This is just one of the many pleasant sound clips from my site mate Lynn. Upon hearing this I didn't even flinch. Instead I started thinking.... how can I get some of that meat!??? I suppose this is just a small example on how my environment has changed the way I think. 10 months ago, this statement would have made a much larger impression on me. "A sheep... they slaughtered it... does that mean they killed it? How did they do it? Wheres the blood? Why?" Now, all of the questions and more have been answered. Additionally, the act of slaughtering an animal seems quite quotidian. I walk through my market everyday with goat head on my left and hanging intestines on my right. The smell always leaves something to be desired, but the sight is merely a part of my everyday happenings. So, for those who ask me about the differences between America and Morocco here is one: you have a much closer relationship with the animals you eat here than the average American.

For the rest of this entry I'd like to talk about the World Cup. As I hope you are aware, the World Cup is currently going on in South Africa. This has probably been one of the best things to happen to me so far in my town. Let me explain why.

The world cup brings people together. More specifically it brings all of the men in my town together for four hours a day at the cafe. Usually, the cafe is full, but nobody seems to go at the same time so it is hard to "run into people". Now, there is a set four hours a day when all of the important, do something, folk in my town are at the cafe. Consequently, it has served as an excellent opportunity for me to hold some business meetings. I get to the cafe a bit early, stake out a prime table. Then when the important community members come in, I invite them to sit down with me. From here we shoot the xra for a while and then I start bouncing some ideas off them. Its great because even if my ideas are horrible, they aren't going to leave because SOCCER IS ON.

This convergence of a few factors has made a huge impact on the productivity of my work. Projects are starting to look like they might happen. An environmental education camp that I am trying to do this summer might actually happen. All of this is a result of the world cup. SI must admit before I came to Morocco I was very much opposed to watching soccer on T.V. But now, I love it. It has helped me network and has given me a perfect space for talking with members of my community. I never thought I would say this before, but can the World Cup please last forever?!

The heat is setting in. Laundry is being done more often. Life is good.

I recently held an english olympic competition for my students. The idea is that each volunteer in this region will hold an olympic competition at their respective dar chebabs in order to choose the top five students who will travel to a nearby city next month. There, the students will compete in a Regional English Olympic Competition. This consists of six teams from the surrounding area testing their english skills with games like pictionary, hangman, definitions, and jeopardy. Here are some photos of my students competing in our local competition. Of course, only girls came. What can I say...

Taking notes while my students take a test... I am definitely going to be a professor one day. That was totally awesome.

The start of the spelling bee. It took a while for me to explain this concept, but once we began the students really enjoyed it.

Hard thinking going on, right now.

More spelling bee action!!!!!

The last one standing. Winner!!

My participants and my mudir. Next stop. Sefrou!

Apparently God only wills photographs to be uploaded in the wee hours of the morning. Here is the Special K morning addition of a photographic journey through morocco.

We begin our journey with the classic shot of a berber woman and a donkey. To be quite honest it took me a while to actually capture this particular shot. I see and hear donkeys all the time, but I rarely carry my camera around with me. I believe the donkey is carrying some fresh spring crops.

The beautiful wild flower fields of my site. There are flowers of all kinds and colors out now. We have your classic whites, sweet yellows, intense purples, warm oranges, and titillating blues.

Moulay Idriss, as viewed from Volubilis. Moulay Idriss is the white town in the background. It is a beautiful village located in the hills outside of Meknes. Part of its charm lies in the fact that it has just recently been opened to non-Muslims. Volubilis, known as Walili in Moroccan Arabic, is a stunning site as well. The ruins here are well preserved and stretch over a large area. Perhaps the most exciting finds for the ancient enthusiast are the numerous mosaics.

The glorious ruins of Volubilis. I had some sweet memories of Greece 2007 when I visited this site. For some reason the song "Yiea Sou Maria" kept repeating in my head.

My fellow adventurers at Volubilis. I can assure you they probably weren't as excited as I was. Granted this might be hard to do.

Chouan. Known for its blue painted houses, it is also a place that up until the 20th century did not know westerners. Unfortunately, now it really only knows tourists. Everywhere you go here you see westerners. However, it is a beautiful little place and offers a nice escape in the mountains. As you wander through the blue-washed narrow streets you feel like you are floating down a river. Much like those turtles I mentioned in an earlier post.

Chouan from above. We took a hike up a gorge and we able to experience a beautiful view of the city. A pearl in the green mountains.

It took a short jump from winter to summer here in Ribat El Kheir. We practically skipped over the entire thing that we call spring in America. Just a couple weeks ago it was cold and now its 95 degrees. However, we did have a little spring. And damn, was it beautiful. Here is my site mate Lynn and our friend in front of a beautiful green field.

Here is a view of my site. Its pretty when everything is green. Unfortunately, its only like this for a couple weeks out of the year.

A waterfall I stumbled upon after a 15 kilometer hike. This was actually my goal for the hike, but upon my return I realized I could have taken a 2 kilometer route... oops.

The river that lead me to the magnificent waterfall mentioned above. This river was awesome. There were turtles in it that we just floating down stream, not a care in the world, surfing it! Sometimes I wish I was a turtle. I guess I forgot my inner tube on this hike. I won't let that happen again.

Hmm. More to come, if God wills.

I have been away this past week, working at an english immersion spring camp down on the coast, just a wee bit south of Casablanca. The experience was amazing and one that I look forward to experiencing again during summer camps. The kids are awesome and it was fascinating to see how they bonded after just one week together. The last day was filled with tears, hugs, and exasperated goodbyes even though they were all returning to houses withing a 15 kilometer radius from one another. Perhaps its my hardened, individualized American exterior, but I was awestruck that kids would show this much emotion after just one week. However, it does highlight the more familial based society here. By the end of the camp everybody thought of our group, quite literally, as one big happy family. America has the Brady Bunch, but that is nothing compared to the familial society here.

As I said, camp was amazing; however, I too felt my pangs of homesickness. About halfway through camp I experienced a huge desire to go back to my town, see my kids, hang out in my coffee shop, and walk around the valley. It was the first time I really felt like this place was my home. I was missing it like a desert misses the rain or a dessert misses the cherry on top. And now that I am back it feels great. I'm getting back into the swing of things and have a newfound desire to make english lessons fun after having spent some time creating activities at the camp. Additionally, I may have just found my grail, if you will.

Before I explain what I literally stumbled into I need to tell you about the Peace Corps YD set up in Morocco. Each volunteer is assigned to a specific dar chebab. They go to that dar chebab, teach english and then involve themselves in other youth development projects through different associations that work at the dar chebab. Unfortunatelyt, my dar chebab is small. I have been pinned into the corner of only teaching english on the very valid point that there is not any space to do other activities. Conseauently, because there is no space outside associations do not come into the dar chebab and do activities with kids. This has made it difficult for me to do anything with the youth besides teaching english.

Last night I was rambling around town. I had no real intention of doing anything other than ending at the cafe for a nightcap of warm milk and louisa. On my walk I ran into a bunch of people I know and started talking to them. They asked me questions about what I am specifically doing here and what I want to do here. I told them I was teaching english but interested in doing more youth development oriented activities. It turns out that these folks are all part of an association that actually does work. Most recently they have bought and delivered goats to the poorer people in the countryside in the hopes of creating a goat cheese cooperative. However, they are also interested in forming some projects for youth. They see that youth spend too much time on chat and not enough time working their minds in other areas. I was invited to their association meeting, talked about goats, and then discussed development in general.

To me this feels like a huge breakthrough. I finally have some idea of the specific associations in my town and know who to talk to if I want to initiate a project. Also, I've been invited to all of the future meetings of the association and a fieldtrip to see the goats in the countryside. They want me to look at their project and tell them any ideas I have. I don't know anything about goats, but who knows, it will definitely be fun to check out. Additionally, building good and strong connections with this group of people now will make it easier to work with them in the future on possible youth projects. It was a great night. I never made it to the cafe, but the stimulating conversation on development, goats, and some of the problems of this area certainly were better than any warm cup of milk I've ever had.

Peace

Last week I made what some might consider a good life decision and what most might consider a horribly stupid one. I decided that I shall arise every morning at six in order to enjoy some much needed sport. I have found a couple local friends with whom I run, stretch, and do push ups. It really feels great! In retrospect, its something I should have been doing for a long time. Waking up at 6 is not hard. Its not like I'm going to bed late. What am I going to do: play crossword puzzles until the wee hours of the morning? Maybe... and I'll be the first to admit that this has happened, but the point is I can easily go to bed around 10 everynight and not miss anything.

However, my health and well-being are not the point of this article. I mentioned earlier that it was easy to wake-up at 6. This is true. However, all great things are accompanied by gloom. Sometimes the gloom is really bad, other times its merely mild gloom. My gloom for this situation is an utterly obnoxious cock that crows at 6 in ther morning. Now, you might say "hey, you're already up! Whats the big deal?". Well, my fine gentleman (and women of course), the big deal is that I have to listen to this thing go off like an alarm clock on ether (just watched Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas)... It gets under your skin, flows through your blood, and annoys the hell out of you. It is one of the worst noises in the world and possible a practice they should try in prisons. Lock a prisoner up with a cock... see how long it taks before the prisoner goes insane or the halls run red with chicken blood!

Normally I would sleep right through this and not be bothered by the terrifying high pitched crow that emanates from under my house. That was beauty. That was my eden. My palace of protection. I was like the Buddha: having not ventured out of palace, I knew not of death, disease, and crime. My naive self did not even consider the fact that something this unholy could take place at that godforsaken hour! I should have realized that unholy and godforsaken are partners in crime. But I was blinded by the green, fertile garden of naivete. I should have known about this, I studied religion for God's sake (this made me chuckle...). But alas! I am now trapped in its grasp and cannot be released. I now know about this event and am destined to endure the screeching cry until judgement day.

Unless of course this problem was "taken care of"... I have had a craving for chicken lately... and it seems like the Greek Mafia might be in need of some business (oh yea, I got connections) All I'm saying is that "everyone needs a little KFC"

Safi. LLay auwn. (Enough, god help you... used instead of goodbye)

I must let you know why my posts have been so infrequent. I have a wireless internet modem which is awesome. I can take my computer practically anywhere and get internet access. I'm not sure there is anything like this in the states. However, as you might be able to guess its not perfect. I have good internet connection and can get to any site I want except google. It seems that my modem or computer or internet does not like google and its affiliate sites (one of them being blogspot). Thus even if I have internet and I can get to other websites I can't get to google, blogspot, picasso web albums, etc... I have no idea how to fix this, but sometimes, lets say once in a blue moon, I can connect to these sites. It always brings a smile to my face.

I have for you today what Peace Corps Morocco would call a success story. Now you will understand how "success" is measured here in PC morocco. About three weeks ago I was taking a beautiful hike with my site mate lynn and my friend from college Will. We were meandering along a gorgeous path that skirts the edge of the plateau on which my town is situated. After a good thirty minutes of hiking we ran into a older looking building with a mule standing in front of a large open door. We ventured to see exactly what this building was and it turned out to be an olive press. Not just any olive press, but a traditional mule powered olive press. Even in Morocco these are becoming rarer as they are being replaced by their 20th century electric counterparts. No doubt this was an awesome find.

We ventured into the olive press and found four men working. At this point we introduced ourselves, they sat us down, opened a wooden door in the floor, and scooped out some freshly pressed olive oil. I guess this would be called the most virgin olive oil you could have! We proceeded to enjoy this delightful green liquid with some fresh bread that the kind workers provided. Soon after we were engulfed in a clusterfunk of trilingual conversation. My friend Will speaks french fluently. Consequently, the olive press workers were speaking to us in Moroccan Arabic, french, and the little english they knew. It was really quite a scene.

We made such an impression on the workers that the manager of the mill invited us back to his house for tea and more conversation. We graciously accepted the offer and joined his family and friends for some sweet moroccan tea with Sheba (mint is out of season know so everybody is using sheba - absinthe - and no, it does not make you see little green men). At the house we met a few of his wife's friends. As I am teaching english at the dar chebab, I very stealthily suggested that they come to one of my english classes. I did not think anything would come of this suggestion, but its always good to ask.

The following Tuesday two of the women came to my english class. Not only that, but they have become some of my better students. At class last week we were talking about food. One of the women asked me what my favorite Morcoccan dish was. Of course I responded couscous. I didn't think anything of this, but two days later I found that I had an invitation to join the women's family for couscous lunch on Friday (every friday family's have couscous). I immediately accepted the invitation as it was definitely going to be better than the eggs that I would normally make for lunch.

I went over to the house, ate couscous, and had a great time with the family. They have a son in North Carolina (if you ever find yourself in Raleigh and meet a moroccan ask them if they are from Hermoumou... you probably have an 85% chance of being right). While the parents don't know english they have visited many parts of America and know a bit about the culture. We talked for a couple hours while I ate my weight in couscous. (Couscous expands in your stomach... so don't eat until you are full because you will only become more full. A friendly word of advice!).

I left the house with a free bottle of fresh olive oil, some eggs that a chicken literally just popped out, leftover couscous, and an invitation to join them every friday for lunch.

This is a Peace Corps success story. A chance encounter turned into a fruitful relationship where cultures are shared, ideas are exchanged, and relationships are built. I know it might not seem like much, but it was absolutely the highlight of my week. Below I've included a few food pictures to whet your appetite!

A vegetable stand. This was taken in another town, but they all look kind of the same. Its where I buy my greens.

From my training site. Our friend has just made us a traditional Moroccan dish: Chicken topped with french fries. I swear that I have eaten more french fries here than I ever ate in the states. But somehow the grand ol' US of A gets the reputation for consuming those oily devils.

And finally.... Couscous or Scscou or Ta3am. It goes by a number of different names. However it always looks the same. You can eat it with a spoon or for the more adventurous you can try the hand method.

A bit of Darija for you. A mul-Hanut is a shopkeeper. (Hanut = shop and if you add "mul" in front of a word it means you own it... For example: Dar = house so a mul-dar is a landlord)

Every morning I walk down my steps out my door and fifty feet across the street to the store. Here I buy 1 bread, 2 eggs, and 2 cheese (not real cheese... Laughing Cow). I do this every morning. Rain or Shine. Sleet or Snow. Just like the U.S. Post Office. Consequently, I have gotten to know the mul-hanut very well. He is a great man, very friendly. I always have some sort of chat with him in the morning. Additionally, he always tries to use some english when I'm there. He has since learned bread, eggs, and cheese, but is always trying out some new phrases.

Last week, on monday morning I reluctantly left my house. It was freezing cold, windy, and rainy. However, I needed my food. I get cranky if I don't have food and I didn't want to have a cranky day... those are the worst. When I arrived at the hanut (granted only 50 feet from my door) the mul-hanut saw that I was cold and invited me behind the counter to share some warm coffee, bread, and fresh olive oil with him. It was just what the doctor ordered. The coffee ran through my veins and served as the equivalent of a shot of vodka in the middle of a russian winter. The bread an olive oil were a nice change of pace from my regular breakfast routine. In addition to offering me food the mul-hanut changed the t.v. channel he was watching the the BBC english news! It was amazing. The first english news program I've seen since I arrived. I sat with the mul-hanut for an hour watching the t.v, talking, and getting warm.

When the news started repeating I thanked him and grudgingly made my strenuous journey 50 feet across the road to my house. I was done for the day. Safi! I intentionally built relationships, cross cultured, practiced my language, and bought food. All in one stop! It was the closest thing I've come to a full shopping experience (like costco) since I arrived in this country.

I've also included some pictures of the Dar Chebab I'm working at. Enjoy! Happy February.

From the outside.

My Classroom!

I went to the souk this monday in order to purchase some fruits and vegetables; however, I never thought I would encounter the largest banana I have ever seen. I was rather taken aback when I first saw it. In fact, you might say, I was scared of it. The banana could easily be used as a weapon. However, I felt compelled to buy this mammoth sized fruit. You could say that the spirits moved me.

When I got back to my house I ran into a problem. What should I do with the banana. Surely cannot eat it... not yet. First I have to take a picture of it!

OH MAN THIS IS HUGE!

To give you a better idea of the size. I took a picture of the banana in front of my face. It practically covers it. Additionally, for those of you who play bananagrams, I tried to put the banana in the bananagrams case and it did not fit. It is far to big.

After marveling at the size I continued to think about what I should do with this banana. One of the first thoughts that came to mind was BANANAPHONE!!! "Ring ring ring ring, ring ring ring ring, bananaphone." I wonder if Maroc Telecom offers service for them?????

Despite pondering for hours I have still not figured out what to do with this banana. Currently it is sitting next to my oranges in my fruit basket. However, even after hours of thinking it still brings smiles!

Now I am soliciting advice for what to do with this strange fruit. Please let me know what to do..... or whether you think I've gone insane!

Cheers!

When I first arrived in my town in November I was immediately given the opportunity to travel around the countryside with a couple locals. They showed me the smaller villages around the area, the huge mountains, and the beautiful forests. One of the parts of the trip that I was most stunned by was a small village built into the side of a limestone hill. It really was a spectacular sight, very foreign, and a place completely secluded from everything. It looked like a real Peace Corps village... you know, the kind you think you'll be placed in and the kind your mother fears when you discover you've been accepted into the Peace Corps.

Not only did we see the village, but we also ran into some inhabitants of the town on our trip through the mountains. The first image is that of the village, the following image shows its inhabitants. We offered them some bread and cheese when we passed them. I'm pretty sure they were very pleased. I snapped the photo without really telling them so it was a candid shot. However, it was my Moroccan counterparts that were pushing me to take the photo. They were just as intrigued as I was. Enjoy!

As you all know, I'm in Morocco. As some of you might not know, its snowing ... ever so lightly! Its like little pieces of pillow falling from the sky. God, I miss this stuff. Here's to you, Mike, currently boarding in Vermont through feet of new powder. I too have some snow. While it might be a bit less than you, its still that fluffy, beautiful white crystalized water.

I have decided to do a picture of the day since I now have regular internet access. What better way to start than a picture of snow... if you can see it. Enjoy.

This is taken from one of my windows facing the hospital across the street.

Below are some pictures of the Eid El Kabir. I have not included any really brutal slaughtering images, but there may or may not be some blood in the pictures... sorry. Enjoy!

First things first. Starting in the wee hours of the morning, my host mom started making mulawi. Its a delicious flaky, oily, bread that goes great with jam.

Next, my host brother prepares the knifes. I suppose you could use the saying "Knives out!" literally here.

Then the donkey is readied. Basically he is just moved far away from the slaughtering so he doesn't disturb the sheep.

BAP! Its done. The sheep is dead in one fell swoop of the large knife in my grandfathers hand. I'm standing behind the poor creature with my host dad who is getting ready to skin it and dismember the entire animal.

Si Mohammed, my host brother, seemed fairly happy that the sheep was ready. This mean MEAT for weeks to come!

Merriem, however, seemed a bit upset. Granted she is still a baby, but she needed some comforting by my host brother.

Here she is contemplating the past events. Why is that fuzzy thing that was moving now on the ground and not moving?

The head roasting on the grill. This is the first thing to get cooked. Once it is severed from the animal they immediately place it on the grill. I guess it is meant to prevent flys and other insects from getting their paws on the brains and such.

What you are looking at now is my grandfather taking all of the innards out of the sheep. They kind of smell. After this he will blow through the butt to make sure all the excess poop has been discharged. Don't worry. I don't have a picture of that.

Here is the view from the cafe I frequent: the snow covered peaks of Bou Iblane. Beautiful.

At long last I have internet in my house. It comes in the form of a small USB stick which basically means I can get it anywhere that has service. Wild, eh?

Anyway, this means I will be more vigilant about my posts and will also be able to put up more pictures. I have to go teach now, but hopefully tonight I'll have some more material for all those following. Plus, I really just wanted to test my connexion now.

Hope all is well!

Kitlas

As many of you know, the Eid el Kabir was this past Saturday. All of the talk leading up to this feast has focused around Lhem (the meat). Everybody talks about how much meat you will eat, how much meat you will see. So much meat. Everywhere meat meat. It basically sounds like a vegetarians hell. I am not a vegetarian and consequently was rather excited about the meat. Moroccans do not eat a lot of meat in the first place so this is a treat. However, as it has been three days since the Eid I have realized that Lhem has a rather loose relationship to what we in America refer to as meat.

The Eid begins with the slaughtering of the sheep. We need to get the meat from somewhere! And on this holiday everyone gets to see, first hand, where the deliciousness originates. However, one is not immediately confronted with meat. In fact, the first couple hours are filled with blood more than anything else. Blood. It was in the meat.... but not anymore. It sprays from the neck of the sheep like an overused windshield fluid dispenser. Strong at times... then it stops. Then an occasional burst about 10 minutes after the neck has been cut. After the blood drains, the animal must be skinned and dismantled. At this point you can see lhem, but you can also see the stomach, the heart, the head, and any other body part you would like to imagine.

The dismantling takes a while. Its usually done by the oldest male in the household. In my case it was my badass grandpa with a huge knife. When the majority of the animal was taken apart and all of the entrails were in different buckets for storage, the fire is started. Yes!!! Time for the meat! Now, everybody is talking again about lhem. Lhem. Lhem. It rolls off the tongue like a nice steak! However as I am watching my family prepare the kebabs, I am positive we will not be eating meat for lunch. We have, over our modest fire, kabobs of heart, liver, and pancreas wrapped in a white fatty part of the sheep that was taken from somewhere around the stomach. As I am still the guest of the house I was offered the first, best, and most quote meaty end quote kebab. (Note: I still have not figured out where the actual quotations marks are on a french keyboard. Any help would be grand). I chowed down. And it was delicious. It tasted like meat, but the texture was a bit off. I think the meat taste was due to the fatty substance that engulfed the small pieces of liver and heart.

Since then, we have eaten the head. Its basically fat and skin with a little meat in the cheeks... oh yes and the eye. Also not meat. We have eaten the testicles. Also not meat but kind of chewy. So where is all this meat that everyone keeps talking about. I have recently found out the meat is in a large bowl in the refrigerator. Every lunch we each get 2 small kebabs of meat. Delicious. Marinated in onions and parsley. However, it never ends at the kebabs. Something else always follows; some other part of the animal that mosty certainly cannot be disregarded. Perhaps tonight we will eat the feet. (Not joking, I saw them in the kitchen today.) Anyway, the point is this: in Morocco the word for meat, Lhem, has a much broader meaning than one would find in the states. Quite simply it refers to any part of the animal. I would say any edible part, but it seems that everything is edible. So, if you ever find yourself traveling around Morocco and are offered meat, you might find yourself in a surprising situation.

On a bit of a lighter note it is December first. It rained here yesterday, but I noticed as I was walking around this morning that the mountains surrounding my town have snow. Below is a picture of the mountain range. I found this on the internet but it is exactly what it looks like right now. The mountain in the background is Bou Iblane. The foreground is the large plain between my town and the mountains. Hope everyone is having a good December! -Kitlas

As we near the end of Pre Service Training, it is obviously the natural time to look back and reflect upon this experience. So according to the rules and regulations of proper reflection I have the past couple of days to look back on my time in PST. Upon reminiscing I have discovered an interesting paradigm that has been created in my Community Based Training group. Because we have a small group, all three of us are very good friends now. This friendship is even stronger as we are all very different people. We have varying interests, act very differently, and thus attract different types of people. This last characteristic is exactly where the paradigm that I want to discuss has developed. Naturally, different groups of the local population have attached themselves to us, the volunteers, during our time in Morocco. Essentially, we have attracted three distinct groups of community members. Jason, nicknamed Jamal (beautiful) by the locals, can almost always be seen surrounded by a huge crowd of teenage girls when appropriate. I suppose this is not surprising as his nickname says it all. Donniell, on the other hand, can always be spotted surrounded by a group of twenty-year old guys speaking perfect english. This again is quite obvious as she is the only blonde in our town and the most intellectual of us... she has her Masters for Gods sake! So what group is left to surround me? Lets think. Its not the teenage girls or the boys. That leaves the prepubescent boys. Yep, thats right. I am usually surrounded by a large group of 5 - 12 year old boys.

Sometimes reflection time can be difficult. When one realizes a paradigm such as this they ten to ask: “What is the meaning?” Thus I have spent countless, sleepless hours pondering over what this says about me. Does it indicate anything about my personality? Why small boys? Why not girls? Why not the intellectuals? In an effort not to be self-deprecating I have tried to make the best of these circumstances. I mean, who really wants to be surrounded by a group of pubescent teenage girls in a locale where deodorant is not common and there is no conception of personal space? Maybe once in a while, but not everyday. That could get tiring; however, somehow Jason has persevered. And a group of twenty year old dudes who speak english perfect. This could be fun, but I want to speak darija now. I was just in college. I lived in a frat. I was surrounded by enough english speaking dudes there. I want a change. What could be better than prepubescent boys?

The paradigm displayed itself in full force last weekend. Jason, Donniel, and I ventured to a local soccer game on Saturday. As girls do not venture out of the house often, you might be asking how Jason is always surrounded by groups of them. When he teaches english at the dar chebab his class is composed of 98% giggling, teenage girls. However, outside of this environment there are not groups of girls. Donniell is usually the only female out and about: at soccer games and at cafes. However, even at the soccer game, which was void of any female, save Donniel, Jason was being attacked by girls. During the game Jason was receiving love letters from various females around town while simultaneously trying to decide if he should accept an invitation to dinner. This invitation was given to him by a girl that had just professed her love for him. Though life slugger! Donniell was watching the soccer game with the boys, speaking english, and continually answering questions about grammar, vocabulary, and syntax. And there I stood, surrounded by a pack of 25, twelve year olds spit-firing darija at me. Laughing, playing, making huge hand gestures, and having fun. When we left the game the pack followed us. It literally looked like an army. In fact it was kind of scary. I would have wet myself if I didn’t know that I had complete control over those little rascals. Can someone say Peter the Great, eh?

So, back to the question. What does this say about my personality? Hadi asaada d lhqeeqa! (This is the hour of truth!) I guess as a youth developer attracting kids is not a bad quality to have. Additionally, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m still a bit of a kid. I like playing, running around, making loud noises, and creating havoc. These are all things I knew about myself before I came to Morocco. I guess those qualities have become more clear in this country. In the end, I’m very happy. This quality should make it easy to attract kids to the dar chebab in my new town. Not having to worry about that is awesome. However, I came to Morocco to grow up a bit. Being surrounded constantly by a pack of 12 year-olds does not facilitate that very well. I suppose some things never change!

Wxxa. Now a few photos...

A cute little Moroccan!

Donniell's family and Jason. All the girls are obsessed with him.

Our host families... that is my host family plus a smattering from Jason and Donniell's.

My younger brother Youssef and I.

Wxxa! Finally I have some pictures for you all. I hope you enjoy. Also, as a bit of a side note, I have only used a fork three times so far in this country. Ok. Lets Bust.

Me, my host brother and a friend at the McDonalds in Fez... Yes it was a McDonalds, but I compromised my integrity because it was the only place with ice cream.

The tanneries in Fez. Sex Panther, the musk Paul Rudd wears in the movie Anchorman comes to mind here...

My host brother and I in front of the king's palace in Fez. Super zween!

Jason, my host brother, a friend, and I at the rear end of the lion in Fez. Everybody was taking pictures of the head. We wanted to be different.

Donniel, Jason, my host brother, a friend, and I in front of a fountain in Fez.

Jason and I with the bride and groom at a wedding. Don't worry, they are having fun. It is customary for the married couple not to smile during this part of the ceremony.

Donniel and David dancing with the kids at a pre wedding bash.

My dancing buddies at Wedding number 1.

"Stah" ing at the first wedding. I totally brought the fist pump to Africa.

Host brothers, Jason, and community friends at the first wedding.

Kif Kif.

Jackie Chan movie poster... Bust!

My family in Fez. I got to wear some traditional Moroccan garb.

At a mosque in Fez. Here in Morocco only Muslims are allowed to enter.

A view from my roof.

The mosque next door that is under construction. It is by far this biggest one in town.

My tiger... or host cat: Nikko.

The gorge in my town. Apparently it was once filled with water.

The souk. Six days out of the week it looks like this, but on Wednesdays it is crowded with all kinds of vendors selling chickens, fruits, vegetables, clothes, and tools.

The main street in my town. Umm. Yea.

My room. I sleep on the couch in the distance. The room next to me houses a bunch of bunnies which I recently found out are used fairly consistently for our dinner. When I found out I attempted my first joke in complete darija. I said: "Tonight the bunnies. Next week me?" I got all stares for a good 10 awkward seconds. Finally, the mom started cracking up and everybody at the table followed. Better luck next time I suppose.

Salaam!

Since its been a while I have a lot more to write. I have basically become a wedding crasher in this country. People are getting married left and right... and I am dancing all over the place. This story goes to show that one can crash a wedding in this country even when they are not even looking for one. Before I start, a culinary tidbit. Beet juice, with enough sugar, is actually failry tasty. Ma, you would be proud!

(For lack of a better transition...) I woke up and met some other PCTs in Sefrou. The plan for the day was a leisurely hike up a mountain to visit a small Amazigh (Berber) village. I wore sandals and carried my lunch (bread, cheese, and water) in a purple plastic bag. Sunglasses on and ready to go, about 15 PCTs followed one of the local Sefrouians up the mountain. Apparently we were literally hiking in his backyard as his grandfather owned the farm land. After about an hour and a half of hiking in beautiful scenery (rolling, green hills and clear sky) we stumbled upon a small group of people who our Moroccan friend knew. They we all holding small round fruit looking things which turned out to be figs. We were offered these delicious fruits and devoured them. We were then invited up to the house. I must remind you here that we were hiking in the countryside. This was the first house we stumbled upon and there was not another in site. Basically, we were pretty isolated. Because of this, I was not expecting to find much of anything. However, as we approached this house it became evident that something was happening.

When we walked behind the house we saw a large rectangular tent with a flat blue tarp as a roof. The walls we constructed of colorful blankets with sequins all over them. Under the tent sat a large group of people on top of psychedelic carpets. Apparently, Jimi Hendrix has still not left the country. As is usually, the men were sitting on one side of the tent and the girls on the opposite side. We were invited into the tent and then quickly discovered that it was a wedding. The bride sat on the opposite side of the tent in full regalia and, as is customary in Moroccan weddings, was not smiling at all. Needless to say the wedding attendees were just as surprised to find 15 Americans as we were to be sitting in a tent that I can only describe as “Disneyland-esque”. Then the drumming and singing began. The singing was all in Amazigh. However, you can dance in any language. All of the PCTs got up, began clapping, and danced. It was great. We learned some new techniques. A little line dancing, some shoulder shrugs, and complex hand-holding! The night clubs in New York are not going to see this one coming. But in 25 months when I return... LOOK OUT.

After some group dancing, they asked for two volunteers. Two of my fellow PCTs were dressed in classic Amazigh garb sat down and, for lack of a better term, married. We sang and danced around them and all had a bit of Henna placed on the palm of our right hand which apparently indicates you are engaged or will be married some day. I’m not sure of the exact definition... I should probably check that out since I use that hand to wave everyday and the Henna is not disappearing anytime soon. I don’t want to give any Moroccan the wrong idea. After the “fake” marriage we were offered tea. We drank a bit of tea and then politely excused ourselves as we needed to continue our hike.

We ventured a bit further down the trail to a very small Amazigh village. There we dinned on our bread, cheese, and water. We rode a horse around the town for a bit and then decided to begin our hike back. When we passed the house that was holding the wedding, our friends invited us back to dine with them. In Morocco its really really really hard to refuse an invitation, especially for food. Thus, we graciously accepted. When we reached the grand tent again everybody had left. It was empty, save a few older men. We all entered the tent and tables were brought in. Then a large couscous dish with a sweet raisin, chickpea sauce, a turkey and lamb tagine, and a huge bowl of grapes were brought out to the tables. We feasted for about a half an hour on the delicious, very authentic (the lamb and turkey were raised on their property) cuisine of Morocco. Anthony Bourdain would be jealous.

Forget the freshmen 15, Im putting on the Moroccan 40. The consumption of food in this country seems to be continuous and never ending. On a side note, its still about 80 degrees here everyday which is AWESOME, except for the fact that Im in a classroom from 830 a.m. until 6 p.m.

Hope all is well in the states!

... Or the Travels of a Moroccan Donkey in America. I recently spent some time in a town in the middle of the Atlas Mountains with beautiful foliage, an enormous souk, and snow (in the winter). While there I stopped by my friends house and was able to converse with his host family. I must preface this by stating that I have an odd fascination with donkeys. They can be found all over the place here... its ridiculously awesome. I love it and you might say that I can’t get enough of it. When I found out that one can purchase a donkey for between 500 and 800 dirhams (approximately 80 - 100 dollars) I got even more obsessed. In language class, when we need to create sentences with new verbs, I always figure out a way to fit the hamar (donkey) in my sentence. Even if I go so far as say “The hamar travelled to America for vacation.” Suffice it to say, that if I get placed in a rural enough site you can bet your sweet cookies that I will have a hamar and I will ride it through town, and I will feed it barley. If you come visit I might even let you ride it!

Anyway, I figured I was the only person with such an odd obsession. Some of the other trainees have fascinations, but no one, save me, has hit the obsessive stage yet. Since this was true I figured no native Moroccan would have an obsession such as mine. However, I could not have been more wrong. The host dad of the friend that I was visiting in Immouzar seemed to have the same sort of love for this most prestigious animal. The conversation started with the fact that Obama won the nobel Peace Prize. We then progressed to the ever antagonizing question of why the democratic party chose the donkey as its symbol. I have since read literature on this... a link for your enjoyment.... Anyway, the donkey is supposedly chosen last by all of the other animals. Why? It is a very smart animal. There seems no real plausible explanation other than the cunning nature of the donkey. Yes. Donkeys are cunning. Basically we talked for a while about how donkeys are not given enough credit. They are great animals and, according to my friend’s host dad, the second animal to roam the earth; finishing only behind good ol’ Adam and Eve.

Then my friend’s host dad decided to take the conversation in a rather interesting direction. Imagine a small, dark-skinned, older Moroccan man. He turns his head toward you and says (in Darija) “There should be a movie about a Moroccan donkey’s travels in America. We can dress him in all different costumes. We can put funny large glasses on him. We can die parts of his hair different colors. Its going to be incredible. I will write the story. We can go around taking pictures of him in all of the big cities.” Me, being an avid admirer of this grand creature, saw this opportunity and ran. My friend and I proceeded to sort out the details of this fantastic story with this older Moroccan gentleman. We have the donkey staying primarily on the east coast: D.C, New York, Boston. However, we also planned a short excursion to the west. Most notably the trip to Los Angeles where our beloved equine will don long blonde hair and round John Lennon sun glasses. Mark your calenders as the movie should be going into production in late 2011.

I visited the Hammam yesterday with my host brother. I have been to a hammam once before in my life. I went when I was in Turkey on my Foreign Study Program in college. Everybody wore red towels around there lower parts and had a private changing room. When you went into the hot room it was a large area with soap flowing all over the ground like fog rolling on the lochs of scotland. Steam rose from the ground around a beautiful, marble circular platform. Surrounding this platform stood large Turkish men who pointed to you, tossed you on your side, and then kneaded your back like the muffin man kneads bread... no wait, muffins. I expected something kind of similar here in my small Moroccan hamlet. I knew however, that the hammam would not be as large as the one in Istanbul nor as high class (they made fresh orange juice for you when you were all clean). So I was not expecting the orange juice, but I thought the set up would be similar: large Moroccan dudes who scrubbed and massaged you for a small fee.

Needless to say, I was in for a bit of a surprise as the hammam in rural Morocco was nothing like the one in Turkey. Despite the element of surprise, it was a most amazing time and an extremely close bonding experience for my host brother and I. You can say we became better acquainted at the hammam. Here’s a run down.

You pay eight dirhams when you enter which equates to about one american dollar. Then you walk up a bunch of steps and enter a changing room. Everybody baths in their underwear. I was quite happy about this as it avoided the whole awkward nudity thing. However, this is where my one cultural faux pas of the night occurred. I was unknowingly wearing my bright pick underwear with running beer cans and “Case Race” plastered all over them. Needless to say, this is definitely “haram” in a muslim country. Everybody in the hammam saw me wearing them. Hopefully they didn’t understand what it meant as they couldn’t read it. However, I still feel a bit guilty and was conscious of the debauchery my underwear stood for throughout the entire time I was bathing.

Anyway, after I stripped down to my underwear I followed my host brother into the other room. Basically, it was a medium sized tile room that was really steamy. There were guys scrubbing themselves. And yes. The floor was extremely slippery. I almost fell about four times throughout the entire experience. Each time was followed by a bit of laughter from all of the other men in the hammam. Anyway, the process goes like this. You fill up four or five buckets with with hot water, adding a bit of cold water so that you don’t burn yourself. Then you bring your buckets to an area in the room. Sit down on the floor and use a cup to pour water over your head. In between the cups of water you wash yourself with soap, do pushups (OH YEA), and shampoo your hair.

Then it started getting interesting. My host brother told me to lie face down on the ground... so I did. Then he started walking on my back. He’s probably 6 foot 5 inches tall and well-built. I had all of that weight on my back, crushing my lungs, my rib cage, and my dignity. I tried to clench my abs to make sure he didn’t crush me, but I’m pretty sure that I was ineffective as I have some purple marks on my stomach today. After he ravaged my back he sat me up, had me spread my legs as wide as I could, and then pushed my head down towards the floor as far as he could. This was a huge spine stretch. I figured this was normal, and it was... kind of. But then he mounted me. Yes. I believe mount is the right word. I was still spread eagle with my back bent and head towards the floor. I looked like some sort of naked rag doll. He straddled my back, with his legs between mine and then lubed me down with oil. After I was greased up, he started to scrub. It was an interesting combination of pain and pleasure.... and dead skin. First he did my back, then my arms, and finally my stomach. For my stomach he stretched me into an almost yoga-esque back bend position and then went to town.

After he finished I thanked him and, I must admit, with a bit of reluctance I offered to scrub him. I think I did a fairly good job at scrubbing; however, I ran into a major difficulty along the way. There was a bit of an obvious height issue. My legs are short. His torso is long. Consequently, when he was sitting spread eagle and I was straddling him from above my precious objects may or may not have grazed his head on multiple occasions. In fact, I am positive this happened. My host brother either decided to ignore this inevitably awkward situation or he is accustomed to being this close to his compadres. I want to believe the former is the case; however, it is quite possible that the latter holds the truth. Despite these moments he continually offered me words of encouragement, releasing the usual “muzyan... muzyan” (GOOD GOOD). When I finished he told me I was a first class scrubber!

When the scrubbing had ceased we did some more stretching and then soaped up. We rinsed off and then went to the outer room which, at this point, felt like an ice box. Here we changed and then went back home. Walking home my host brother put his arm around me and called me brother. That was a truly a heart-warming experience. I feel like we are really bonding... both on the obvious physical level and also on the emotional level as well. They are a great family and I am blessed to live with them for these two months. If you come visit me you will certainly meet them. On the same note, when I left to go to Azrou both of my host brothers said they were going to miss me. Then they proceeded to give me hugs: alternating hugs for about three minutes... another humorous moment.

Good times. Salaam.

P.S. My new Moroccan name is Bilal. There's a history to this, but that must wait for another time.

I have so much to say. Its been quite a while since my last post and so much has happened. I apologize for the lack of images; however, it is difficult to upload them from the public cyber cafes in my tiny town. Hopefully my word are sufficient enough for your entertainment. If not I suggest moving on to another web page, such as Stumbleupon. There you may experience the joys of images, videos, and interesting anecdotes.

However, they will not tell you about a Moroccan wedding... at least I do not think they will. And that my friends will be the topic of this post. A mere four nights ago I was invited to a wedding and my life in my town has not been the same since. I really had no idea what I was getting myself into when I agreed to attend this wedding. I really enjoy weddings though. They are always fun. People are happy; people are a little buzzed; people lose inhibitions; people dance; people retire at around 1 a.m. Thos have been my experiences at American weddings. My brother and I usually carry the party. We start the dancing, lead the the congo line, and serve as the best unpaid entertainment you could ask for.

I knew that there would be no alcohol at this wedding... thats about all I knew. I was ready to go at six p.m. Thats a reasonable time for an evening wedding to start, eh? Well I was much mistaken and ended up sitting on the couch for about three and a half hours. We did not leave until 9:30 p.m. When we arrived at the site of the wedding we entered an enclosed field. In the field were two tents. It was explained to me that one tent was for the men and the other was for the women. However, I saw only men around. There were no women to be seen. I felt a little unhappy as I was expecting to meet some Moroccan women at the wedding... Again, it was explained to me that the women were currently eating dinner. I sat around in the tent for a while and then was told to get up. THE WOMEN WERE RETURNING. THE WOMEN WERE RETURNING. I stood up and left the tent as the women were entering. Apparently, since the women were finished eating it was now time for the men to eat.

I sat around a small table with 8 people I did not know. However, this was alright since nobody talked. Even the people who knew each other did not speak a word. The purpose of this meal was clear: EAT; as FAST as you can; and as MUCH as you can. Our table finished two chickens and half of a lamb in about ten minutes. Immediately when the food was gone everbody stood up and proceeded back to the tents.

I walked to the mens tent and sat down. I was handed a cup of coffee and practically forced to drink it. They said I would need it. At this point it was just about midnight. No sign of the bride or groom yet. However, there are a ton of Moroccan women sitting in their tent. All of the men were in our tent. I could feel that something was going to happen soon. Then the music starts blasting... something was happening. Everybody rushed outside the tents. The bride was being paraded in a throne that rested on the shoulders of four men in maroon suits and fez hats. Once the bride and groom entered the tent the dancing started. However, the bride and groom did not dance. Nay! They sat on a large couch and watched everybody else dance.

My friend Jason and I decided we should start dancing. At Moroccan weddings; however, the dancing is separated by the sexes. Men dance in one area and women in another. There is really no mixing. So, needless to say I danced with dudes for about five hours stright. Yep. Jason, me, and a bunch of Moroccan dudes we met danced from midnight until five a.m... It was a ton of fun, but took a while to get accustomed to. When I was breaking it down the father of the bride came over and started dancing with me. The big Marriage Camera followed him. We danced for about ten minutes... and I am positive that I am on their marriage video.

It was a fun night. And now everytime I see the father of the bride around town he does a little dance as a form if hello. Heres to making friends with the locals!

Salaam

CBT stand for Community Based Training... and that is what Im engulfed in currently. This consists of 5 hours of language in the morning and then community activities in the afternoon. For only having 3 language lessons we have already covered a lot of ground. Past, present, and future verbs. Infinitives and imperatives as well. Our noun database is growing exponentially with each day. We also have a good grasp of personal pronouns and adjectives. Its great though because the language classes in the morning are always comlemented by talking to the host family in the afternoon and at night. Despite the long dinner conversations, television is also big here. During dinner we will watch candid camera, soccer, sitcoms, or the quran.... there are whole channels devoted solely to the reading of the quran.

In the afternoons we have visited the gendarmes, got lost in the town, and gone to the cyber cafe. Im in a small village near fez and am having an amazing experience. The people here are so welcoming and accomodating. For example, as you may know it is ramadan. During this holiday muslims fast during the day and eat at night. I myself have been fasting the past couple days and it is pretty difficult. However, when we first arrived in the town it was impossible to fast. Everyone was offering us food at all hours of the day. In fact my first host family practically forced me to eat before they broke the fast. While I was eating they sat around and watched repeating the word kul, kul, which means EAT. This was one of the first words I learned here as it is probably the most used. After having experienced fasting, I do not think I would have the will power to watch somebody else eat. I suppose they were just very excited to have a new face in there house.

We are not quite sure what we will actually be doing here. The dar chebab in this town, according to the gendarme, is closed. So our first task might be to open it and draw people to it with a series of events: sport, theater, english classes, etc. We are meeting with the person who runs the dar chebab on Monday so I think we will have a better idea what kind of work we will be doing after that meeting. However, it appears that some members of the community are aware or our presence. On my walk to the language session this morning I met a local who is probably around my age. His english was excellent. He apparently knew what I was doing. He told me, out of the blue, that he was excited I would be teaching english at the dar chebab. He works as a mason in town and his favorite language is english. He looks like he could be a great asset to the dar chebab and someone who could teach english in the future, in shaallah. And so it appears we have at least one task ahead of us.

Currently, Im most excited for the end of Ramadan. Not because the fasting will end, although this will be a huge perk, but because Im going into the old medinat in Fez for the Eid el Fitr on either Sunday or Monday. Since we not yet sure when Ramadan will end, as it is based on the phases of the moon, the eid could fall on either day. My host family is taking me along with them for the huge feast and to meet the rest of the extended family. If their family is anything like mine this is bound to be an interesting, exciting, facinating, and wild experience. Anyway, I will try to update my blog after that with some pictures and hopefully funny, but most likely embarrasing, anecdotes.

In that case I won't bore you with long paragraphs. Essentially, there is not even much to write about or elaborate on. We have been sitting inside for most of the day listening to people speak about safety, commitment, and evaluations, etc. etc. etc. The most interesting part of today was talking to some active volunteers about our Community Based Training which begins on Tuesday. The Youth Development folks are going to a region in the High Atlas mountains. There we will be divided into groups of five. We will each live with our host family and undergo hours of language, cultural, and technical training throughout the day.

This afternoon we went back to the beach for a swim and some exercise. We have a very active group (which I expected from a Peace Corps crowd) so the free time is always filled with heart-pumping, exhilarating activity. I wouldn't be surprised if someone suggests skydiving soon...

I must note, as I'm sure my mom would be pleased to hear, that the protection enlisted to make sure we are safe at our hotel is incredible. There are officers stationed at both ends of the street that the hotel is on. I believe there are guards stationed at posts all day and night; a very comforting thought. And considering it is Ramadan, this feat is even more unbelievable. The hospitality we have received here is exceptional. Everybody is very welcoming. I guess I did not do a very good shop at keeping this post short on words... but anyway, without further adieu, here are the photographs.

Sarah, Ryan, and I in the hotel post afternoon beach adventure.

An attempt at an artistic self portrait. This is what most of the buildings we've encountered so far look like. This was taken at about 8 a.m. The shadows in the bottom right corner are Ben and I.

A sunny picture of the beach.

Emily, Cara, and I at an airport Martini bar before our flight. If you ever stumble into JFK and have a chance, they make a good drink.

A break. I'm drinking the famous Moroccan mint tea. It is extremely delicious and loaded with sugar. Consequently, it provides a great energy boost late in the afternoon.

Just in case anyone is actually following my blog I felt like I couldn't let you down on my promise to discover the origin of the phrase "I have ants in my pants". As I have a bit of free time before dinner this seems like the perfect opportunity to let you, my loyal followers, in on the little secret.

I guess its not very secret and positively straight forward. Wiki answers actually makes me appear sort of foolish looking it up. It derives from the constant movement one makes when ants are crawling in one's pants. Of course. On a side note, when I was searching for this answer I ran across an urban dictionary entry for the word "Nabilesque" which is an adjective that relates to a strong leader, with an open mind, willing to get the job done. Apparently, this word has an arabic origin meaning "noble" and "of or relating to Nabil".

See you learn something new everyday!

There is really nothing too exciting to take pictures of at this moment considering we've been listening to lectures all day. I did get to swim in the Atlantic this afternoon which was refreshing. The water was perfect!

The view from my room. Notice the sweet Atlantic waves. The water seems a bit cleaner here than the New Jersey Atlantic, even with the copious amounts of trash on the beach.

Air Maroc in Casablanca. PCT's walking down the steps.

First day in Morocco. We flew into Casablanca arriving at 7:30 this morning. Gathered our luggage and hopped on a bus up to a coastal town called Mehdia. Its just a bit north of Rabat and has beautiful views of the coast.

We had our first round of lectures and were presented with a large medical kit, a mosquito net for sleeping, and a huge folder with a notebook, schedule, and extra papers. I have no idea where this stuff is going to go as I have no room in my bags at the moment.

After the lectures a bunch of us hit the coast and went for a jog on the beach. Its really beautiful: the water looks great and the sand is awesome; however there is an enormous amount of trash all over the beach. Its incredible... and I thought the Jersey shore was bad. Think the dirtiest Jersey beach and multiply by a thousand. Its quite a shame too because we are in Africa which is so much more legit than New Jersey.

The jog was cool and we stumbled upon a huge jelly fish that was probably two feet in diameter. What a beast. Apparently everything is a bit bigger in Africa.

Schedule for tomorrow includes shots, a long talk about diarrhea, and medical interviews. It should be a blast. Pictures to follow.

a salaam wa aleikum!

The most interesting piece of information that I found out at training last night, is that every Peace Corps volunteer is paired with their own personal gendarme. Essentially, the King of Morocco wants to make sure that all of the volunteers are safe and nothing happens to them. So, he has enlisted these gendarmes specifically to watch over the volunteers.

The format of the relationship we will have with these gendarmes has not been thoroughly discussed. We might meet them, or they might be that shady character we see around our village following us... who knows. For comedic value I think the latter would be hilarious. To be honest though, I have no idea how this is going to work.

Its good to know that the King of Morocco is thinking about our safety and has a special force to make sure we remain safe.

SHUKS! (A shortened form of "shukran" (thank you) that my arabic professor used. He is actually a berber from Morocco.)

Its finally time to leave. I head down to Philadelphia for staging tomorrow and then get back on a bus and head up to JFK for our flight to Casablanca on the 9th. This requires a bit of back-tracking for me... driving down to Philadelphia only to drive right back up to New York a day later. I can't really bring myself to complain, though. I'm extremely excited to leave; one might say I have "ants in my pants". You know, the ones that make you squirm around because they are crawling everywhere and you can't seem to get them out. (As a side, I've never actually had ants in my pants. This could be a new experience I have in the Peace Corps. Who knows? I can't imagine it to be too comfortable though, which makes me wonder how that expression originated. AHA! I've found a topic for my next post!)

Regardless, I haven't sat still once yet today. I just returned from a trip up to Vermont. I did some hiking with the family and visited the Magic Hat Brewery. Above is a picture of my mom, brother, me, and family friends Jane (Janiel) and Dan on top of Mt. Mansfield.

I've also included my address below. This will work for the first 9 weeks when I am a trainee. The Peace Corps asks that no packages be sent to this address... letters are fine though.

Peter Kitlass/c Corps de la Paix2, Rue Abou Marouane Essaadi, AgdalRabat 10100, Morocco

As you can see the French influence is still abundantly present in Morocco. More to come on that I'm sure.

Thanks to everyone who helped get me to this point. I'm forever indebted to you guys. But now I'm on my own, a new adventure on the horizon.

Peace

I've never had a blog before... never thought that other people might have the slightest interest in the daily activities of my life. Consequently, I'll try to keep the writing to a minimum, only relaying the truly outstanding stories from my experience complemented by a plethora of photographs.

I officially leave on September 9th for those who were wondering. I can't say I'll post anything else between now and then, but hopefully I'll have far too much material to know what to do with after that date.

مع السلامة