

Still every once and awhile I say something and everything stops for 5 minutes while the community discusses what the fuck Casey is trying to say.

Things are beginning to seem normal, and the things that were bothering me before no longer do. Before I thought the bus to the market was really uncomfortable and sweaty, now I enjoy it. The everyday things like no running water, spotty electricity, squat toilets, dirtiness, etc are not only no longer problems, I look back at my life in the states and wonder how I lived with myself and proclaimed to care at all about the environment. There is nothing you can do with running water you cant do with buckets except pressurize a hose. The lack of consistent electricity does two things to me and my western inclination to modcons; made me realize how little I actually need it (especially in summertime it is possible to use virtually none comfortably), and makes me appreciate nighttime and the amount of light that comes from the moon. For about a week before and after a full moon, an area with low light pollution is completely lit up, and in Morocco the lack of moisture in the atmosphere means unfiltered, pure, bright moonlight.

I am not going to go so far as to say squat toilets are better, but once accustomed to the ritual, one realizes its virtues. I have been told a few times in my life that squat toilets are better for you, and I am not going to go into details, but it really does feel like a more healthy operation when squatting. I will not give up TP though.

The requisite daily shower I became so dependent upon for so long has been tough to let go, but made me realize how egregiously wasteful the process really is. Not only are people like me back home using gallons upon gallons of hot, hot water and large amounts of soap filled with pollutants, but they are showering for virtually no reason. In a land of subsistence agriculture, consistent 100 degree and up heat, mountain pass crossings for everyday chores, hauling water from the spring, and dust storms among other impure realities, I can assure the American reader that they did not get dirty at the office today. Beyond that, they didn’t even get dirty at the gym, if they went.

I use a tea pot, a 4 liter bucket, soap, and a scrubber to shower. I heat the tea pot to almost boiling and mix to create a desirable temperature. I shower less than twice a week on average. I supplement this cleaning ritual with periodic visits to the hammam, or public baths here in Morocco.

If one plans on going to Morocco for any reason, and fails to visit a hammam, they have failed to participate in one of the most unique national pastimes and also failed to remove pounds of dead things from their skin. You have no idea how much dead skin is on you until you get scrubbed to near death by a burly Moroccan man in his scivvys.

Also if you fail to visit a hammam, you have failed to observe what I believe is a key to Moroccan approaches to personal space and interaction. If you trust that everyone is being faithful about their hammam usage, getting scrubbed with proper intensity and returning the scrubbing favor, then this makes other parts of life here much more bearable.

For the country-raised New Hampshire guy, the homophobic feelings involved with early hammam visits were real, and questioning the scrubbers motivations and enthusiasm seemed prudent. After a few goes at it, the barriers get knocked down and the scrubbee realizes the scrubber is only scrubbing because of his need to get the dead skin scrubbed off his back. He wants to get clean. Don’t worry about his attraction to you. He thinks you’re terribly strange looking, probably retarded, and definitely a pussy after watching you fumble with your buckets, burn yourself and suck air in through your teeth when he scrubbed the point of your shoulder.

With these interpersonal obstacles cleared, some of the perceived unpleasantries of Moroccan daily life lose their offensive edge. For example; transportation. To get to a major city like Fes, I have to come in very intimate contact with at least 5 people. If I know this dude I am spooning with in the taxi has been in the hammam, then I know that not only is he clean to a very specific level, but he is over the childish homoerotic hurdles that westerners would have trouble with because you’re touching a mostly naked stranger. With these ideas fully digested, I am able to come to terms with the placement of Homeboy’s hand here on my neck. Homeboy’s hand is not there because he wants to fondle my Adam’s apple or trace my chin-line with his pinky, but because he has to go to Fes, too. Just like Moroccan hammam-goer Mohammed is about as interested in an close moment with the retarded white guy as he is with being covered in dead skin.

All these goods things being said, there are things that truly bother me here.

Last month my good friend from New Hampshire, Adam Hermans stopped by Morocco for a month during his year-long Watson Fellowship in which he was filming monkeys on three continents. Our conversations, always excellent, were fueled by our recent experiences with cultures and adventure. We weeded a lot of things out concerning the way we feel when we are traveling, and we spent time discussing the ups and downs of experiencing new places and cultures.

Adam and I are both well traveled by American standards, and we both have spent the majority of our time abroad in the developing world; no parentally-funded Eurotrips. Both Adam and I have our favorite countries that we’ve visited, and neither of our favorites are attractive at first glance. We both placed desperately poor and war-torn countries at the tops of our list. While we love the feel of the developing world, there are things we hate, and say we hate, about places.

Both of us were annoyed at the all-accepting approach that some people take to other cultures. The “oh its not bad, its just different” attitude is wrong. There are things about cultures that are just bad. Sometimes there is food that is bad, sometimes there are bad people, sometimes there are religious beliefs people follow that are bad. Less often, a place has bad food, bad people, and a bad religion. Maybe the transportation network is bad, too, shit where are you?

My favorite country is the Philippines. It is a wonderful place for me. Unfortunately the Philippines is home to Asia’s worst food. It is terrible. So much ketchup. Just awfulness on your plate. I call it bad because it is.

There is nothing wrong with making value judgments, or any judgments at all when traveling. Yes, you are probably there to experience new things blah blah blah, but if something sucks, it just sucks. Some people will chalk things up to cultural differences, but there are shitty things that cultures include, like Chinese shark-fin soup. It tastes terrible and is terrible for the world, generally. America’s approach to petroleum consumption sucks. Cambodian music videos are so bad they are terrifying and no pleasantness can exist in a building in which one is playing. I don’t care if there are some people that like the practice, if it is garbage, call it garbage. The people that like it are lying to themselves. Don’t fall in the trap.

Morocco, like a lot of the developing world, is full of wicked, corrupt, immoral, depraved, debauched, unscrupulous, ruthless, merciless, cruel, base, and shameless things. Luckily, the things that are awesome overwhelm them, so it is a pretty nice place to be. To ensure that my blog does not get censored by the Government (I am an employee) I will not make specific references to HOW things suck, just mention their categories. This list contains the category of the crappiest thing at the top.

The approach to Females

Dudes

Doing any kind of financial transaction outside a bank

Going to a bar, or outside anywhere at night

The approach to solid waste

The French colonial legacy

There you have it, openness.

Last week, I learned where I would be working and living. I was assigned to a small town in the Middle Atlas mountains within Boulmane Province. Boulmane is located in the north of Morocco, near the Imperial Cities of Meknes and Fes. My village is approximately 70 kilometers from the Provincial Capital of Boulmane, and 20 kilometers from the nearest market town.

The topography of the Boulmane Province could be compared, in parts, to the Yosemite region of the States, and others, to Switzerland. Near the Provincial Capital is one of Morocco’s few ski resorts, Mischiliffen, in the wealthy city of Ifrane. The region is dotted with cedar forests, waterfalls, snow-capped peaks, rocky plains and mountain towns. Boulmane is considered one of Morocco’s most marginalized provinces, with a spotty flow of resources incoming. My region specifically has a marked lack of water infrastructure, transportation availability, health services, and environmental education.

My village is a respectable hike from Jbel Bou Iblane, a 3190 meter mountain which is covered in snow most of the year. Winters bring serious problems to the region, as roads become unusable and supply lines are shut off. Neighboring provinces make the news for freezing deaths and food shortages.

We took our final language proficiency exam last week and I was very sick. I still did well enough to be nominated to give the speech to the group at swearing in, so I and 2 other people scored as high. Very happy even though I still feel lost with the language.

Swearing in is on the 19th and we leave the 20th for good to final site. Fun things.

BLOG ENTRY 2

I just got back from another week in Azrou, my community-based training location. This past week was especially stressful because of the different competencies, tests and interviews that will be conducted during the week of the 13th. The first of these is the Language Proficiency Interview (LPI). I will be sat in a room with a native speaker who is the tester, and he will ask me questions. I will be expected to answer accurately, and then elaborate on these subjects:

Myself, my education, work history, family, age, marital status (why I’m not married yet), purpose for being in Morocco, what I’ve done since I have been here (day by day), what my plans and hopes for the future are, and generally everything about Morocco.

I love the language. It is absolute insanity. The most amazing thing about it for me is the complete lack of vowels. Vowel-less words dominate sentences and many things sound the same. It is incredibly difficult and a lot is expected of me as far as competencies go, but all of that is overshadowed when I see the look on people’s faces when they hear me speaking their native language. People are amazed and ecstatic that an American is trying so hard to speak to them. Recently I was speaking to a group of men sitting at a bar near the Compound and one of them who overheard the conversation pulled me aside, embraced me, and then took my hand and looked right into my eyes and said in perfect English; “I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to hear you speaking my language, thank you.” It was a really special moment for me because I had thought those men didn’t trust me and were suspicious of my presence there. One of my biggest sources of motivation to speak the language is to find out more about these incredibly proud, happy, and friendly people.

Though I have only been here for 6 or 7 weeks, I have been out of the States now for the better part of 4 months. I’m finally starting to gain some perspective on what I left. Its not that I’m homesick, but leaving my life back home happened without me thinking about it. I find myself thinking about all kinds of fun things I did in my last year and all the people I did them with. Now I have a life full of brand new stuff; friends, work, country, schedule, etc. I guess I am just realizing how many big changes happened so quickly. None of it is bad, but I kind of wish I had spent more of the last months in the States taking my leaving more seriously. Eh.

Note* I scored Intermdiate-Low on my Language Proficiency interview, which is great because it is above the level I am expected to be at by May, dadg igi adsawlg Tamazight am Imazhgen! (Now I speak like a Berber!)

Training thus far has been unlike any process I have previously been a part of. Every minute of the day has been planned and regimented, freedom is limited, language sessions are intense, and opportunities for recreation are scarce. Long sessions focusing on security and external threats can begin to develop a sense within you that every minute of life on assignment will be a risk. We sleep in the same complex that we train in, and venture out into the town—which is essentially a desert outpost—only for limited activities like playing soccer with Moroccan kids. The complex itself is a hotel, but it is guarded by a 30-ft wall and 24-hour gendarmes, or guards.

That all being said it really is exhilarating. There is so much ground and material to cover that something new and practical is always being drilled into us. Though there is a lot of repetition, there exists a sense that the more something is said, the more important it is to keep in mind. Living, eating, training and sleeping in the fortress with a 930 curfew isn’t bad, it is actually an ideal learning environment. It provides the ability to focus solely on the most important part of training; Derija (Moroccan Arabic) and Tamazight (a Berber dialect used in the High Atlas). And while free time is limited, to be honest, there isn’t that much to do in town anyways. Daily trips to the souk and the main square to listen to drums, eat weird snacks, practice language, and play frisbee, soccer, and mill around is enough, and getting to bed is a big priority.

Some notes on Morocco.

Morocco is stunningly beautiful. The northern cities are orderly yet still exotic. The plains of the north rise unabashedly into the Middle, High and Anti-Atlas mountains, which soar up to 13,000 feet. Old villages with kasbahs and minarets dot the countryside and only increase in quaintness and beauty as the mountains rise to the snow. Dry brown canyons are carved by waters that allow trees and flowers and grass to grow at the bottom.

Moroccans are generally friendly, but apprehensive. It is pretty difficult for them to understand that you aren’t simply a tourist, that you live and work here. Trying to explain your status in Morocco leads to curiosity and suspicion about your motivations. Are you CIA? You work for the American government, but you aren’t implementing policy, so what exactly do you do? These questions are hard to answer but after awhile, and avoidance of certain topics (hot political issues, Islamic extremism), Moroccans are happy to welcome you here.

Nights are freezing cold now since it is early spring, but mid-day sun can be very hot and always dry. The difference in temperature between sun and shade is huge, as the air doesn’t hold the heat. Clouds rarely appear in the sky, and the sky is a deep, deep blue.

I spent the week of the 15th to the 22nd in a small town called Azrou to begin studying Tamazight. About 100km from Ouarzazate, Azrou is en route to some of the higher peaks of the central High Atlas. It is a lot of the things I like about Morocco, it has quirky village politics, it doesn’t have much going on, and it is totally foreign and seems backwards to me. Nothing makes sense and nothing happens the way you think it will. Its full of devoted Muslims with old, strange customs. I notice there are tons of contradictions in Azrou. Women would never think of touching a male arm who wasn’t their husband but they have no problem breastfeeding in front of foreigners. Uncleanliness is generally untolerated but simple personal sanitation is intentionally ignored. Locals pride themselves on huge meals and full bellies but malnutrition is widespread due to a sugar and bread diet. As a health worker, it really is fascinating.

The last weeks of February were full of field visits and technical education. The nuts and bolts of the Moroccan Ministry of Health, and our place therein, became an educational priority. Meeting with moudirs, jmae leaders, and other players key to Moroccan business began to open my eyes to what I was being prepared for--culture.

Moroccans drive on the right, eat three meals a day, put their pants on one leg at a time, etc. Moroccans are cool, sensible, very intelligent, enjoy oddities, know how to have fun , etc

Everyday life in Morocco is conducted in such a manner that bears no similarity to what I am used to.

Everything I want to say is misplaced, I am always doing things at the wrong time, and I apologize a lot.

Everything is foreign, and you have to re-learn life. Its awesome.

Whoa.

First ten days in Maroc have been crazy. Flew in from NYC to Casa to Rabat where training began immediately-from security briefings, language, money, and schedule to rules, culture, terrorism, and shopping.

From Rabat we bussed the 8 hours over the snowy Atlas mountains to our training base. Language training in Derija (Moroccan Arabic) began in short order. Sessions start at about 8am and last til 6ish; with a 930 curfew. After next week the cycle between this training site and a remote site will begin, and will continue for 10 weeks. After that, enshallah, I will be sworn in and move somewhere permanently.

For now, the stress of training is easily offset by the physical beauty of Morocco and the fun-loving kindness of its people.

barakhlahifuk.

Packing for a 27-Month Trip Packing is usually quite easy for me. I get alot of practice at it and I have learned a couple tricks to streamline the process (like packing everything, taking half of it out, and doubling the number of socks). Unfortunately those tricks don't work when you're not really packing, but moving.

The last time I had to pack for a long-term thing was for my semester in Hong Kong. I remember standing with my best friend over my pile of luggage trying to figure out if I had forgotten anything. I hadn't. I cursed the amount of crap I brought and learned a valuable lesson about possessions; they are totally replaceable and available wherever you're going. Also I learned that any sort of "sentimental" stuff which is packed will inevitably be regretted. The tendency you have is to think "I can't go for long without my massive wool sweater" and you end up packing it. If you were to simply throw the sweater into the closet, you would forget about it until you return from the trip and rediscover it and love it again. If you bring it, you realize its inefficiencies and flaws and desire it out of your life. Thus the approach must be focused on limits; pack half what you're allowed, give yourself some draft, and bring extra socks.

I got everything for Africa to fit into one large bag, my trekking backpack, and my Marine bag. Clothing went in the big bag, necessities like books, duct tape, flashlights, etc went in the trekking bag, and electronics went in my carry-on. Easy. I plan on buying a few things in Morocco, including just about everything having to do with home life.

This last week has been uneventful, mostly just a long stretch of strange feelings about leaving, none of which were sheer excitement, nor fear, nor apprehension. I don't know how to quantify it, but it seems to fit somewhere between a sense of foreboding and general peace with the understanding that much of the next few months is going to be packed with patently fascinating difficulty.

I am completing my Costa Rica-Nicaragua-Costa Rica loop, finishing it off with a visit to Puerto Viejo de Talamanca, CR. I have an unsure feeling about the end of this trip, I have had unforgettable experiences one after the other, mostly set in Nicaragua. My trip started off crappy, with a disillusioning set of experiences with Ticos in northern CR, and continued with the robbery on my birthday in San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua. Now I´m back in touristed-out Costa Rica and can´t help but feel that the best is definitely over. Costa Rica is full of lame spring-break like travelers looking to book tours and overpay for mediocre experiences like canopy tours, sub-par beaches, and tame volcanoes.

So I am begining to realize that Costa Rica was certainly the wrong place to start and end this trip, but it was so much cheaper to fly in here compared to any other Central American city. One thing CR does remedy is that feeling that you don´t want your trip to be over, since I am somewhat looking forward to leaving the 51st State of behind.

Another good thing about Costa Rica being lame is that now I´m looking to the future as I hadn´t during the rest of my trip. I haven´t thought too much about Morocco, or the next two years. Now, looking forward, I am STOKED about all of the change and adventure I have ahead. The action-packed nature of the next few weeks really excites me.

I am working on getting my photos online, it seems like the only option is to wait for the States to get them on, bandwidth here is proving to be a problem.

The last few months of my life have been relatively fast-moving. Alot of things have changed and changed quickly, from graduating to moving away from Washington, to starting a new chapter in life, it has all been very sudden. This all changed when I got to Nicaragua.

Many times I find myself rushing through countries, trying to see as much of it as I can and stretching myself thin. On this trip I planned on going to El Salvador and maybe Honduras for awhile, but instead I have just been slowly drifting around Nicaragua. It has been quite pleasant.

I find that this trip has been different than my two previous visits to Latin America, chiefly because of two things:

One, I speak alot more Spanish than I did the first two times I came, and

two, I have been staying for a long time in every place I go. Language and time has opened up so many doors.

I thought I had essentially done it all in Latin America, I felt like a veteran. Now I am realizing how much I missed out on the first two times. Everyday I am getting invited into houses and for meals, getting a tour from a local guy who is eager to show me his country, or finding little barrios and pueblos around the city which I would previously avoid.

I spent 6 days in Esteli, Nicaragua and the day that I left, on my way to the bus station I was waved to, smiled at, invited for coffee, food, etc, countless times. Time and language has let me begin to know Nicaragua and Nica people, rather than just visit. I cannot believe how much I learn everyday about life, history, culture, food, attitude, politics, and all the rest with the help of just a few friendly local people.

I have always believed that travel is the best way to spend your time and money, and everyday I spend in Nicaragua gives me more reasons to think that way.

It is simply wonderful.

Nicaragua is fascinating in as many ways as you wish. I credit myself with describing Nica land as the Wonderfully Destinationless Destination. It is desperately poor and inconvenient and dirty and dangerous. At the same time it hides the last of CA`s treasures.

As the cheapest place in the hemisphere, Nicaragua had a jumpstart on the race for my heart. But just being cheap and dirty doesnt make you cool. Nicaragua knows that.

Costa Rica tries to keep it real, but Nicaragua will always be more real. Costa Rica is as expensive as the States, with only the advantage of cheap accomodation and short distance in between medicocre destinations. Nica doesn´t care about the tourist. And that´s whats cool.

The biggest and best waves in CA, the most undistrubed cloud forests, the best food, the most refined accomodation for below 7USD, the smallest distances with the biggest differences, etc.

Gallo Pinto belongs in Nicaragua, and so does my heart.

I wouldn´t say that I´m a DIY kind of guy, but when you´re traveling in the developing world (or the 2nd poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere in this case), you have to be prepared to make some lifestyle sacrifices. These include everyday things like relying on nutrition to warm you in cold showers, ensuring food safety, helping human waste get where it needs to, assembling a large enough constituency to lobby for the bus to leave today and not tomorrow, etc.. I accept these responsibilities and sacrifices happily, as I know the tremendous inconveniences and sacrifices involved in third-world travel always pay off in big ways.

I have been taking Spanish classes in a little town called San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua before I set off to travel the rest of the country until the end of February. San Juan del Sur is a booming town that is beginning to feel the perks of foreign investment and tourism. It´s a wonderful place blessed with spectacular beauty, surfing, and some of the kindest people in Latin America. Nonetheless, SJDS is poor. Nicaragua´s economy has never recovered from the decades of civil war that left infrastructure and the hallmarks of a developed society bankrupted and in ruins. Recently, Nicaragua´s economy has slipped off after a period of modest growth, and most economic indicators put Nicaragua as the second-poorest in the Hemisphere, and slipping closer to Haiti.

Desperate poverty+vulnerable tourists=crime. Usually petty theft, it happens all over the world. A few days ago, one of the predictions I had written in my journal about this trip came true. I wrote on one of the first pages;

"My string of unbelievably good luck will end on this trip."

I was right.

On the 15th of January (the day after my birthday) I got out of Spanish class at 1230pm. I had some things to study so I went to the beach to do so. After awhile I decided to take a walk to the point on the north side of the beach, about a 2km trek. The beach ends about 1.5km into the walk and it turns to rock, which you have to navigate with care.

I rounded a smaller point and saw a local guy walking towards me quickly. I immediately had a bad feeling about him. He greeted me loudly and approached me, exptending his hand. I tried to keep my distance but it was too late. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife. That didn´t surprise me. What surprised me was that he actually knew the English word for money. I didn´t have much so I cooperated, as it is never intelligent to fight off muggers. He took my 250 cordobas (about 21 bucks) and my 40USD watch. When he realized that was all he was going to get he reached for my bag and ripped it off me holding the knife against my chest so I didn´t resist. That didn´t bother me. Its just stuff, and I can replace it. Totally not worth risking my life for replaceable objects.

It all happened pretty fast, and I was very cooperative, but about 30 seconds after he ran away from me with my Spanish books, back pack, some money, and my watch, I was totally filled to the eyeballs with a desire for revenge. The complacent robbery victim that I had been in front of the knife was replaced by a pissed-off vigilante when the weapon disappeared. Therefore I did what any logical person who just got robbed at knifepoint would do. I gave chase.

The assailant scrambled up a path of jagged rock that makes up the 200m tall point, and was met by a group of municipal workers who saw a nervous and sprinting Nicaraguan with a fistful of money and a nice backpack and put 2 and 2 together. They were able to rip the bag from the guy but not apprehend him. My bag was splayed out and emptied on the ground about 100m away from me, and I saw the robber run from the municipal workers. I trusted the workers so I left my bag with them and continued to chase the robber. He scrambled impressively down a part the steep shale face and made his way around the point, he was much faster running on the rocks than I. Watching all this were two Americans--Greg and Samantha--who got their shirt and book stolen from them. We decided it was time to let it go and started walking back south to get to town and safety.

During the walk we recounted our stories to each other, all agreeing that it was totally unreasonable to try to chase this guy, and not worth it to re-enter into close proximity with him. I believed this too, and we made it about halfway down the beach when Greg turned and saw someone coming around the point, about .75km away. The good sense and reason I had in me 10 seconds earlier was again replaced by a thirst for justice and revenge. I started back up the beack to meet the assailant.

When I started to get close to him he figured out who I was and started running. I picked up some rocks and ran after him, gaining quickly. I got slose enough to launch one of the rocks and it just missed. the next two connected solidly on his upper and lower back. He ran off the beach and into the sketchy neighboorhoods on the north side of SJDS. He obviously knew this area better than I and was able to evade me again.

Dejected, I turned from physically chasing him to assembling a neighborhood coalition. Like I said before, Nicaraguans are f-ing cool and very warm. They genuinely dislike crime done to foreigners who come to contribute to the local economy and hang out with them. The people in the neighborhood react in an amazing way to my efforts. For some reason the adrenaline running through me assisted me in retreiving words from my mental Spanish bank that made the coalition-building process run quickly. At one point I told a crew of construction workers about a robber loose in the neighborhood. One of the men had a trowel in his hand, and upon hearing LADRON (robber) he dropped the tool into the concrete he was smoothing over and sprung into an aggresive vigilante position, ready to take action in my cause. It was quite possibly the coolest exchange I have ever had with another human being.

My coalition of local children, construction workers, and a group of men in a beat-up yellow four-door Toyota was swarming the area, and I returned, shank of metal in-hand, to secure the beach perimeter.

After about a half-hour of patrol, I was starting to give up. My breathing slowed, and I began to resign myself to the reality that the asshole got away. Just at that moment, I heard a roar from behind me. When I turned I saw the Yellow Toyota bombing through the river that flows through the beach from SJDS and coming right towards me at, what I would say, was about 50MPH. I was frightened but curious. When the car slid to a stop next to me, the door was flung open and the men inside were screaming unintelligibly. I jumped in, metal shank in hand, no shoes, no shirt, and we sped off with one of my legs still out the door. We hydroplaned over the river and I was desperately trying to get information about what the F was going on. I didn´t know whether these guys were with me or against me, and they were so charged up I couldn´t understand their Spanish.

We came to a screaching stop in the middle of an indescript neighborhood and piled out of the car, all toting various weapons.

There, standing in a pile of acrid waste and metal, was my assailant. Sweaty, head down, in handcuffs.

(Internet is expensive and I have to go meet some friends so I will finish this story, which gets better when we start dealing with the Nicaraguan police, at a later time.) Check back later and watch your stuff.

I always spend some time writing in my (paper) journal on New Year's Eve. Usually the entries I write are dominated with reflections on the year's events, highlights and lowlights. This year I found myself comparing 2007 to the previous two years, because the '05 and '06 New Year's Eve entries were so f-ing awesome, and included extremely exciting highlights.

'05 was the year I decided I would leave Vermont and leave school for awhile. That year ended up changing my life. I started the year in the Pacific Northwest, with New Year's day in Olympic national park with three of my better friends. We spent the next two weeks between Washington and Whistler, BC mountaineering and deep-powder snowboarding. I came back to school 4 days late and stayed only 3 days

Within a week of arriving in Vermont I was set on leaving. A cocktail of good reasons to leave convinced me that my time would be better spent anyplace but the present. I figured, since the semester had started and it was too late to transfer universities, that spending the next few months following a compass was better than being without cause or direction. I packed my stuff, headed back to NH, and was on a plane to Lima, Peru within the month.

Latin America is, as far as I'm concerned, an essential hemispheric experience. I can't believe more Americans don't spend the 500USD to get down to Peru, Bolivia, or Ecuador. If some "adventurous souls" do go, some tips; don't make the same mistake I made; flying back.

On my first trip to South America, I snapped these pictures:

Looking back, and equipped with comparative perspective, I can say that journey was not--in the scheme of things--that remarkable. But to me it was. It was an epic. I lived day to day, today. I learned how big the small slice of South America I experienced was. In turn, I learned how incomprehensibly large the world was. I learned alot about my potential as well: that I am not a boring, regular guy, I'm something different.

When I came back to the US a few months later, I had acquired a fatal virus that I never shook; the travel bug.

I re-entered school in the Fall of 2005 in Washington, DC. I fell in love with politics and world affairs again, and spent all of my time interning and partying with an intense group of individuals who remain in Washington, and nameless (to protect identity). It was sick.

At the end of my semester I had to return to Latin America. I flew to Guatemala and wrote my New Year's Eve '05 entry from Antigua with volcanoes puffing smoke in the background. I shot this pic;

'06 had alot to live up to. It delivered. Spring break road trip from the Grand Canyon to LA with hometown people was unbelievably fun. When my semester and new internship was over, I was on a plane to the Middle East, where I got the chance to travel the Holy Land.

After that I spent a month in NH surfing a summer of great waves and at the end of July I was on a plane bound for Japan and China. I spent a month in the Philippines and Malaysia where I fell in love with Island Asia. I started my semester in Hong Kong and took weekend trips into southern China. I fell in love with city Asia, especially the "fragrant harbour" of Hong Kong.

I made another trip to the Philippines, which is quite possibly the most delightful country on Earth to travel through, and the end of my semester I spent 5 weeks fulfilling a mini-fantasy I have had for a few years: traveling overland from Singapore to Hong Kong. The route took me through Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam and southern China.

I wrote my New Year's Eve entry at Hoang Hiem Lake in central Hanoi where I snapped these pictures:

The physical beauty of the trek was rivaled only by the overwhelming variety in culture, food, economy, and religion I encountered. I got back to Hong Kong with a huge smile, and I felt like I was coming home. I left Hong Kong the day before my birthday, and got back to Washington-through NH-on the second day of classes at AU. I hadn't showered at my class on Latin America. 2007 was off to a good start.

Little did I know my travels would be limited in 2007. Except for travel around the eastern seaboard for work, and a jaunt to Canada over Thanksgiving, I would spend about 10 months out of 2007 within the Washington, DC city limits. I bought a motorcycle so that I could escape to the Shenandoah mountains and take nighttime drives when I didn't have anything to do, but it did little to satisfy my need for adventure and activity.

I graduated from American U and returned to New Hampshire. Now I have solidified my plans to be out of the country for the next 2 and 1/2 years. Big commitment. Luckily the first two months of that I will be in Latin America again. I will be able to do some of my favorite activities; climb active volcanoes, surf warm water, and live and learn about life in a foreign country.

2007 may not have been the most exciting year ever, but alot of good things happened. I'm a college graduate! I'm in the Peace Corps! Most importantly, I'm happy!

2008 has alot to live up to, but it has potential to blow 2005, 6, and 7 out of the water.

Today I met with my favorite Professor, a guy who I am endlessly impressed with. We were meeting to discuss the final draft of my independent study on Venezuela's economy. I felt really lucky to have him agree to advise me on the independent study, it is extra work for him and Professors have no obligation to do so. I got him to agree to it by putting a really good sales pitch together and convincing him that I would shoot for publishable quality of research and composition.

I started running through some really specific details about supply-side volatility for Orinoco belt oil extraction--something I just assumed he knew about. He stopped me and asked what the hell I was talking about, where it fit into my research, etc. I thought he was criticizing me about going off on a tangent but he was actually testing my knowledge of this very obscure subject. He let me elaborate on the issues surrounding Venezuela's foreign investment shortage and how that was effecting production and capacity maintenance and some other stuff that I think I am the only person on earth who enjoys thinking about. He then told me he was really impressed with the level of understanding I had about the vagaries of my study. We started talking about the possibility that my research was good enough to "keep working on" which he explained meant spending a few more months on, possibly in Venezuela. I then mentioned that I was going to be in Central America next month (in the neighborhood) and said I might be able to get over there for a few weeks. He said some stuff about friends of his in Caracas, something about a university, and that he was going to email me. He seemed really excited. He is never excited.

Long story short I might get to perfect my research in Venezuela. I thought that was good news.

I went into the library and back to work on random details in the research. I realized that I was tremendously happy to have gotten positive feedback on this work, and that I had an awesome time doing even the most mundane research on the topic.

Obviously I'm not going to have time to spend more than about a month on any more work, but it would be really interesting to be developing what I already have into something more significant and maybe getting published down the line. I think I have found the perfect thing to work on during this upcoming trip. This is positive.

One of the things I am really good at is recognizing when I need to begin saying goodbye to a place. Being a professional leaver of places and things, I have learned how to get my fill of a place before I leave it, so that I don't miss it too much. Leaving Washington may be a little different because out of all the places at which I have been relatively sedentary, (except for NH) I have been here the longest.

I have found myself taking the ridiculously long way to and from school, walking through the opulent neighborhoods of AU park and enjoying seeing the Diplomat plates, the Metrobus, little things. Also, the leaves this fall have been especially crispy and took longer to fall of the tree. I think everybody likes leaves.

I am really thankful that I am not graduating with everyone else because I couldn't put up with all of the "Last Time" this and "Last Night" here, etc usually associated with collective human dispersal. I feel like everything is normal. There is no finality in me leaving, which is cool, but I am stoked to leave.

I got most of my finals completed early so I have been torturing myself by watching the Surf Cinema specials on Fuel TV. I saw one about Siargao in the Philippines and it injected me with an unbearable sense of urgency to get out in the surf in an exotic locale again. I remember Siargao was the first time I actually got held against a reef for any significant period of time. The terror of the moment has morphed in my memory, now I look back at that day as one of extraordinary adventure. I spoke with a guy last night that had done some surfing in southern Nicaragua (where I'm going in January) and he told of burly barrels, warm water and uncrowded, friendly line-ups. My only problem is that when I was home for Thanksgiving and surfed the cold swell that came in that week I realized that my 19-credit workload and PC application process schedule has taken alot of time away from staying in shape. I hope I can keep up in the warm water.

The Peace Corps, in one of the many ways they test the commitment of future volunteers, ask that you submit a statement of specific strategies and goals for your work in the assigned country. This is the shortened versions of my "Aspiration Statement".

In the months leading up to when I began the application process for the Peace Corps, I had been traveling through southeast Asia. I was doing what I usually do when I travel; writing about my experiences and political, historical, and physical landscapes through which I passed. In the past 4 years, I have been lucky enough to put enough into my savings to satiate my budget-travel addiction and also complete a major stage of my education. Increasingly, I was getting extremely frustrated with the impermanence of my visits, and the reality that I was able only to stay long enough to observe the some of the varied problems of developing nations, but never fully digest their causes, or identify ways I could employ my skills toward ameliorating them. My trips were of average length—usually between one and two months—long enough to gain a sense of perspective when returning to the United States. I would return to Washington, my university studies, and work with a loose sense of purpose; I knew there was a lot I wanted to accomplish and that, for the most part, I needed to study hard, be active, and get my hands dirty in the professional world in order to begin. When I started applying for what most people would call “real jobs” during my senior year, I encountered very positive returns. It was satisfying to know that my resume was marketable and even attractive in Washington. Running parallel to my job search was a methodical execution of the steps in the Peace Corps application and clearance processes. I would schedule appointments, send in forms, research possible assignments and read volunteer stories with regularity, almost as if it were a function of some involuntary organ. In August of 2007, I spoke with my medical clearance officer and he mentioned that the program I had been nominated for was filling up fast, and I was yet to receive my medical clearance. I remember a feeling of panic, like I was missing out on something important, something I would regret not being a part of. I remember that weekend I didn’t answer my cell phone, I carved out a cave in the basement of American University’s library and evaluated my prospects—professional, academic, personal—for post-graduation. I also took a look at my goals, who I wanted to be by the time I was 25, 30, 50, and what else I could do for two years. I made countless hilarious diagrams and lists, like my father the engineer used to do when tackling a major task. The most significant realization I came to during this ridiculous exercise was that I was happy in my life and very proud of some of the things I have done. Also, those things that contributed most to my happiness, and of which I was most proud, were congruent with two of the goals originally laid out in the Peace Corps Act. I always have derived great joy from learning about things very different from what I am used to, things which defy my American conventions. I also have felt very good about representing my country in foreign countries, even though my presence is mostly insignificant and passing. In this small way, I have been a cultural ambassador by trying to tell people of the great place I come from and asking about this wonderful place they are from. Asking questions and answering them, extending a smile and receiving an invitation for tea, identifying the ways I am so profoundly different from the very poor local guy I am surfing next to, but appreciating more how amazing a surfer he is, and connecting with him. Still, most of my travels have done little to improve the lot of the people I met. Though I am a firm believer in supporting local tourism economies, money is all I contributed. I believe my knowledge, skills, and abilities can do much more for underserved people if given an appropriate venue. I am confident the Peace Corps is the appropriate venue, and that I want to work toward the three goals.My expectations for the Peace Corps are probably similar to many; presumptive and inaccurate. What I do expect from the Peace Corps experience is that it is not going to be a vacation, which is what my previous travels have essentially been. I expect to find true what I have been told by many volunteers, that I will find patience and understanding much more valuable than fervor for accomplishment and progress. When I think about my approach to my assigned project, I envision spending a lot of time building relationships and credibility among my community. I think (I’m not sure) that Moroccan workplace culture will depend much more on hierarchical respect and proper conduct then American-style competition and under-dogging. I have heard that those who depend greatly on athletic outlets for entertainment find parts of daily life difficult, so I expect to try to find the best way to get around that to make myself happy. Also, I expect to find whatever athletic outlet I discover will allow me to open more doors to my community. I once heard of a volunteer who was able to develop a baseball program in Moldova, I thought that was amazing, I hope to be able to accomplish something like that within cultural bounds and norms. While living in Hong Kong, I found the best strategy for adapting to new cultures is to dive in. By doing this, you are able to quickly identify things that may bother you about the culture, and develop ways to make sure it doesn’t poison your experience. For example, in China the approach to table manners is very different. I was raised to attach great importance to table conduct, and I found it very bothersome at first. I made sure that I explored the reasons why people ate, well, differently, and I found that even some of the most disgusting noises can many times be construed as respectful in Chinese culture. This was something I would remember everytime I would begin to be bothered, and I learned to accept and even kind of enjoy these practices. My personal goals for Peace Corps are many, but the biggest goals for me concern my ability to persevere and find ways to keep myself happy. I sincerely hope there are fun, outdoor-oriented things to do at my site, but I realize there may not be. I hope that I leave my Peace Corps service with a high tolerance for slow pace.My professional goals center around my ability to identify goals and find the most effective methods to achieving them. I hope to develop best-practice models that will translate for community members in dealing with problems in the future. Also, I hope I find ways to make my services most useful. I hope I am able to find side projects that will boost my status in the community. I have a few ideas for this, but I fully realize that I will not be able to identify an appropriate project until I am very familiar with the realities and sensitivities of my site, its people, its culture, and its resources.

I've started a blog at the request of friends and family because of my inability to remember to whom I have promised to maintain communications. If you know me, you know emails and phone calls ebb and flow; partly a function of my tendency to move quickly from place to place.