Where to begin, where to begin? Currently, I find myself in the sun room of a country house in southwest France. A fire crackles nearby, a broken grandfather clock looms silently over my shoulder, and light streams in during breaks in the rain. Two Herculean dogs patrol the yard, over which a blanket of fallen maple leaves has covered. The forest beyond is all shades of autumn. Everything is

The last five days were spent running around town with my replacement. Yassin, as we will call him for now until he chooses to reveal himself, is now acquainted with his host family (the same one I had), has his future lodgings secured for life after homestay (my house), has met his new sitemate (Donniell) his counterpart and "the guys", has a P.O. box and has seen a good amount of the town.

In joining Peace Corps, initially I had minimal intent toward bettering the world. A bit embarrassing to admit, but it's the truth. Rather, I needed to escape from a personal rut and the bounds of my comfort zone, and viewed the "world peace" and "international development" aspects as attractive side effects. If I could contribute to those, great-- but I needed to do something for myself first.

Eighteen days. In eighteen days I'll be signing my name in a book at the Peace Corps offices in Rabat, then I won't be in Peace Corps anymore... two years, three months and a few tajines later. At this moment, things are quiet. The boxes have been shipped home, the gifts bought, final reports submitted, and everything is ready to be left behind or packed into suitcases, all of it resting in neat

Medical? Check.Dental? Check.Mostly pointless conference sessions? Check.Seeing my fantastic staajmates? Double check.Lasagna at La Mamma and five meals of falafel over the course of a seven-day period? Oh yeah.Done. Onward... Chefchaouen: A town of somewhat mythical status, the place up north I'd just never had a good opportunity to visit. In fact, I had already come to acceptance with the

In just another day here I'll be making my way up to Rabat for COS Conference. We'll have dental and physical checkups, an exit interview with the Country Director, and a couple days of conferences relating to the transition to life following Peace Corps. Just imagine: as you go about your week, there will be approximately fifty Americans running around the Moroccan capital, home to the King and

On my way back to site from a day trip into the city on September 9th, I heard whisperings of the next day being l3id sghir, the holiday celebrating the end of Ramadan. Sure enough, the following morning white djellaba'd men filled the streets, calls echoed from the mosques, and I found myself at a neighbor's house, wide-eyed and buzzing as glass after glass of tooth dissolvingly sweet tea

I've remarked to several people, perhaps much to their concern, that I've been feeling as though I'm the subject of an isolation experiment, left to my own devices in a confined space day after day for observation. Look, look, he's at the computer again. Fascinating. Now he's walking to the other side of the room. Yes, write it down. Write it all down... As the furnace rages on outdoors, I

During a recent Skype call with my former sitemate, while reminiscing upon her final months of Peace Corps service last year, she uttered a phrase that seemed wildly apt to describe my status quo: checked out. It had not occurred to me to label my current mentality as such, though once she said it, it rang clear and true-- I am totally checking out. Though I haven't dropped my key off at the

I spent the night before the fast began on a train traveling most of the way across the country. I was awoken at 3:30 AM by the sound of crinkling plastic wrappers and backpacks unzipping as my Moroccan compartment-mates had suhoor, the pre-dawn meal. I took the opportunity to ingest the apple, banana, and Snickers bar I had brought along, as well as take a final swig from my water bottle.

One of the rules of Peace Corps states that Volunteers cannot take a leave of absence during the first or final three months of service. Seeing as my COS date is just over three months away, it's time to cash in the last of my vacation days and be whisked away via twelve hour train ride toooooo: Ras El Ma, or Cap de l'eau, if you'd prefer. Ras El Ma, a small beach town on the Mediterranean coast

Late July: The pace of things has slowed to a near-stop. The days are long, dragging, and largely unremarkable. The unreality of Groundhog's Day syndrome is setting in as the cycles and repetition of each day blur together. I do my best to keep occupied with interesting things-- reading, playing guitar, the internet, exercise, cooking meals, and napping, though these activities still don't seem

Recently designed to promote the artisans. This is the kind of magic you can conjure up in Microsoft Word, people. Insert Text Box, eh? I think I will. cover/back: inside: Also, I am pleased to report that the second group of participants in our humble endeavor had a swell time. Let's keep 'em coming.

The first torturous night of summer last night. Without electricity (due to some component up on the wires literally exploding) and therefore without use of my fan and insect repellent plug-in, the stage was set-- the air in my bedroom still and heavy, the near-invisible mosquitoes like vampires, thirsty and quivering at the door. I fell asleep easily, but awoke after only an hour or so, my hands

The first participants in the Explore Amizmiz project came to town last week, trying out every available activity: homestay, cooking lesson, couscous co-op, trekking to the mountain villages, and visiting the artisans. Very cool! They found our site via the Wikitravel link, and reported a great experience here. It's exciting to see real results come of our efforts. More people are booked for

I flew from Marrakech to London Gatwick, watching the beige shades of Morocco pass beneath, followed by the Strait of Gibraltar, the snowy mountains of Madrid, France, and finally descending over the verdant fields of England. Upon landing I quickly boarded the wrong train at the airport and shot off in the wrong direction, a discovery I made almost an hour into the journey. Never having been to

Tomorrow I'm off to Marrakech and will fly out the next morning to London. I'll be staying there briefly with a couple of S's friends who have generously offered to put me up for the night and point me in the right direction the following day, as I head across the pond to Chicago. The plan is to meet up with some family during my layover at O'Hare, then it's on to San Francisco! We've got a lot

Marché Maroc Marrakech, one in a series of country-wide, PCV-organized and implemented craft fairs, was held at the Ensemble Artisanal April 14-18. The intent of the fair was to provide an opportunity for artisans working with PCVs across the country to attend a workshop on identifying sales opportunities, customer service, exhibit presentation, and matching products to the market, then put the

We walk the loop around the neighborhood, the three of us, down the main street where people gather in fours and fives beneath the awnings of lighted storefronts and linger in barbershop doorways, sandles shuffling in the grit, their conversation muffled by the chainsaw buzz of motorbikes and a wake of pale exhaust. One, in a black blazer and well-shined shoes that gleam under the streetlamps,

In Peace Corps, it's all about being "in" with the people, by any means necessary. Blending in with the locals. Erasing any last traces of personal identity, for the sake of peace and mutual understanding. For me this often means making sacrifices to personal safety and health, enduring bizarre rituals for the sake of acceptance and the respect of my community. I've done my share of involuntary

I've been working on a committee organizing the Marché Maroc Marrakech, a series of workshops and subsequent craft fair scheduled for mid-April, at which artisans working with PCVs from across the country can come to receive training and immediately put into practice what they've learned. Should be good. Honestly, it's refreshing to take part in a project that involves more immediate, less

Arriving at site in November of 2008 was akin to a Quantum Leap-style immersion-- suddenly appearing in an entirely new context, dropped into a point in history with vague notions of some equally vague purpose that seemed impossibly distant-- that so much adjustment would have to take place simply to get my footing, let alone spearhead some kind of development work. Or at least that's how my

A shepherd grazes his flock amid the overgrowth and graffitied concrete ruins of a decrepit train yard, a vision of post-apocalyptic Casablanca passing through the window's bleary pane. Wild vines crawl across crumbling walls; litter is strewn like wildflowers down the long-abandoned thoroughfares and echoing overpasses. The dark and empty interiors of dingy, whitewashed high rises peer solemnly

Spring is well on its way here! The near-daily rain showers have the almond trees a-blooming and the wheat fields a-growing. Last March and April were quite a sight to behold; lush, vivid green grasses and wildflowers like I'd never seen, a stunningly beautiful landscape bordering on surreal. It's exciting to see it all happening again-- knowing what to expect, recognizing the feel in air. If

I participated in the Marrakech Marathon January 31st, running the half-- 13.1 miles (21k) with three other PVCs and my friend and training partner from Amizmiz, Abderrahim. It all went by in a blur for the most part. It was a beautiful morning-- sunny and cool, perfect running weather. Memorable moments include when our route diverted into an olive grove where people darted off the trek left

Since January 8th I've been training for the Marrakech half marathon (13.1 miles) on the 31st of this month. Due to the close proximity of the race, the trick has been to increase mental and physical endurance to an adequate level within the time frame without injuring myself. So far, so good. Occasionally I am accompanied by my friend Abderrahim, heading out on the long, flat road west of town

Stephanie came out to spend Christmas and New Year's with me-- her third trip to Amizmiz, the first being when we met last December at Ami's. It was a long-anticipated visit, as I had literally been counting down the days since her departure last May. It was a nail-biting experience for the both of us as she waited to take her plane from London into Marrakech. Due to snow and bad weather, her

I spent the first third of this month in Rabat, first to attend a craft fair I was co-coordinating, followed by dental and medical checkups as well as a few meetings with Peace Corps staff. Not really too much exciting to report, I'm afraid. The craft fair was held in the gymnasium of the Rabat American School, which is a surreal little bubble of high school Americana, like someone air-lifted

Before getting to the gore, I'd like to briefly recount this past Thursday's Thanksgiving extravaganza, hosted and attended by myself and my fantastic sitemate. Donniell arrived in the early afternoon, dead-but-still-warm chicken in tow, and wasted no time preparing the feast. Deftly concocting a homemade stuffing, she proceeded to fill the bird's recently vacated cavity and lavished its

Here's a basic framework for the system I'd like to implement:Concept:Visiting tourists participate in a variety of cultural activities utilizing local resources. All aspects of coordination and execution will be carried out and sustained by locals.Goals:Boost economic opportunity for businesses and individuals in the area, offer new avenues of income to explore and develop. Empower local

It's been a whirlwind of a week.Ami, my sitemate extraordinaire and partner in crime here in the High Atlas foothills, screeched off into the sunrise via grand taxi and dust cloud this past Tuesday, having completed her service. Woo hoo!She's really been a big sister to me,-- helping me out, keeping me involved, and checking in on me, especially during those first few painful months of homestay.

I spent the last week of October in a small town near the edge of the Sahara attending a pottery workshop organized by two fellow Volunteers. As the tentative schedule had indicated that we would be learning intricate design and traditional decorative methods, I was initially hesitant to make the trip, thinking that I wouldn't be learning anything applicable to my own group of potters, whose work involves no sort of decoration at all. I quickly reconsidered, however, after considering the potential connections to be made, the opportunity to travel to a new area of the country as well as see some friends, and hey, it just might be fun after all. Having come to a head with my work situation at site and with no clear direction or new ideas to pursue, I bought a bus ticket, and off I went through twisting mountain passes and plateaued Martian expanses to the softly sculpted dunes and wild palmeries of the southeastern country.

The majority of our time was spent at a local pottery cooperative under the guidance of a very talented artisan, practicing a variety of techniques-- from throwing the pottery from raw clay on wooden kick wheels to cleaning and designing our pieces. We did small relief carvings on tiles, henna decorating, cloth bleaching, painting, and glazing. We saw their methods of clay gathering (they dig deep tunnels and mine it from under a dry river bed... I crawled down in one and had a look), preparation, and firing in the kilns. A good week, overall, despite a brief-but-violent mysterious illness during which I could not stand without throwing up, and vivid colors pulsed across my vision. (Perhaps someone slipped some "sahran special" into my tea...) And I'll tell you, it's quite a feeling to stare up at the night sky knowing you're at the edge of an ocean of sand so vast it's near impossible to contemplate.

What I had not initially realized was that our group, a collection of PCVs, was in fact a group of guinea pigs-- a test group for a tourism project being implemented at the local pottery co-op. We were given the opportunity to come learn some new methods of the craft while simultaneously going through the motions of the workshop to help work out the kinks for future groups. It was this realization that sparked an idea-- I should do this in my town.

Working to establish such a system would be a matter of connecting the right elements and people, most of which are already present and available in my area. If anything, I could work to build a framework for these kinds of visits to take place in a self-sustaining manner after my departure-- tours of the pottery production as well as connecting tourists with local hotels, trekking guides, the couscous co-op, and any other points of interest I can think to incorporate wherein the community would benefit. There have already been "guinea pigs" for a test run, too: a group of American college-age students came to town about a month a go with a program called Morocco Exchange, and we did an abbreviated version that went really well. My biggest concern would be to develop the tours in such a way that visitors would truly be beneficial to the potters' business, not invasive or burdensome.

I don't know if I've ever explained this before, but as SBD Volunteers we work with the Moroccan Ministry of Tourism, Artisans, and Social Economy via artisans and entrepreneurs on a grassroots level as part of an initiative to "build capacity through skills training and limited logistical support in areas of product quality and service, business planning and management, organizational development, and individual empowerment/community leadership." In this scenario I would not be working literally side-by-side with the potters, as I have initially tried to do, but would yet be working to boost their economic opportunity as well as that of others. Who knows what kinds of developments, product-wise, business-wise or otherwise, could take place as a result.

Truthfully, it's an idea I am a tad reluctant to mention at such an early stage, but it seems appropriate to record here. The majority of this experience involves figuring things out as I go (or not), as it is still all new to me. I wouldn't want to give the impression that I knew what I was doing.......HAH

English class is back in session, bigger and badder than ever! The number of students has doubled in size this time around, with mostly beginner level kids comprising the new additions. It makes for a rowdy couple of hours, as our humble garage cannot accommodate the enthusiasm in sound or occupancy levels, nor am I able to give equal attention to all students. The presence of the the entire range of language ability makes it near-impossible to teach any one lesson that will engage everyone. Instead I find myself bouncing back and forth, pinball-style, between the narrow row of desks and scattered chairs, responding to constant calls, helping individually with specific homework assignments.

The overwhelming influx of new kids has been tough on the advanced and loyal ones, as the chaotic environment rules out any chance of our good ol' thoughtful discussions. So, we have split up the week, agreeing upon two beginner days and three advanced days. I have a feeling that everyone will continue to show up at once, but we'll see. I need a bouncer.

We've been working on a class website, wherein the students create the content-- short autobiographies, photos from trips, information about our class and our town-- which I revise and build into a simple site. It's not very developed yet at all, but take a look if you're interested: Friends of Amizmiz

Some work-related notes:

In the last several months since IST, I've been trying to make headway on improvement within the local pottery business operations. So as not to repeat a lot of already-written info, check out this post to read about the issues with which we're dealing.

A Moroccan acquaintance of mine who works in small business development locally, and with whom I have met to brainstorm and exchange info, helped me out by looking into how to go about my first project idea-- finding land for the potters to lease from which they can take soil legally. After asking the appropriate authorities, we found that no such land was available. Just recently, however, I discovered that the potters do have a large area of nearby land at their disposal. It is legally theirs to use, which they do, frequently. Some still choose to take dirt from prohibited areas, though not due to a lack of their own land. So that idea is out for now.

At a recent visit to one of the potters, I noticed a large pile of cardboard boxes and scrap paper sitting next to the kiln. I inquired about this, and learned that the potters obtain, for free, these scraps from local businesses in order to burn in their kilns, and that they have ceased using badly polluting materials like rubber tires. This was also news to me. My next project idea had, in fact, been to set up such arrangements with businesses. Another promising idea already implemented. Hm. Perhaps I am to blame for not doing thorough enough initial research, though there was no indication that I hadn't until now...

A long walk and conversation with my friend Hamid was quite enlightening. We had a realistic discussion about just what it is that we could really do here. I commented that I've been placed in this town to help, but it seems as though no one particularly wants or even needs my help. Hamid, being a potter himself, agreed. He didn't know what it was I could do, saying that the potters are generally very happy with their work. They have the materials they need. They have a stable, reliable market in which to sell their craft, from which they are able to provide for their needs. They have the added benefit of actually working from their own homes, near and often with their families.

The one thing they don't do, he said, is work together. I thought that a natural step would be to encourage them to do so, and to organize a location and regular times during which they could convene, making use of their collective skills and knowledge to hone their business practices. Perhaps invite those more skilled in such practices to come and deliver workshops on the subject. But according to Hamid, this has all been tried in the past, even by the previous Volunteer whom I replaced. The potters are competitive and private, preferring to work separately, having little patience for each other and especially for those who want to alter their stable system. Understandable. Hamid says that in addition to Peace Corps, many associations have come to town (one visited just the other week, in fact) with the intent of somehow "improving" the situation here, and that by now the potters are wholly uninterested and have closed themselves off to such talk.

As discouraging as this may sound-- having my little plans crumble and no clear direction ahead, it actually felt quite productive. I have a much better understanding of the potters' point of view, of their methods, and of what has been tried in the past. What does seem clear is that they certainly don't need my help. There are still things to be improved upon, and though I am not at all abandoning or closing myself off to possibilities with them, I have to think that perhaps I should be looking elsewhere. But where? With whom? I'm hoping that some feedback from my program manager and counterpart will offer some insight.

There is still a year to go, but time does fly, especially here where every day is over before I can even put my sandals on, it seems. In the light of these new revelations on my work situation here, I recall that my service does not stand on its own; that it is a step in a cycle of volunteers, and that succeeding in tangible things is not the point of being here. Sure, I tell myself that to fend off envy when others are perhaps putting fresh paint on the walls of their artisana or exporting carpets to far-off lands, and I am stumbling along learning about where dirt comes from. But each person and his or her situation are unique, this is mine, and I'm in the right place. I have no clue what will happen in the next year and probably wouldn't even come close with a guess. There are always things brewing out there that I can't see...

Today is l3id sghir, the holiday marking the completion of Ramadan. Everyone is out and about visiting each other, ingesting enough sweet tea and cookies to onset diabetes in a matter of hours. Thus far I have managed to avoid such nectarous excesses (not the case last year), strolling with my friends Abderrahim and 3ziz through the neighborhood to greet everyone, shaking hands and giving congratulations. I did, however, just return from my saintly neighbor Latifa's house, where she served a lunch consisting of an entire chicken literally covered with french fries. Nap time is imminent.

One year ago today our plane touched down in Casablanca, dropping us off clueless in Morocco. Since then, we have learned many things, and some stuff. Here's to one more year (and two months)! Congrats to my fellow PCVs!

Hello? Could you direct me toward the nearest....Excuse me, sir?....

Several nights ago I sat alone at home while dinner cooked, texting members of my first host family to congratulate them on the start of Ramadan. Outside, the glowing streetlamps illuminated a seemingly abandoned neighborhood-- the normal buzz and rumbling of passing motorbikes and voices was replaced with absolute stillness as people retreated indoors to break the day's fast together.

I thought of last year in Itzer, nine people packed into a tiny room around a table on top of which a feast was presented, all quietly listening for calls of "Allahu Akbar" to echo their way into the house. I recalled the discolored walls, the hiss of a pressure cooker from another room, the incomprehensible activity taking place on the television, the frenzy of hands reaching forward to grab and pluck, the almost unbearably awkward task of eating amongst them, and the dreamlike, removed sensation of really being there, here in Morocco.

As the vegetables sizzled in my kitchen, I felt a twinge of melancholy-- I missed that rush of unpredictable moments, the confused and broken interactions, the chilled air, the smell of burning cedar (a scent that will likely forever take me back to that time), that grand, invigorating newness of it all that has somehow, bit by bit, been replaced by normalcy. I have privacy, independence, and all the time to myself I could desire-- the things I initially craved so much. People in the street often ask me, "Are you used to it here yet?" and it's strange now to answer with an honest "yes".

---------------------

There is something compelling in witnessing the communal suffering of Ramadan. It's seeing first-hand the devotion and certainty in a people's relationship to their faith. I pass by workers mixing cement by hand and making bricks under the heat of the day, and I know that the thirst they must be feeling won't be relieved for hours to come, nor will the work. The persistent ache of hunger that I've only felt briefly and on rare occasions will be present with them for the next thirty days. The same for my good friends who take walks and muse cheerfully to pass the long daylight hours, and for the women, perhaps the toughest of them all. I hear no complaints, and those with whom I discuss Ramadan speak of it with reverence and gratitude. I stop briefly to chat with my vegetable man: "Are you hungry?" I ask, jokingly. "Hamdullah," he smiles-- "Thank God."

Summer crawls on here in this sleepy corner of the world. Though still quite warm, it seems the worst of the heat has abated, cooling my blood from a rolling boil to a light simmer. It's refreshing; I can think and function again. I've even gone back to sleeping inside. I should be better prepared next summer, knowing what to expect and having some coping methods ready, the ones I figured out this year just a little too late.

Ramadan will begin either tomorrow or the next day (August 22 or 23), whenever the first sliver of the moon's crescent becomes visible in the night sky. I'm not sure how the official distinction is made, though I'd like to think that the Islamic world's top astronomers gather each night in an observatory hidden in some high hills, shoving one another out of the way for a turn at the telescope, each eager to spot it first and make the announcement via red telephone set.

Regardless of how that happens, what will follow is a month of abstaining from food, water, impure thoughts and activities, etc. during the daylight hours. Men won't smoke cigarettes and women will not wear makeup. Families will stay up late eating under the cover of night. People may get a tad grumpy.

I arrived during Ramadan last year (September 9th marks the one year anniversary of my first day in country-- holy crap) and I remember seeing the blank faces of men at cafés, sitting empty-handed behind empty tables, wearily passing the days. Though the idea of abstaining to such an extreme measure and then spending what would normally be your sleeping hours eating might not sound so appealing, most people here seem to anticipate it eagerly and with excitement. It's a time to realign oneself with proper attitudes and practices, a time to deepen one's relationship and devotion to God, and a time of charity and forgiveness.

I recall last year, living at my first host family's house in Itzer (Pantsville), waking up early for all-day language classes, hearing my poor host sister in the kitchen, having woken up even earlier to prepare breakfast for me, the heathen. I kid; they were always extremely sweet and respectful toward me in that regard, never pressuring or proselytizing. Though I'm not planning to fast this Ramadan, I'm interested to see how day-to-day life will be affected this time around, living independently in a stable and familiar environment, having adjusted more to the culture. I picture myself cooking meals, shutters closed, duct tape over the cracks in the windows to prevent the escape of any delicious aromas, chewing extra quietly in a makeshift bunker in the darkest corner of my house. Hopefully I can join a few of my friends and their families for some twilight breakfasts, though I think I will be passing on the pre-dawn dinner.

Look-- corn! Just like home.....

At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if someone found me delirious, entangled in sweat-soaked mosquito netting, mumbling incomprehensibly, spinning the blades of my long-since burnt-out box fan with my fingers, lying on the floor of my bedroom surrounded by the bodies of a thousand dead insects.

It's not just that it's hot here-- I am fairly acclimated to blazing summers, having lived in places equally sweltering during this time of year-- it's that the heat is so persistent, so inescapable, that is getting the best of me. There is nowhere to hide from it, and the near-constant exposure, I have noticed, can make one a little bit nuts.

During the afternoon hours the neighborhood simply shuts down. Shop owners lock up and the streets empty; people wait out the day indoors as the sun scorches the air. Indoors one still sweats perpetually and continues to bake, though at least out of direct exposure. In the evenings things come back to life. People pour out into the streets and the neighborhood uncharacteristically becomes a frenzy of activity. Weddings are especially common during the summer months-- outdoor affairs with music, elaborate, colorful clothing, and dancing, open to everyone. They get started after midnight and last until daybreak. I often hear the music and clapping floating through the streets as I lie in bed.

Unfortunately at this point the nights are not long enough to cool down the air. Luckily the fan, despite just pushing around hot air, is enough to allow me to fall asleep. At least it was. First came the nuclear mosquitoes which left long-lasting purple welts. I would awake to myself scratching bites, new and old, throughout the nights. Luckily I was able to fend them off with a little plug-in device that emits some chemical, possibly also giving me a brain tumor. I'm ok with that for now.

After several weeks of insect-free nights my body resumed a non pox-infected appearance and I enjoyed nights of real sleep. The most recent joy, however, is an army of little....I dunno, bugs...that swarm in, attracted to the light and later attack my body in a barrage of tiny bites and crawling around on me. Luckily these don't leave itchy bumps, but they are relentless enough to completely prevent sleep. Slathering myself down with insect repellant (and isn't that something you want to do before getting into bed?) has no effect on them.

The dilemma is-- can't shut the windows due to the heat, but open windows equals bug invasion. I am going to cut one of my mosquito nets into window screening today and see how that works; hopefully it will do the trick because I think my sanity depends on it.

A week ago I was staying at a hotel in Rabat on top floor in a small room at the end of a hallway. No air conditioning of course, and the room was sweltering. Somehow I did fall asleep early in the evening, but awoke later in sauna-like conditions-- thick, heavy air and pouring with sweat. The windows had not stayed open; despite my rigging them with a coat hanger, the heavy wooden shutters slammed closed again and again. I got up, disoriented, and went into the bathroom to down cupped handfuls of water from the faucet. I looked up into the mirror and saw that my face, chest and shoulders were red-splotched and I was feeling chills-- not good. I felt panicky and strange, envisioning myself trapped in this little room as heat exhaustion overtook me. I splashed water on myself, then tore the bedsheet from the mattress and soaked it in the sink. I laid in bed on top of the cold, wet sheet and tried to sleep. It was a long, torturous night. The following day I took a stifling five and a half hour train ride home, which I would rank as one of the most miserable experiences of my life.

I don't mean to complain, really, but due to the oppressive heat things have become stagnant. No work, no classes, almost impossible to stay outside. Irritability and impatience develop easily and quickly, and the repetitiveness and similarity of each passing day coupled with a lack of restful sleep can put you in an odd state of mind. I don't think I've ever thought this before in my life, but I am ready for summer to end.

Jbel Toubkal, at 4,167 meters (13,671 ft), is the highest mountain in Morocco and all of North Africa. It's located about an hour southeast of my town as the crow flies, in Toubkal National Park.

I hiked with five others-- two fellow PCVs and three guys visiting from the States. The way it works is on Day One, you hike from Imlil, the nearest town, through the mountain valleys to the "refuge", a lodge situated at the base of Toubkal, and spend the night. On Day Two, you wake up early, hike to the summit, descend, and then head all the way back to Imlil. In theory it sounds like a bit much, and the idea of actually carrying out such a plan was more that a little daunting on the punishing, five hour uphill trek to the refuge. The tops of the mountains looked pretty far away, at least to my Illinois eyes.

As we arrived at the refuge late in the afternoon, the weather changed dramatically. A fog descended the surrounding peaks into the valley, and we opted for fleeces and stocking caps instead of the t-shirts and shorts we'd been wearing all day. A hailstorm unleashed itself, and within an hour the summery green expanses were whitened and frigid.

The refuge was much fancier than I had expected; it was a bona fide "lodge", complete with a Great Room, fireplace, hot showers, many bunk bed-filled chambers, and a staffed kitchen, running on solar power. There are no roads leading to it. I would love to know how they built it in such a remote area. I picture donkeys loaded down with porcelain toilets and light fixtures, which is probably not far from the truth.

We had some dinner and relaxed amid tables of people from all over the place, as many different languages chattered around us. Despite the exhaustion, I had a difficult time sleeping that night, partially due to a fishy-smelling pillow.

We awoke at 4 a.m. and ate a light breakfast by flashlight as everyone else slept. After waiting until the sun showed the tiniest hint of rising, turning the sky from black to deep purple, we headed out into the chilly morning air. Not knowing the route up to the summit and without any knowledgeable guide present, our group hit a few false starts and dead ends before spotting the glow of several headlamps bobbing along single-file in the distance. We followed them, and the rising sun slowly turned the snow-streaked mountainsides orange.

It was probably a three hour hike to the top, climbing steeply over rocky areas and icy slopes, slick from the previous night's storm. A bit treacherous, as we were not equipped with and special "gear", but nothing I was ever too worried about. At one point you hit a ridge over which everything on the other side is visible-- incredibly beautiful.

The last leg is a hike up the snowy ridge to the summit, marked by a strange metal teepee. I made it up first and indulged in a celebratory can of tuna (could this somehow be connected with an explanation for the pillow?), took some photos and sat to take in the view.

:)

Alright, let's get to work.

*dusts off hands*

The Regrega Potters

Approximately fifty-six potters work in my neighborhood and the surrounding douars (small villages) on the mountainside, working individually or with the help of one or two others in special areas in or near their homes. They collect soil from areas outside the neighborhood, preparing it by sifting, water addition, and kneading. The clay is "thrown" using kick wheels (think pottery wheel, but without electricity to make it spin) placed underground-- the potter sits at ground level-- using his hands as well as homemade tools. Kilns built of mud and stone are fired once a week, burning wood, sawdust, miscellaneous trash, plastic, and rubber tires in order to sustain the heat needed to bake the clay.

(sidenote: the potters are extremely camera shy, at least with me, so some of these are eh, "stock" photos)

The potters work best in warm months, as clay is difficult to handle and mold in cold weather. Warm sunlight is also necessary to dry the clay to an appropriate pre-fired state.

They create simple, minimally decorated tajines of varying sizes as well as water jugs. Each potter produces 100-300 products per week, depending on skill level and quality of raw materials and tools. Once a week a truck from Marrakech comes to buy the week's work in bulk to be sold in the city and elsewhere. Prices ranges from 2-10 Dirhams per item, depending on quality and size.

Issues

Though skillful at their craft, the potters struggle to eke out a living. Due to a limited marked, the artisans are at the mercy of the middlemen (those who come each week to buy), as they have no other outlets for sale and are obligated to accept whatever prices are offered. Their foremost concerns are for the well-being of their families, which results in an understandable reluctance to change and alter business practices that aren't working for them, risking losing the small profit they currently make.

A scarcity of available land threatens the potters' work, as they currently have to take soil from protected areas or from the property of others, both of which are problematic. The soil is apparently of a low grade, and poor quality soil produces poor quality products of a low value.

Efficient, less-polluting kilns are needed. With the number of potters working in the area all firing their kilns on the same day each week, the neighborhood is thick with smoke, much to the disapproval of residents. Much of the harsh materials burned on these occasions is absorbed by the clay which is detectable when the products are put to everyday use. Food cooked in the tajines may taste of burnt rubber, as might water held in the clay jugs.

Better business practices would be helpful, as the potters do not collaborate, do cost analyses, research alternative markets, or explore the "modifiable elements"-- what else can be done with what is currently available in terms of product design and variation. A local association of handicraft exists, and though the potters are encompassed by its breadth, they do not participate or make use of its framework (perhaps for good reason; there is a lot I have yet to understand).

Project Ideas

• Facilitate Grant Research and Writing for Improvement of Kilns: approach the Ministry of Environment and/or other agencies for funding in order to improve/update/replace the current kilns. My job would not be to do this explicitly, but to show my counterpart how to go about doing it himself for the sake of skill transfer and sustainability.

• Find Land/Locations for the Acquisition of Raw Materials: facilitate requests to the Department of Forestry for permission to use land in the area.

• Formation of Committees within the Local Association: facilitate the organization and encouragement of groups within the association responsible for business-related issues (cost analysis, market research, raw materials).

These are admittedly pretty lofty and complex projects for someone in my spot, and I don't specifically know how to move forward with them. Simple, small steps is what I'm thinking, staying open to everything. It's all extremely subject to change. In the scope of the remaining 18 months I have left, I hope to make some progress. Peace Corps operates on the goal of a six-year, three-volunteer cycle per site, so though a volunteer might not have established something tangible, some big visible acheivement, the point is to have laid a foundation of empowerment and motivation in those with whom we work.

I'm certainly not always convinced of the Peace Corps Morocco program. There are plenty of flaws, areas for improvement, and questionable effectiveness as far as Goal Number One (aka the "job") goes. However, I'd much rather work to improve it than turn into the dreaded and unfortunately all-too-common jaded and disgruntled Second Year volunteer. And as far as Goals Two and Three (cultural exchange) go, I couldn't be more excited. I think it's beneficial for everyone involved and I am quite proud and lucky to be a part of something like this in the world.

On final note, I can't believe it's halfway through June already. Seems like only yesterday I was shivering under blankets within the icy chambers of my host family's house; now I am sleeping on my roof under a mosquito net...

Come, fulfill your hidden desires with a night of exquisite pleasures under the stars in Morocco, exotic land of mystery and enchantment...

...and I think it's the guy in charge of proofreading this:

I've been a bit neglectful of updates during the past few weeks, as May has been a month of hosting gracious guests from across the ocean here in my quiet mountain town. It's been so good to have them, and I'm immensely grateful for their company and efforts to have made it out here.

The lush green wheat fields of spring (see blog title photo) have since turned to gold and been harvested; the cool breeze has stilled and the dry, dusty heat of summer has begun its slow, suffocating descent. I fall sleep with my windows open while I still can. Supposedly it's going to get pretty brutal (see future July and August entries for complaints on the heat), but at present, it is balmy and beautiful. The mountain snow is melting.

Teaching has been going well, as the "kids" continue to humble me with their intelligence, curiosity and self-motivation. My half-prepared grammar lessons and verb lists luckily fall by the wayside as class perpetuates itself on their questions alone, and thankfully we often veer off onto tangents of philosophy, science, existentialism, and other topics on which I am perhaps ill-suited to lead discussion, but am usually delighted to explore. The art of being a good teacher is something I've come to appreciate as a delicate thing requiring a great deal of attentiveness and wisdom, both of which I can only hope to be gaining ever so slowly as I stumble through class each night. Self-deprecation aside, I actually do pretty well-- I think.

On an actual Peace Corps work-related note, things are beginning to unfold as to how I may contribute to the small business world here. Due to some recent investigatory measures and the pressure of a fast-approaching presentation I have to give on the topic, I am gaining some considerable understanding of the artisan sector here, specifically the potters. I've got some ideas brewing as to how I may actively begin to benefit GOAL NUMBER ONE!!!, the specifics of which I'll hold off on mentioning just yet. It's exciting, to say the least.

ps-- to my loving family: if you truly care for me you will not send me any more jars of delicious extra crunchy peanut butter

Step 1:

Pick one of these yellow flowers, leaving plenty of stem length. If you live near me, you should have no trouble finding one, as millions of them populate the landscape.

Step 2:

Find a scorpion den. They look like this. If you live near me, you should have no trouble finding one, as millions of them populate the landscape.

Step 3:

Insert the flower into the den until you feel it stop. Now gently pull. If you feel a slight resistance, it is likely you have "hooked" the scorpion, and he has pinched onto the flower with his pincers, as demonstrated and obscured by a twig in the out-of-focus photo below:

Step 4:

Pull back very gently so as not to break the stem, much as you would reel in a fish gently so as not to break the line. If all goes well you have removed a freaking scorpion. Cool.

Step 5:

Quickly cover the entrance to the scorpion's den with a rock, as he will surely be eager to return, thus spoiling your enjoyment.

Step 6:

If you are male (and it is quite likely that you are), squat in the dirt with your friends and poke at the scorpion with a stick or your fingers. Watch how uses his tail to inject venom into anything you put in front of him.

Step 7:

Return to Step 1 and repeat.

This scorpion-hunting method is courtesy of my good friend Aziz who, to my utter amazement, has perfected the technique. There was much squatting in the dirt the day he showed me this little trick. Please remember to keep your scorpion tormenting to a minimum.

This past weekend I traveled to Rabat in order to assist in the editing and assembling of PeaceWorks, a quarterly publication of Peace Corps Morocco-related news and volunteer-submitted essays, poetry, artwork, photographs recipes, and miscellaneous other stuff.

During training I was elected as my stage's editor, and last weekend was my first opportunity (of how many, I don't know) to take part in the process at the Peace Corps offices. I had not returned to Rabat since the day they bussed us over from the Casablanca airport. At the time we were like zombies, fatigued and disoriented from the jet lag and overload of new input, so it was nice to revisit the city with a clear head and a bit of perspective.

The actual composition of the issue itself consisted of two days' worth of sitting behind a computer doing basic editing, formatting, and layout of the submissions. It was considerably simpler and more laid-back than I had expected, likely due to the excellent company provided to me by the Volunteers I met over the course of my stay.

A stage of COSing (Completion Of Service-ing) PCVs was in town taking care of medical appointments, so due to that and a country-wide transportation strike, I opted to stay around after having finished work on PeaceWorks.

I've always enjoyed listening to what other PCVs have to say regarding their time spend in country. There are, naturally, a wide variety of experiences, opinions, and attitudes from them, ranging from jaded and disgruntled to bubbly and grateful. Positive or not, hearing of their experience is valuable and often comforting-- knowing that others are or have been in the same boat. Also, lots of juicy gossip and some crazy stories.

Having no further agenda or obligations, I spent time wandering around the city with others, visiting the Tomb of Hassan II, Chellah (a beautiful area of Moroccan and Roman ruins and wild gardens populated by thousands of storks), the Oudaias Kasbah (an ocean-side neighborhood of narrow streets and blue and white painted houses), and the rocky coast. I squinted hard but still could not see America.

Getting out of site can be quite rejuvinating; every now and then a wave of isolation comes by and weirds you out for a little while, and a change in environment and some good company are often the cure. Rabat is a beautiful city; it definitely did me some good.

see some more pics here