It's done! From 09/09/09 to 11/11/11, I served in my little mountain town of Amizmiz, aka Sedona-miz, and my time as a Peace Corps Volunteer has now come to a close. I am officially an RPCV now!

Currently, I think can accurately identify a few obvious emotions of RPCV life - relief, happiness, and exhaustion to name a few - though, I have got to say, I haven't really processed it all just yet. At the moment, it all feels like I'm just on another quick UK vacation, due to return to my site in just a few days' time. I'm still living out of a suitcase, still ruffling through many a 'Moroccan' outfit, still taking a questionable amount of time between showers... I have most definitely not reacclimatised to the West just yet. Though, once home in California, my mother has already made it perfectly clear how many times I'm allowed to wear jeans before they need to be washed and how many days my hair can go without a shampoo. Personal hygiene will be kept in check.

In addition to simple cleaning rituals, I'm obviously expected to be processing a few more transitional issues. It's not simply a move from Morocco to America that is taking place, it's the close of a job; it's the end of Peace Corps; it's reintegrating to a previous culture; readjusting to living with my family and not alone; it's hunting for jobs; it's applying to grad school; it's a difficult goodbye to my host family, a so long to my Moroccan community, and a departure from my fellow PCVs - volunteers who have not only become dear friends, but who were my co-workers, my family, and my entire support system. The former processes I had expected, I hadn't anticipated the sadness that would accompany the latter. So though I'm supposed to be dealing with all of these things at the moment, I'm somehow... not. In typical procrastination fashion, I am doing my best to avoid thinking about and processing all of these transitions. I have one more week left in London to just be. To just enjoy. Reality can strike next Tuesday, when my Mom can be there to temper my inevitable accompanying breakdown.

A breakdown that will surely go something like this: My mother and I will be shopping, on a weekend afternoon, among throngs of shoppers in a crowded mall. We are obviously doing some last minute Christmas gift buying, as stocking stuffers are still on the list. She says to me that she needs to find Dad some cologne and that she'll be right back, leaving me in the ornament section to find a new tree decoration. As I glance across the display, a small trinket catches my eye. It's a tagine tree ornament. Priced at $13.99. 10 minutes later, my mother will return to find me cross-legged on the grounded, crying into the tagine ornament, having just scolded a young girl and her parents for even considering buying something so ridiculous priced at nearly 14 dollars. ''Don't you know you could buy a real tagine in Morocco for less than 2 dollars?!? And then buy an entire weeks groceries for a family of 6 with the rest?!?! Don't you know what's really important in the world?! And what are you doing even buying a tagine Christmas ornament?! That doesn't even make sense!... Yes, I know The Office did a Moroccan Christmas episode, but culturally... I'm sorry, did you just say what's a tagine?!?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIVES?!?'' ... I just hope my mother knows what to say to the authorities and doesn't have me committed.

Anywho, instead of writing a future chapter of my memoirs just now, I'm going to go enjoy a crisp but beautiful morning in London with some friends. Here are some pictures of my last few days in Morocco for you to enjoy before my next entry.

Saying goodbye to my vegetable guys at souq

Quick snapshot of my mul hanut, Hassan. This was my grocery store for two years.

Frying up some pancreas and heart the morning of L'3id, the day before I left

My host family in their Sunday best, or Monday best as it were,on the way back from the mosque the morning of l'3id

Saying goodbye to some of my dearest friends Fatima and Atika

Stamping-out ceremony in Rabat with a few fellow PCVs and our Country Director

As of today, I have exactly one week left in Morocco, four days left in Sedona-miz, and 19days until I return home to California.

Currently, I amwriting to you from the balcony belonging to two fellow ex-pats in town, whohave kindly taken me in for a couple of days, following my dramatically quickexodus from my former residence. That's right, I was made to pack up and move out of my apartment in a matter of hours this past Tuesday. Let's go over some background.

After returning from Fes on Sunday, I made what was supposed to be a quick and relaxing trip to Tahannaout, a fellow volunteer's site, in order to disperse some coveted items that I wouldn't be bringing back to America among my fellow volunteers in the region. Upon arrival - after two hours of travelling that morning and 15 hours of travelling the day before - I received a phone call from my regional manager informing me I was not going to be replaced as expected.

Um, I'm sorry. What?

In true Peace Corps fashion, they waited until a week before I am leaving the country to inform not only me, but a number of other volunteers, that we would not, in fact, be replaced this fall as expected. So after weeks of prepping host families, preparing counterparts for handover, collecting materials, writing an elaborate and informative site journal, and getting my house in immaculate order, I had to immediately transition into an imminent closure of the site. Though PC 'guaranteed' there would be a volunteer this upcoming spring, they also 'guaranteed' there would be one this month. So, as my landlord was not, by any means, going to 'save' the house - and the items within it - for the next volunteer, I returned home to Sedona-miz and executed what was essentially the Moroccan equivalent of Super Market Sweep. Three volunteers and five families scrounged my flat for whatever they could get their hands on. A fellow volunteer, who also received the short end of the stick, described the feeling as being like "a King on his deathbed, everyone wanted a piece."

In the midst of the chaos, I was still immensely sick from my travels up north, and was - naturally - already overwhelmed with leaving in a week. It was probably the most stressful day I had ever experienced during my service and I sure am glad it's over. Though the lazy planning on Peace Corps' part was extraordinarily inconvenient, it did solve my problem in having to buy each family l'3id presents next week. I think a 2,700 dirham fridge, ponjes, tables, blankets, blenders, and EVERYTHING ELSE in my house should more than suffice.

Though my bitterness over the situation has obviously not yet subsided, it has not affected my state of mind here in site at all. I am thoroughly enjoying spending my last few days with my friends, neighbours, and community. I'll be staying with the expats until Saturday and then heading to my host family's for my last three days in site. This will be my third L'3id here in Sedona-miz and I look forward to celebrating it the same way I have the past two years - watching the slaughter, eating the organs, and running from the hermas/boujlouds. Tuesday I'll head to Rabat for swearing-out, then on to Marrakech Thursday afternoon for a bit of a goodbye get-together before my flight on Friday. Most of my close PCV friends in the region will be heading in to send me off, llah yrhem waladin. Can't believe it's almost over.

During the last week of October, I made my way north to Fes, where forty-something Peace Corps Trainees awaited the arrival of eight knowledgeable, experienced.... and quite weathered PCVs who were to spend a week in each Community Based Training site. I was placed in the small town of Ras Lma with five sprightly, sarcastic, and often quite sassy PCTs. The objective of the week was to discuss the Moroccan educational system and how their role in the Dar Chebab could supplement the schools curriculum and improve retention in students' language learning. Happily, the week didn't solely revolve around teaching strategies, but also involved cultural instruction, PCV life, and general best practices, tricks of the trade, words of wisdom, etc.

Throughout the week, I ended up spending two nights with each of the female PCTs in their home-stays. Talk about coming full circle. As I was continually a new guest, each evening presented a parade of pastries, a tray of tea, and any other culturally appropriate alliterative host-offering. As the PCTs had only been in country for just over a month, they were still working on their baby Arabic and hadn't communicated far beyond the initial needs and wants in their daily lives. Each PCT, and family for that matter, took advantage of the girl who's been here for two years and asked the questions they had been wanting to ask, sought the information they needed to fill in gaps, and enjoyed the opportunity to see where they would be language wise in two years' time. Though, after having gone through PST myself and having worked with another CBT in the past, this group is already doing amazing language wise, tbark allah 3lihum!

Throughout the week, at each home I stayed, a few anecdotal gems materialized. I'll be sharing them now.

- On the second night of staying with the first PCT, most of her host family had gone to stay with an aunt in a nearby village, so we were left alone with the Grandmother of the house, Fatima. Fatima has this gorgeous, wrinkled, caricature of a face that becomes extraordinarily animated as she tells a story. This particular evening, she began to tell us the story of how she and her husband, who lived and worked in France, met. How she was the second wife. How she had applied for two passports to visit him in France. And how he had died before she ever made it. The manner in which she recited her trials and tribulations of marriage brought out the water works. Not only in her, but in me as well. As we finished browsing old pictures of her as a young woman (model material, so beautiful), her husband in France, and his first wife who lived with him there, she proceeded to focus on one picture in particular. She gave us a look, looked back at the first wife's photo, and began to tear it up into tiny pieces. 'Safi' she said. She was finally done playing number two to another woman.

- The second home I stayed in was a wonderful venue of escapism. The host family was simply comprised of two older women and one young girl. A house free from men was sweet respite indeed. We enjoyed quiet relaxation, terrible soap operas, and candid conversation. Each of these women came from a Berber background and spoke the local dialect of Rifia in addition to Darija. As we spoke, I would accidentally let a few words out in my local Berber dialect of Tashelheit, which would make them giggle to no end. The languages are vastly different, but a few words remain the same. A frequently used 'no' or in Tash 'oh ho' is usually exclaimed with a significant amount of vigor and gesticulation; a much better alternative than the boring and inconsequential 'la' of Arabic.

- My first night in house number three brought on a bit of frustration. It was unfortunate that my first impression of this family had to be a meet & greet with one of the rudest, most arrogant, aggressive men I have ever had the misfortune of meeting in this country. He entered the home and immediately sat, somewhat inappropriately with the three single woman sitting in the salon. He proceeded to not really question, but rather interrogate me on my religious and political views. As we exhausted some safe, general topics, he pushed further and introduced a variety of Fusha, or MSA, vocabulary I wasn't familiar with. When I communicated that I wasn't comfortable with where the conversation was headed and didn't understand the vocabulary he was using, he berated me with condescending terms about how incompetent I was and how I knew nothing of the world if I couldn't communicate in Fusha, but merely Darija. Later that evening he shouted across the table of some 15 people and asked what my name was. I replied with simply, Donniell. He looked at me sternly and repeated it with disgust, then added 'That's a boy's name.' I told him I was a girl. He then asked if I was stupid and seconded that it was a boy's name. I simply said okay. Luckily, after that evening, I didn't encounter him again.

- In the fourth home-stay, which happened to be in the same building as the third, we enjoyed a bit of a lady's night one evening. Racy Arab music videos were on, the women were dancing, and the topic of horny-ness came up in conversation. There were at least 10 women in the room, each rambling like crazy, dancing like fools, and discussing the levels of 'skhoon'-ness or 'hot'-ness there were each at, and discussing the levels of each of the PCTs present as well. It was a hysterical evening, filled with quotes comparing boobs to mini-buta gas tanks, how they want implants so their husbands will sleep on them, and how hard they've been trying for children. It was a fun evening to say the least.

- On my last day in Ras Lma, the PCTs were planning to have a Halloween event at the Dar Chebab. They worked on five separate stations which included, pin the knife on the sheep (a take on pin the tail on the donkey), bean bag toss into a pumpkin, bobbing for apples, climbing through a giant spider web (ribbon) and face painting. They did a great job in preparing for the event, but the sheer amount of children surpassed any of our expectations. As over 150 kids showed up, it quickly turned into a free for all, which we barely managed to hold together. It was not expected, but the face painting station, to which myself and only other PCT were assigned, became quite the hit. We had swarms of children watching us work and begging to be next. After an hour and a half of claustrophobia and intense near-eye painting focus, we gathered our things in zombie-like motion. While cleaning up, another one of the PCTs saw the two of us and noted how we appeared to be suffering from PTSD and wished us luck in recovery. It was intense (like boy scouts sleeping for instance, or fun at the circus...).

Overall, I really enjoyed my time up north. It was a good platform in which to reflect about how far I had come in the past two years. It was like coming home in a way. And though I got completely and utterly sick, both of the cold/flu and gastrointestinal variety, it was totally worth it. I am really looking forward to seeing how the next two years goes for this great group of volunteers.

"You campaign in poetry,You govern in prose"- Leo McGarry, The West Wing

This isn't my first time quoting The West Wing on this blog and, I'm sure we can all agree, it won't be my last. Somewhere in the middle of the fifth season, Leo is having a conversation with Josh about making compromises in policy. How doing so is the reality of running a country, a necessary sacrifice. In actuality, Mario Cuomo, the former governor of New York, should be credited with coming up with this in the first place, but you all know where my loyalty lies.

This quote very acutely resonates with my current situation. If you're having trouble recalling my minor FREAKOUT in my last blog post, let me quickly remind you that I am in the midst of graduate school applications. I, however, am not alone in this venture. Many of my Peace Corps peers are also slaving away, racing the clock in order to complete their applications before our time here in Morocco runs out.

As we work our way through our personal statements, our statements of intent, the diversity statements, the resumes, the writing samples and even policy memos, we are all very aware and sensitive to the game we expected to play. We are all in on it. The prospective students. The admissions committees. The language we have to use, the stories we have to sell, the synonyms we have to capitalize on; it's all a part of this game. The lofty expectations that the review committees presume we are all going to meet, only make the playing field more competitive. Because we are all playing the same game. We are writing these idealized versions of ourselves. Much like the poetry Leo speaks of, we are weaving tales of grandeur and hoping the admission committees aren't as sickened by it as we are.

Yet, once we are beyond all of this hyperbole, the real work beings. Once we've commenced our journey towards a law degree, an MBA, or a masters in public policy as I am, it is assumed we are to operate in prose. Long gone are the days of opulence and cadence. Out the window with transcendent syntax and warm, fuzzy alliteration... We are now meant to abide by brass tacks. We shall summate. We shall articulate.

We are to remain impassioned. And we are to remain impressive. Persuasive, even. Poignant. Just sans all that nonsense we were forced to incorporate back then in order to get to this point.

It's exhausting and it is frustrating. Albeit, if some other applicant ends up out-poetry-ing me and accepting a place I was not offered, I hereby promise to not fault the successful participant of a flawed system. As the old adage goes, 'hate the game, not the player'. It's really not their fault, I suppose. It is simply the game.

Though, let's just be clear here. I am the one who plans on playing the part of the successful participant within that flawed system we just spoke of. Just for the record.

"Cause I need freedom nowAnd I need to know howTo live my life how it's meant to be"- The Cave, Mumford & Sons

Hi, My name is Donniell Silva, and I'm overwhelmed.

The first step to solving a problem is admitting you have one? Right? RIGHT?!

So Peace Corps worldwide has developed this delightful little chart that is supposed to identify critical periods in the life cycle of a Peace Corps Volunteer. Monthly checkpoints highlight issues including the anxiety of your initial departure, uncertainty when arriving in final site, mid-service crises around the one year mark, and so on. Here is what the chart has to say about my current state of mind (being one month away from COS - Close of Service):

Issues: Trauma of Departure Concerns about social re-entry Bridging new and former identityRedefinition of career Redefinition of host country

Behaviours/Reactions:FrightConfusionAlienationAnxietyPanicGiddinessImpatienceObsession with Planning and Scheduling

Sometimes I like to fault Peace Corps for their lack of thoroughness when it comes to their reference materials for volunteers, but here I believe they've hit the nail on the head. Many things, almost everything, is coming to a head at the moment; last classes at the Dar Chebab, cleaning out my house for the next volunteer, packing up my last suitcase to bring home, saying goodbye to friends and coworkers, saying good bye to my family, then add grad school applications, job hunting, health insurance paperwork, student loan forms... and it all gets lost in a weird emotional amalgamation of what your life should be and could be. Bleurgh.

As my host mother so poignantly put it the other day, ''I can see your heart is still here, but your head may already be in America.'' Ever so steadily, my focus has shifted from my responsibilities here to my expectations at home. Full days and most evenings are dedicated to writing, reviewing, editing, and submitting statements of intent, personal statements, writing samples, and application forms. I can attest to the fact that I've felt every one of those aforementioned emotions - fright, confusion, alienation, anxiety, panic, giddiness, impatience, obsession with planning and scheduling (not that that last one is all that new) - every hour of every day these past few weeks. Those who know me well know that I like to be in control of any given situation - especially, you know, my life. More than wanting my first choice school or wanting my dream job, I just want to KNOW what the balls I'm actually doing after I leave here. I simply want something to work with. This black hole of time, this abyss of nothingness between now and next fall, is driving me absolutely nuts-o.

At the end of the day though, I am aware of how lucky I am, and how things really will be okay. Things will work out, as they always have. I'll continue to work hard and (insha'allah - how am I going to give that up back in the states?) it will eventually pay off. In the brief moments I have had fleeting faith in myself, my friends & family are always there in steady supply.

During our goodbye dinner at the end of our time at COS conference earlier this month, we had assigned superlatives to everyone in our staj. You know - most likely to be famous, most likely to take over the world, most likely to homeless etc. It amused me and simultaneously gave me hope when my staj assigned me the following superlative: "Most likely to attend Comic Con dressed as Josh Lyman... with the resume and experience to back it up." God willing folks, God willing, indeed.

Yesterday, I finally returned to site after having spent more than three weeks away from good old Sedona-miz. Before heading to summer camp in El Jadida (which will be covered in a later post, surely), I left site nearly a month ago to be a part of two of my dearest friends' wedding - yay Mckinley and Karl (or to those of you playing at home - Marl)!

The trip started off with a few days in Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland, only an hour and a bit south of the ultimate destination - St Andrews. I spent those first few days brunching with friends, wandering through parks and cemeteries, and revisiting the museums of many an Art History field trip. I spent my evenings relishing in undeniably crap terrestrial television and enjoying the easy access of my friends and yours, Ben & Jerry.

Once the day came to head north, I could barely contain myself. Many of my friends, both British and foreign, have managed to make at least one trip back to St Andrews since graduation three short years ago. This girl hasn't. I was like a little school girl as the panoramic view of our small town came into sight over the horizon. I was terrified the few days we had to spend there would pass by much too quickly, and that they did.

Amidst the flurry of accessory buying, rehearsal dinnering, and family & friends meet and greeting, I attempted to soak in as much of the moment as I could, realizing it could easily be another three years before I manage to make it back there, let alone with twenty of my closest friends.

So, before I continue with this tirade of personally touching moments and risk tearing up over a recounting of the speeches (... no really), I'll move on to what I do best, and focus on telling you the story of how I made an idiot of myself during the 24 hours leading up to, and during, the wedding of the century. I give to you: My Vignettes of Fatuity.

Okay, so let's paint you a picture here. My dear friend Anna and I had just had a lovely morning returning to our first year hall of residence, University Hall, reminiscing room to room, creaky staircase to creaky staircase, and after a quick lunch at the Old Union Diner, we rushed to get dressed for the rehearsal ceremony and dinner. Once we all arrived at the chapel, it was announced which bridesmaid was paired with which groomsmen. I had heard in passing I had been matched up with Johan. Now, here's the fun part about a Scottish wedding containing only one Scot - there were more Swedes than anything else, and two Groomsman were both named Johan. I had (preemptively) assumed I was paired with the Johan we had all been friends with for the past seven years, not the rather intimidatingly good looking, tall, dark, & handsome, doctor of a Swede - Johan somethin-somethin-beardy-schmeardy. Mind you, his flight was delayed that afternoon, so, naturally, I was doing this rehearsal walk down the aisle all by my lonesome. At that point, not only was I mildly intimated by Dr. Model-Johan, I was also rather irritated as I looked like a numpty walking down the aisle by myself.

Fast forward to that evening. After an absolutely lovely and touching rehearsal dinner (tears were shed people... also, my table won a Marl trivia game & received Marl mugs!), we all headed to a local pub to meet the rest of the folks who had arrived a day early for Saturday afternoon's nuptials. Now, after a few drinks and mingling with friends and family, I saw that Dr. Johan had managed to arrive. I figured I should go say hi and give him crap about not showing up for his groomsman-ial duties earlier that afternoon. Reminder - I was only a few days out of Morocco and a few drinks in - So I walked up, made the hand shake gesture and, in true Moroccan fashion, moved my hand to my chest in the typical manner of respect. This somehow turned into a chest slap that resounded across the bar, which not only got weird looks from the Doctor, but from everyone else within ear shot as well. Now let me explain, when I usually do the Moroccan meet and greet, I'm usually under enough layers of clothing that any reverberations from the hand-chest maneuver would have been muffled by my conservative dress... Oh ho, not here folks. My spaghetti strap of a dress allowed for a full on belly-flop of a smack against this here upper torso. He stared. I stared. I attempted to utter the cultural excuse, which turned out to be a tipsy mumble in which I'm sure I mentioned something about the loo and scampered off. For fuck's sake.

Don't think I'm done yet folks, there's still at least another two chapters in the 'Why Donniell Shouldn't be Let Out of Captivity' tales. So then comes wedding day. It was perfect. Beautiful. Breath-taking. Until it wasn't. So I managed to make it down the aisle, flowers in hand, heels on, without tripping and eating dirt. Score! I also managed to keep a steady voice while doing a reading from Corinthians halfway through the ceremony. High-five! The trouble began during the recession. So me and the Doctor, the Doctor and I, met up at the back of the recessional train and began to make our way down the nave of the chapel. We managed to be out of step with each other the entire way. We're knocking arms, gently hip-checking each other, and I awkwardly try to skip a step and get back into sync with his stride. Just wasn't happening. I'm honestly terrified to see any pictures that were taken at this stage of the game... him - all stoic and manicured, and me - furrowed eyebrows and hunched over attempting to time the appropriate pace. Bah. Anyway, we managed to make it to the end of the aisle, dis-arm, and I made what I think is a cute and friendly remark of 'Hey, you did your job! You didn't let me fall, thanks!' ... (You all know what's coming next.)... So we moved three steps further, aiming to exit the chapel to the right (only to re-enter moments later at the Eastern door for pictures) and as the rest of the wedding party exited gracefully, I managed to miscalculate how many stairs there were (I guessed one... there were two.) and basically escalatored my way out the back the door. You know what I'm talking about, like when somebody stands behind the couch and pretends to go down an escalator, and the accompanying sound effect is along the lines of 'beeeyyoooooup'. Except I wasn't pretending, I just slo-mo-ed to my knees, in the door way, on the steps, grabbing anything within arms reach on my way down. This included the Doctor. He and the bride's (wonderful) mother pick me back up and we continued on our way. The rest of the wedding party & guests (thankfully) oblivious to the whole thing. Of course, charming me decided to try and joke it off, to which the Doctor is having none of. Literally not even looking me in the eye. I am such an embarrassment.

The evening continues. We are corralled outside the chapel in St Salvator's square for a brief reception before dinner, dancing, and other festivities are to begin. Luckily there was no direct contact with the doctor at this stage as I have scampered off to enjoy the company of some other wedding folk. It is worth mentioning here the amusing scene laid before me. There is a large patch of grass in the centre of the square, making it a rather picturesque scene with beautiful sunshine and blue skies. Though, this scene happened to be spotted with many a lady slowly sinking, and sometimes quite suddenly dropping, into the aforementioned grass. The weather earlier in the week had been rather wet, so the grass was still a bit damp. Thus, every woman attendee's heels were sinking, if not stabbing the land one by one. A brief scan of the area would include at least five women clunking backwards and awkwardly attempting to laugh it off. Myself obviously included. Why we didn't all just move to the cement walkway surrounding, I shall never know.

Once dinner began I resembled a human being for a least a few hours time. Those seated at my table were great company, the food was tasty, and the speeches were touching. It was a grand couple of hours, it was. Then we all made our way to the dance floor one the floor above. It was at this point I somehow missed my cue to dance with the rest of the wedding party as I was retrieving my flats from downstairs (oops), but made up for it in my Ceilidh skills later. The Doctor and I were matched up for Strip the Willow, and luckily he had no idea what he was doing, and thus managed to look like more of an idiot than I for at least 10 minutes. Hamdulilah. The role was quickly returned to its rightful owner though, I assure you.

Once the Ceilidh was finished, a jazz band took the floor and the wedding cake was served. Now this wedding cake was like no other wedding cake, in that it was actually delicious. It was from one of our favourite bakeries in town, and was the same kind of cake my lovely mother would send to our flat for my birthday every year at uni. It was a rich carrot cake with cream cheese icing. Now, on any given day, this cake would have been topped with that cream cheese icing, and that icing alone. I managed to forget for a moment that this was in fact a wedding, and that a glorious (disgusting) coating of fondant would more than likely be coated on top. So, there Iwas, amongst a group of friends, attempting for the last time to make conversation with the Doctor. I suggested we have a piece of cake. He declined politely (watching his model-ish figure, I presume), and I went in for a piece. In my head, I was ready to insist he have a piece after he saw how good the rest of us thought it is. So post-bite, I attempted to argue this point - only to realize that I had taken a bite fondant-side up and this substance was now stuck to the roof of my mouth and I was left licking at it like a dog with peanut butter. ... Kill me.

Really though, other than these small embarrassing setbacks, I had an absolutely lovely time, as did everyone else. The wedding was truly perfection and I couldn't have been more touched to be a part of it. Happily, Mckinley will be coming to visit me here in Morocco at the end of the month! Thirty days of heat and Ramadan will thankfully be ending on a high note :).

To end, Dr. Johan - if you're reading this, I hope you realize that I really am a decent (and somewhat normal) human being with, if nothing else, a sense of humour. If you do not realize this, you must think I'm an ever bigger weirdo than you once imagined. And in that case, you're probably right.

The ladies

The gentleman

The bridesmaidsThe groomsman and a few friends

The happy couple :)

Guess who has two thumbs and got to spend another week beach-siiiiiiide ---> this guy!

Last week, I had the opportunity to spend another few days in my favourite Moroccan city while helping out at one of the last Peace Corps run craft fairs back in Essaouira. For the last couple of years, Small Business Development volunteers here in Morocco have organized craft fairs approximately every three or four months in large cities across the country. Any artisan, association, or coop that the SBD volunteers work with, are invited to bring their goods to the host city for a three to four day long craft fair. These marches are usually held in conjunction with the local government, with the cooperation of the local artisana, and with the financial assistance of USAID. These Peace Corps craft fairs, branded as Marche Maroc, are driven by the idea of quality, set pricing, and fair trade and have been held in cities such as Marrakech, Fes, Rabat, and now for the first time Essaouira.

The extraordinary team of SBD volunteers are the folks responsible for executing such a successful craft fair this past week, and I was happy to offer up my services to help man the actual event. Other sector volunteers were generally asked to be floaters - giving artisans breaks when they needed them, filling in at stations that needed assistance, helping sort out questionable display styles, etc. It was a long week for the artisans and volunteers alike, with seminars and workshops starting at 9am and the craft fair running daily from 11am to 10pm.

The event exposed artisans to a new market for their products, to daily seminars on customer service, brand development, and sustainability, and to a new network of fellow artisans across the country. Unfortunately, as the SBD sector is coming to a close this coming year, this may be one of the last Marche Marocs put on by Peace Corps. As this was assuredly the last Marche Maroc I would attend before COS, I definitely bought my fair share of products!

One half of the craft fair tents on the north side(shoes, carpets, wood crafted goods, jewelry, daggers, embroidery)

Another set of tents on the west side (carpets, jewelry, goats cheese, and music)

Tents on the East and South walls(bags, clothing, embroidery, argan products, skins & pelts, scarves, dolls, metal work, jewelry, stuffed animals)

The table where I spent most of my hard earned dirhams -Ali's association located in Arazan, just outside of Taroudant

Her ladies produce argan oil - both cosmetic and for cooking, as well as Amlou - a spread similar to peanut butter, usually made out of argan oil, almonds, and honey.

Her women also make necklaces, bags, headbands, scarves, and dresses out of beautiful materials. Over the past year I have purchased at least one of each of those products...

One of the many carpet & embroidery vendors

The very popular shoe stand from Taroudant

Traditionally dressed dolls made by Anne's ladies in Touama

Photos curtoesy of fellow PCVs Emily Donahue and Ali Records

So June happened. Apparently I missed my cue and totally blanked on updating this blog for the past month. My bad. I'll give you the same excuses for my absence as I gave my Mudir and see if you find them more compelling than he. Then we'll move on to more riveting information.

The first week of June was spent in Rabat doing a SIDA (AIDS) training for an upcoming (and now passed) Gnaoua festival in Essaouira. The second week of June was spent in Madrid initially dreading and ultimately conquering the GRE. The third week was spent in Marrakech with around 25 other PCVs conducting our first regional meeting under the new format PC Morocco will now be operating by. The last week was spent in Essaouira with nearly a hundred other PCVs enjoying the annual Gnaoua festival. I have since returned to Sedona-miz, enjoyed a few visiting PCVs' company, and sweat more than I have in the last six months combined.

The focus of the month, though, was indeed the Gnaoua festival in Essaouira. Regular readers are aware of my undying affection for this city, so any opportunity to venture westward is a welcome one. Last year, I took some vacation days and enjoyed the festival to its fullest, which mostly meant sun, sand, and unwelcome gestures from unusually high & drunk male attendees. I opted to work the festival this year, balance out my play time with my work time, get my PC karma in line and all. Turned out to be a great decision as I had a wonderful and truly rewarding time doing so.

Peace Corps Morocco has worked with a Moroccan based NGO for the last few years in order to address the target population present at this festival in regeards to AIDS and (this year) STI education. ALCS - Association de Lutte Contra le SIDA, is active nation wide, in more than 12 cities, combating myths and poor education in regards to HIV and STI risk. Our organizations (I'm tempted to fall into Captain Planet rhetoric here... when our powers combine... the power is yours!) have traditionally come together during this festival in order to have the maximum presence possible to reach target festival goers. This year we had over thirty volunteers participate in this education outreach program.

Our primary focus while on duty consisted of canvassing the boardwalk in front of the ALCS pop-up tents. The NGO was offering free HIV testing in addition to free condoms and pamphlets with further disease related information. It should be noted that, naturally, there is little to no sex education present in Morocco. With it being an Islamic Kingdom, 98.7% of its population assumed to be Muslim, there is this nationwide facade that everyone lives by Muslim law, thus no one has sex out of wedlock, no one here would go to a prostitute, and why should I wear a condom? I'm not at risk!, etc etc. The general public knows what 'SIDA' is, and they know it's 'bad', but they don't always know where it comes from, how it's contracted, and what the consequences are. Furthering the point, even though they might have an idea of what SIDA is, next to no one knows what an STI is, let alone that they exist. Thus, this year Peace Corps helped ALCS put together Morocco's first ever STI pamphlet. Albeit, it was mostly cartoon condoms asking each other what these weird symptoms are and what they should tell their doctor, it was definitely a step in the right direction.

The week definitely started out weird though, those first couple stops were super awkward for all of us. I mean, here we are, a bunch of American kids, speaking comprehensive but still messy Arabic, Tash, & Tam, approaching who we assume to be reasonably devout Muslims with lines like 'Hey, you have a minute to talk about AIDS?', 'If you need some free condoms, go that way!', 'It only takes 20 minutes to get tested in that van over there!' I mean, I would have though we were crazy. Lo and behold though, the public came a runnin' and we tested over 600 festival goers, handed out over 5,500 condoms, and spoke to at least double that number. It was surprisingly much more gratifying than I ever thought it would have been.

Mid-shift one afternoon, though, I definitely pondered what had been more difficult: Months spent canvassing the streets of Orange County with Greenpeace about the current risks to the environment? Or a week spent trawling the beach front of Morocco educating locals about HIV? At least the former was in English.

“When Winston Churchill was prime minister and he was told that there were going to have to be major cuts in arts and culture because of the mounting costs of World War II, he responded with a simple reply: ‘Then what are we fighting for?’

Recently, a music festival here in Morocco has encountered an exceptional amount of nation-wide backlash in regards to the amount of money the government is forking over in exchange for some top celebrity appearances - among them Kanye West, Joe Cocker, Cat Stevens, Lionel Richie, and the star in which the most controversy surrounds, Shakira. The week-long Mawazine music festival, which is currently being held in Rabat, has been criticized by the February 20 movement for disposing of national funds irresponsibly as this year's festival budget is rumored to hover around nearly $12 million. The argument they put forward is naturally in line with what the protest movement has been saying all along, that the allocation of government money is not being put in the appropriate place - with unemployment being at what it is, the price of household items on the rise, and the continual presence of corruption, they argue the money could, and should, be put to better use.

In this Foreign Policy article, they mention that 15% of Moroccans live on less than $2 a day. And when the minimum wage is 10.64 dirhams an hour (which, based on an 8 hour work day, is nearly what a Peace Corps Volunteer's salary is.), they ask how the government can be as ostentatious as to pay Shakira 6.5 million dirhams for a single night's performance. I mean, get their point. It isn't hard to. A majority of the population is suffering and thus protesting on a weekly basis (though I still vote they should step up their game if they want anything done). And this majority will most likely not be the ones enjoying Shakira this Saturday night. However, there is a significant amount of the Moroccan population who are more than pleased with the presence of a music festival, especially given the fact that it's free. This country has always been in love with music - and Shakira for that matter - and enjoy any excuse to dance and celebrate. Personally, I am staunchly on this team. Whether or not the exact amount the Moroccan government (and more than a handful of private donors) is paying her is reasonable, I can't say, but the principle behind the matter I am in complete alliance with.

What is a country if not a summation of its culture, traditions, and community pastimes? If in the end, Morocco did decide to pull Mawazine's funding, in addition to the upcoming Gnaoua Festival in Essaouira, the Sacred Music Festival in Fes, the International Film festival in Marrakech, and countless other proudly government-sponsored cultural events, what is the nation working so hard to enjoy? I guess I can only hope to see a sea of smiling faces alongside me this Saturday night.

"I hear the rain a comin',it's rollin' 'round the bend. And I ain't seen the sunshine, Since, I don't know when." - a take on Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues

I don't even know what to say about the weather these days. We had four months of winter without any rain, and then May happened. Since the start of the month it's been non-stop storming. Which, I would complain about more if they weren't accompanied by some epic thunder and lightening. I know I compare this place to Arizona all the time, but these daily afternoon thunderstorms are straight of my childhood vacations to Flagstaff and Sedona. The temperature - thankfully- drops a few degrees and the village comes to a standstill, watching & waiting, until the storm passes a short twenty or thirty minutes later.

Now, there is a lot I would love to write about these days, but somehow it all comes back to feelings tied to, results of, or reactions to the Marrakech bombing and/or the death of OBL. Both of which the Peace Corps has asked us to temporarily suspend our first amendment right on. Though it's a no-go topic for the moment, we'll see how long I can keep my mouth shut for. Probably not that long.

Happy news, however, I'm seeing my brother next week! No, he still isn't allowed to enter the country (note: in addition to military not being able to enter the country, no other Peace Corps volunteers are allowed to vacation here either. It's a complete shutout - Oh, except for us of course) buuuut, I was granted leave on short notice to go meet him in Vienna! So, in addition to seeing my brother, we'll be staying with two of my very good friends and the vacation also happens to coincide with my birthday. Success!

I must say, it has been well earned though. These last few weeks have been chock-full of primary school activities, Medical Clinic preparation, and grant proposal drafting in addition to regularly scheduled classes at the Dar Chebab. Not to mention the copious amounts of GRE studying I'm having to do these days. The five days in Vienna (well, more like three with two days travel) will be a welcome change of pace.

Sidenote: In attempt to come up with some sort of pun for the title of this entry, instead of coming across a classic sausage joke or Schwarzenegger reference, I stumbled upon a mathematical concept of something called a Wiener Sausage... talk about a mind trip. I was SO confused for least 15 seconds.

I got this:

Instead of this:

Ps. It's worth noting that the caption underneath that first picture was: "A long, thin Wiener sausage in 3 dimensions." Not kidding.

No, Clint Eastwood has not randomly come to Sedona-miz. (Though how awesome of a coincidence would that have been? Clint & Sedona. Mmm, yes.) Instead, this is a current summation of this past week's adventures.

The Good:

Weddings. Weddings! Who knew I was such a gosh darn sap? Last Sunday, I had the privilege of witnessing two of my good friends from Uni marry each other, on one of the most beautiful days I have ever seen in London. At the Bingham Hotel, in Richmond Upon Thames, Paige & Harish exchanged vows in front of around 50 of their closest friends and family. I had been excited for the day to come for some time, but I hadn't anticipated quite how touching and wonderful it was going to be. I blubbered all over myself during the ceremony & speeches. Thankfully, I remained composed for the rest of the evening. Champagne may or may not have had something to do with that. Reacquainting with friends I hadn't seen for three years, some even six, was a gift in itself. I felt like I was home again, in a country I adore, with the people I love. Since it's still another six months until I get that feeling back permanently, I look forward to July when two of my very best friends get hitched as well, just this time in St Andrews.

Speaking of St Andrews and weddings and people I went to school with - I'll keep it brief, but my God was the Royal wedding beautiful yesterday. I mentioned blubbering before; it was more of a slow and steady trickle this time... But come on! That dress. And tiara. His 'I'm-quite-pleased-with-myself' smirk. The flower girls. And the choir boys singing. And... all of it. I'm a sucker. So sue me.

The Ugly:

Yes I realize I'm reversing two of the adjectives, but stick with me. The ugly should be quite obvious. There was, as I'm sure you all are aware by now, a remotely-detonated bombing at a cafe in Jma El Fna square in the center of Marrakech yesterday. No, I was not there. No PCVs were injured. No, Peace Corps does not have plans for consolidation or evacuation as it stands. Sadly, 16 people were killed, and around 20 injured they say. Among them French, Canadian, British, Swiss, Israeli, and Moroccan nationals. The cafe is known to be a hot tourist spot, one I've frequented in the past myself, so they believe the aim was at foreigners. Though the ministry of the interior says it has hints of Al-Qaeda, no one has claimed responsibility, so blame has yet to be placed. Here are some articles for more information:

New York Times

Reuters

Al Jazeera

The Bad:

Without making this terrible event at all about me, I'm disappointed in it's timing. There is never a good time for someone to cowardly plant a bomb full of nails in a cafe full of people enjoying their country, for someone to die while on vacation, for people to lose their lives for simply enjoying a cup of coffee. Unfortunately, the ramifications of this incident will extend far beyond those present at the cafe. This will strike hard the tourism industry here in Morocco. An industry the local economy relies so heavily upon.

A direct example of this would be the planned of visit of my best friend, her fiance, and her cousin this past weekend. They were due to fly in on Friday morning, and with the explosion having happened Thursday, this quickly made them question their visit. Well-versed travellers and hardly skiddish, they were forced to cancel their trip under the guidance of 'better safe than sorry'. Which I totally appreciate and understand. Unfortunately, in addition to my best friend, my brother has also been forced to cancel his trip this month. He was due to come for my birthday while on his R&R from the Army in Iraq. Yet, it seems Morocco is now listed as a hot-spot and he no longer has clearance to enter the country.

Lame.

So you see, friends, this week has had its ups and downs.

Yay for weddings. Boo for terrorists.

An anthem we all can stand by, yes?

Shall I make tee-shirts?

How about we take a quick ride back in time to March when the Sedona-miz Dar Chebab played host to a week long free medical clinic serving the needs of both Sedona-miz and the mountain villages surrounding.

I admit I sort of dropped the ball in telling you all about this in a timely manner, but the last month has been a whirlwind, so my apologies. Back to the point, however. So back around the second week of March, a team of three doctors, around eight nurses, and five or so general helper-outers from America hopped on board an airplane headed for Sedona-miz. They were invited by a local ex-pat couple who have been working in medical outreach for sometime here in Morocco. Every year they try and bring out either a dentist or doctor to help the sickly & far reaching ends of the village. They coordinated with two associations I work with here on a regular basis and after persuading the Mudir to allow us to use the Dar Chebab grounds exclusively for a week, we were in business.

We saw on average 150 patients a day who were composed of mostly women and children - we assume the men were either at work or too embarrassed to come to American women with their, ahem, hashuma problems. Over the course of five days we saw everything from the common cold and allergies to head tumors, full body rashes, and more nether-region problems than I could keep count of. If there's one thing I know Peace Corps has got to keep working on here in Morocco, it's SIDA (AIDS) and STI education. Half of these women didn't even know what their problems were or how they possibly could have gotten them. Let's just say I got to know a little more information than I needed to know about my neighbours and extended host-family members.

All in all, it was a productive and successful week with only a few setbacks due to the weather conditions (within the week it went from hailing golf balls to sunny and 90 degrees). The team from America were a wonderful array of young nurses and jet-setting development workers. Met some great people I hope to stay in contact with for sometime to come. With over 720 patients seen and treated, it was one of the more gratifying weeks I've had in Morocco lately.

The Moroccan half of the team, including me, who helped translate symptoms and treatment instructions between the doctors and village patients

The waiting tent outside of the Dar Chebab. You'd swear The Beatles were playing Sedona-miz the way these Berber ladies were storming the gates.

Inside the waiting area before being instructed to go to one of the doctors. (FYI - behind the curtain lies the Gyno room. Forever is that instilled in my memory.)

Doctor checking out a young boy's ear infection. I couldn't exactly take photos of the tumors being removed discretely. You'll have to settle for the excitement of an ear exam.

In addition to exams, the American team brought suitcase upon suitcase of medication to prescribe to those in need. (Most important - Flinstone vitamins I say.) The only people against handing out free meds were the local pharmacies, who apparently had little to no business for almost a month after... whoopsies.

After having slept 13 hours upon my return to Sedona-miz, I now feel up to the task of filling you in on what I've been up to lately. Namely - Spring Camp down in Taroudant.

Last year I worked close to home, spending the week with around 90 kids in Marrakech's Centre D'Accuiel, teaching English, holding an Environment club, touring the region's water treatment plant (which pretty much reeked of methane, never again...). I had originally planned to work up in a town called Azzemour (Tash for olive) which is just north of El Jadida. It had only 18 campers last year, and after having had close to a hundred Spring 2010, 18 sounded like a nice number to have for a week of near-sleepless nights. Fast-forward to a week before Camp 2011 is due to start. I'm informed that Azzemour's Centre D'Accuiel has been closed for refurbishing, I am now being sent to Taroudant. 'Sweet!', I think, 'Two of my good staj friends are working that camp & I've never been south of these mountains, done and done.' Little did I know that 175 kids would be attending... my dream of a calm lackadaisical week with 18 campers dwindled pretty much the second I arrived.

Don't get me wrong, we had an excellent time and did the best we could with 9 PC volunteers & around the same number of Moroccan staff, but with 175 kids, it was pretty much insanity from start to finish. To give you an idea of our day-to-day, here's our daily schedule board:

Fellow PCV Bjai and I were in charge of Beginner-Low English, meaning they pretty much knew squat upon arrival. With a class of around 45 we tried to keep activities as fun as possible, to keep the attention of not only that many people, but the punks that naturally find their way into any camp - in both Morocco & America alike. We did the expected number learning, animal vocab, fruits & veggies, etc. Lots of pictionary was played, men were hung, charades was enjoyed. The highlight, though, was definitely ending each day with about 20 minutes of Hello, Goodbye. A big shout out to the Beatles for creating a song with super simplistic lyrics so that even the most novice of Moroccan English speaker can wrap their heads around it. A Capella accompanied by desk drum beats made for an excellent close of each class. Mental high-five to Pringles-Beginner English Class.

Other than english, PCV Anna and I did a sweet Art club in which we made Origami and friendship bracelets.

We all participated in a Scavenger hunt, Talent Show(s), a 'Religious Night', Improv Comedy, Taroudant Excursions, and a 'Spectac' to wrap things up the last night. Kids had so much fun, they all signed a petition to keep camp going an extra day. No joke. Moroccan staff were obviously as against this as we were, having not slept the entire week. I think we all averaged 2-4 hours of sleep a night, 5 if you were really lucky. And given the sleeping set up we had, that was impressive in itself:

Other random highlights include, but are not limited to:

- The dance five of us conselours did to Taio Cruz's 'Dynomite' for the talent show. There's a video out there somewhere, probably (scarily) (unfortunately), making it's way to facebook soon. It was kind of awesome.

- The random homeless boy that joined our group on a walking tour of Taroudant one afternoon. Seriously the sweetest, most well-behaved Moroccan kid I've ever met, never mind the homeless part. He ended up showing up to camp every day after & just kind of tagging along. We fed him more than I thought was humanly possible to feed a 10 year old, and adored his company throughout the week. Adorable.

- This group of kids that could have easily beaten any group on America's Best Dance Crew. Like, Out. Of. Control. Good. Comparable to those Jabberwocky guys. So cool. So, so cool.

- Taking the winning team of kid's from the scavenger hunt out to smoothies in town. Most were excellent English speakers and we had a pretty awesome & liberal convo while enjoying our fruity drinks. Basically it ended with the American PCVs begging the boys to stay wonderful & sweet and not turn into the gross disgusting jerks that ruin a Moroccan male's reputation. They promised.

- Water balloon fight that lasted a couple days and ended in a one hour battle the last day of camp as the kids were leaving. Anna & Crisi introduced the first balloon in class as a disciplinary action against a punk kid that wouldn't shut up in the back of the room. They listened after that.

Anyway, all in all, another successful and enjoyable week of camp. Met some awesome PCVs I hadn't known before & loved a good chunk of the kids that came. Thankfully, after camp ended, we PCVs spent a good two days on the beach in Agadir, sleeping off the exhaustion in the sun. Just what the doctor ordered. And after another week of class here in Sedona-miz, I'm heading to London for a good friend's wedding on Easter Sunday. Can't wait to wear spring dresses & my hair down and have it be culturally appropriate!

After a whirlwind week of medical clinic duty, (which I will post about shortly, no doubt) I decided to dedicate this Friday to cleaning house and listening to some sweet tunes of my choosing. Ask any PCV and they'll attest to the amount of cell-phone amplified Moroccan music I was forced to listen to during a 50 hour work week at the Dar Chebab...

Anywho, I thought I'd share with you all my musical obsessions of late. So, stay tuned... HA.

First at bat - 'Stack Shot Billy' by The Black Keys

Okay, so, these dudes kind of rock my world. While I'm fully aware they've put out three (badass) albums since Rubber Factory back in 2004, there's something about the grittiness of this record I can't get over. I can literally feel when my insides sync in with the beat of this track in particular. I remember the first time I saw these guys, back in '03, when the opened for John Mayer... Yeah, you read that right. John... Mayer. I didn't get the connection either, but I totally came away from that concert blown away by the opening act and pretty much forgetting anything having to do with headliner. (Yes, I'm avoiding your questions on why I went to a Mayer concert in the first place... I was 16.) I know I'm not the first nor last to express their adoration of this duo - seeing as they won a freaking GRAMMY this year ya'll - but hotdamn, they move me.

Goodbye England - Laura Marling

I. Need. To. Be. Her. She is out of control talented. I've been obsessed with I Speak Because I Can for over almost a year now. It's one of those rare and complete story-telling albums. It's fantastic. The fact it came out of a girl who was, what, 19 at the time? Boggles my mind. She writes with such experience and grace, it's the complete package. For those of you who are into Joni Mitchell, Mumford & Sons, Noah and the Whale, etc, this is for you. I have such a girl-crush on her. Perfection.

Okay, and Rambling Man. Just enjoy.

Gasoline Alley - Rod Stewart

I, along with every other woman in history, have had an old-man crush on Rod Stewart for sometime now. There is just something about his voice in combination with this short (not normally) a capella diddy that pulls at a girl's heartstrings. My crush-age has recently been reignited due to the newest season of American Idol (yes I'm admitting this to the public). I'm sending some serious vibes to that Paul McDonald kid. You hear that, Paul? Mrhaba to Morocco anyyyyyytime.

Maggie Mae - Paul McDonald (Rod Stewart tune)

Not Fade Away - Jack White (Buddy Holly tune)

Apparently, our friend Jack made a surprise stop at SXSW the other day. Saw this clip and died a little inside. The first musical I ever saw was Buddy - The Buddy Holly Story at the Strand Theatre in London's West End back when I was 14. I loved him. I was obviously born some 50 years too late. However, having one of my favourite musicians of all time covering this classic made me happy. Gah, why I am I in Morocco and not touring around the US attending various music festivals again? The Coachella line up made me tear up, SXSW is making me anxious, Bonnaroo is just going to full on make me cry.

This morning I got out of bed this morning thinking... mmm roast chicken sounds divine for lunch today (my brain works like that, sadly). I hadn't had any poultry in site for about a month now. So, after some morning chai tea and strawberries for breakfast, I made my way into town in order to buy a chicken for the day's feasting.

As I was walking along the road, among several sbah-al-khairs (good mornings) from neighbourhood children, I reached my half-way point - the mosque at the end of my road. The Friday prayers had already begun - they last about three hours in my neck of the woods - and I happily enjoyed the melodic chanting as I continued my way down the road towards my chicken guy.

That is, until I stopped dead in my tracks and realized - Hey, dumbass, it's a Friday. During Lent. No chicken for you.

So, I rerouted my trajectory and made my way towards the fish guy instead. The half kilo of fish is now comfortably resting in my fridge for roasted consumption this afternoon.

Ironic that an Islamic prayer call can remind me of a Catholic fast, n'est-ce pas?

So, yeah, about that. We've been over the fact that I don't really subscribe to any particular religion, but I'm a respecter of all, yes? And any probing religious questions I receive here in site are usually answered with the crowd-pleasing line of, 'I know there's something out there, I just don't know if his name is Jesus, Allah, Buddha, etc...' Which, is more or less what I actually think.

Thus, I figure if I went to bat for Islam during Ramadan this past year, I should follow suit and play my cards right this Lent. Doesn't hurt to appease all possible deities, am I right? Plus, I grew up with Lent as a prominent fixture in my household. My Dad even respects the no-eating-meat-on-Fridays thing for the entirety of the year. Living at home at as a kid, I was all about the Fish Fridays, as this usually meant a family dinner at a nice beach-side seafood restaurant was involved. Well, that or the infrequent (and disappointing) Mickey D's fish sandwich... shudder.

Moral of the story is, in addition to the no-meat Fridays for the next 40-odd days, I'll also be putting a hold on all baked goods. This includes cookies, cakes, breads, the works. I figure, in addition to offering up a sacrifice to any of the aforementioned gods, it'll have me looking good for an Easter Sunday wedding in London next month. Win-win!

Today marks the first day in 18 months I actually called out of work due to sickness. (And by call I obviously mean awkwardly text my Mudir in Arabic with English characters and numbers.) In sum - I'm a baby. I rarely get sick, so when I do I totally succumb to my snotty nose and hacking cough. Which is way attractive, I'm aware. Also, I blame the entire thing upon fellow volunteer, Nina. The girl is usually quite lovely company, except it appears her phlegm seems to have gotten me sick in the first place. Though, I suppose,that's neither here, nor there. Since I'll be spending the next few hours cuddled up in bed with a cup of newly sent Chai tea (thanks mom!) and my purring portable heater, I figured I'd shoot you all an update from good old Sedona-miz.

Work here is pretty standard. English Classes have been reduced to Tuesday through Thursday from 4-8 in the Dar Chebab here in town. I used to work there everyday last year with multiple clubs and classes, but as I am now on my third Mudir, things are... ahem, different. Thus, myself and programming staff have decided that my commitment there is fulfilled with three days of solid teaching and I tend to look outside this particular location and find more successful and stimulating work elsewhere. Though, we still conduct the occasional themed day events and week-long projects on a regular basis. Examples of the former being a Road Safety Day, Theatre and Music Events, and a celebration of International Women's Day this past month. An example of the latter being a Free Health Clinic being set-up at the Dar Chebab that will run for five days starting this Sunday.

Dar Chebab

Youth in Dar Chebab during Theatre event

Road Safety Day

In addition to Dar Chebab commitments, I now go to a nearby village on Saturdays in order to work with my close friend & volunteer, Felicie, at her Women's Association. We work together tutoring girls in English for a few hours in the afternoon, and she also recently began tutoring young girls in French for the hour prior (which I'm also sneakily getting something out of...). Funnily enough, since her village doesn't have a high school, the girls we tutor travel daily to my town in order to finish their Baccalaureate education. So, technically, I'm still helping 'my community' by commuting to hers every Saturday. It's a particularly win-win situation as we get to spend our Saturday mornings hiking around the lake in her site, so it's a pleasant way to start the day and the weekend.

In the midst of a hike with the lake in the background

Felice and Hadoc at the start of our lake-side jaunt.

In theory, I spend the next day, Sundays, with Sedona-miz's youth soccer league. However, the last couple of weeks have been an issue due to poor Moroccan bureaucracy. Essentially, we have been waiting on a piece of paper to be authorized in order to give us permission to use the school grounds for practice and tournaments without the school staff or director being present. This wasn't an issue last year, and wasn't an issue at the beginning of this season, but - as things go in Morocco - it became an issue when someone up the ranks was momentarily inconvenienced over a door-locking issue. Insha'allah, things will be remedied again by next Sunday and the season will continue according to plan.

Stretching before game time on primary school grounds

Practice and drills

Group of girls that participated in last year's 7 month season

In a few weeks time, all Youth Development volunteers here in Morocco will be conducting Spring Camps across the country. The Ministry of Youth and Sports are holding double the amount of camps this year than they did last year, to which your natural reaction should be something along the lines of: 'Wow! Looks like things are really progressing! They must be reaching so many more children!' Yeah, totally, right? Until you realize that they have doubled the amount of camps, but not the man-power. Since these camps are 'English-Immersion' style camps, they require a certain amount of volunteers to both conduct classes and coordinate the camps for the week in question. Only, the ratio went from around 1:10 last year to about 1:40 this year quicker than you can say 'Holy chaos, Batman!' There's no possible way these camps are going to run as efficiently as they may (or may not have) run last year. Also, the camp I signed-up to coordinate, may or may not be cancelled. Due to... drum roll please... Moroccan bureaucracy! And the truth of it is, I probably won't find out for certain until the week before the start date. Yay!

All in all, though, I'm content with the work I'm doing and with the momentum I have going. At this point in the game, with just about eight months left (holy crap!), the point isn't to be beginning new projects. It's a matter of successfully maintaining and completing those that you have already set up. This rings especially true within my particular sector, as the Youth Centre starts closing-up shop in June and won't re-open until late September, leaving me with... three to four more months of a solid, routine work schedule. My extra time is honestly being filled with GRE vocab-cards, re-working my CV, and contemplating job options for when I get back. 'Tis the season for beginning to think post-Peace Corps! Crazy.

Okay, so over the last few months, my Papa (or Grandfather for those of you playing at home), has been sending me compilations... er, presentations... glorified chain emails if you will, of a few natural slash man-made phenomena. Essentially, pictures & descriptions of some really cool shit. More specifically - some really cool shit in Norway. (He is Norwegian after all.) I'll give you some highlights (before moving on to my point. Of which I assure you, there is one):

Preikestolen - aka Preacher's Pulpit or Pulpit Rock

Preikestolen is located in Forsand, Ryfylke, Norway, a mere 1982 feet about ground. The cliff is 82 feet by 82 feet wide and would most certainly make me crap my pants. Not unlike this next Norwegian, picturesque delight...

Atlanterhavsveien - aka The Atlantic Road

This stretch of five miles took almost six years to build. There are eight bridges in just under eight kilometers which lies over a stretch of ocean that is known to be hurricane-prone. I can already picture my mother uncontrollably crying and pissing her pants simultaneously.

Which leads me to my aforementioned promise of a point. My trip over the Tishka Pass this past weekend.

I've written of this delightful trek before, as the Tishka connects Marrakech and Ouarzazate, cutting through some of the highest points of the Atlas mountains. With an infinite number of vomit-inducing switchbacks, the beautiful landscape is a suitable compliment the guardrail-less cliff edges. Under normal circumstances, enduring this five hour bus journey without puking your guts out or peeing your pants in fear is an accomplishment in itself.

This past Tuesday, however, a wrench was indeed thrown into this already brazen challenge: popping a flat tire on a CTM bus while turning corner on one of these already intimidating switchbacks. (FYI: I will not be disclosing the state of my underpants at this time.) Luckily, our masterfully skilled driver managed to swing the bus into the general direction intended and we slowly bumbled our way downhill towards the nearest village to find a safe place to park and change the tire. Though a village was in sight, this seemed to take over an hour. Once at said village, it took another two and a half hours to change the humongous wheel - with rather questionable equipment and aging manpower to boot. Alhamdulilah, after an excruciatingly long, cold, mountain-side wait, we were off again and safely made it to Marrakech just over two hours later (and just under four hours late).

However, as the tire burst and I was sent slamming into the passenger-side window, I wasn't sure where I'd rather be: plummeting over the Tishka into a neighbouring Berber village? Or cascading over the edge of the Atlanterhavsveien into the chilly North Atlantic?

Lose, lose I suppose.

In recent weeks, a few videos depicting Peace Corps life have made the rounds through volunteers here in Morocco. I thought it was about time I'd share them with you fine folks. Please take each of the following with a grain of salt. And a change of underwear, as you may risk peeing yourself from laughter. Enjoy.

So you want to join Peace Corps?

You know you're a Peace Corps Volunteer in Africa when...

Why Belle, from Beauty and the Beast, is actually a Peace Corps Morocco Volunteer(Stolen from Rachel - a fellow YD volunteer, via Faye, via Hillary, via many others)

1. She reads books, and people think that's odd. It's especially odd because she carries them around with her all the time.

2. People scream "Bonjour!" at her from windowsills and alleyways.

3. She lives in a "little town...a quiet village."

4. Everyday is "like the one before." (also see: "Every morning [is] just the same since the morning that [she] came to this poor provincial town.)

5. She sees the baker first thing in the morning with the "same old bread and rolls to sell."

6. Minute 1:00 - She excitedly recounts to someone an important story (in her mind), and is politely dismissed because the story has nothing to do with the number or price of produce that day.

7. Minute 1:07 - People in town start talking about her behind her back. She doesn't notice -- it's almost as if they're speaking another language and she's happily strolling through town, oblivious to their comments...just smiling at them the whole time.

8. Minute 1:20 - She hitches a ride on a horse/donkey cart. This is a common occurrence in Peace Corps (though I can only comfortably speak to my experiences in Morocco). Sometimes there's no other transportation available, and hitch on a donkey cart, you must.

9. Minute 1:24 - People are greeting each other, not only saying hello, but asking about their families. Although their greetings here do not extend into the 30-second long salutation that we experience in the bled, I'm sure it would if the song had been longer if American audiences were judged patient enough to sit through that kind of thing.

10. Minute 1:30 - There is an exasperated woman with multiple babies in her arms.

11. Exasperated woman wants 6 eggs, but that's "too expensive." Six eggs would also be deemed preventively expensive in many places here as well.

12. Minute 1:35 - Belle says, "There must be more than this provincial life!" She's complaining again. She didn't say, "I miss peanut butter and Mexican food," but that's pretty much what she meant. Again, note the complaining. Peace Corps Volunteers are EXPERT complainers.

13. Bookstore owner is a cute little goat-looking man. Those are found in abundance in Morocco.

14. Minute 1:50- Belle climbs the ladder in the bookstore and swings it to the other side of the bookshelf. In a Barnes and Noble, this would prompt screaming store attendants, wary of a possible lawsuit when you fall. In Morocco (and in Belle's world), no problem. If you fall, Allah willed it.

15. Minute 2:00 - Belle goes on and on about how much she loves something, which basically requires the nice goat-man to give it to her. You often see this in Morocco.

16. Minute 2:02 - Men staring at her and trying to get her attention.

17. Minute 2:10 - Belle pats a random child's head. This is considered creepy in America, but in Morocco, PCVs are encourages to pat, hold, and feed random children.

18. Minute 2:21 - Belle sits in the town center next to the fountain, (like Morocco - except their fountain works) surrounded by sheep.

19. ...then Belle starts to talk to the sheep. Many a PCV talk to their pets, because they sometimes understand English better than the townspeople (or so they think).

20. Also, at the same moment, you see a woman washing her clothes in the public water source. Hopefully she's not using Tide and exposing us all to dangerous levels of phosphates.

21. Minute 3:00- Townsfolk say they think she's beautiful because she's fair. Moroccans often say this about light-skinned Americans. Belle, on the other hand, probably fancies a nice tan (and could probably use one, too).

22. Minute 3:20 - Gaston wears tight Euro-trash pants and shirt, and obviously thinks more of himself than he should. Reminds me of a few select 20-something boys in Morocco.

23. Minute 3:35-4:00 - Gaston wants to marry the foreign girl because he thinks she's pretty.

24. Minute 4:45 - Townsfolk joyfully remark how Belle doesn't "quite" fit in (even if she has been there for almost 2 years!).

25. Minute 4:55 - Everyone is staring at her.

I hate New Year's resolutions. The idea of formulating something that is inevitably doomed to fail just seems... irresponsible. And counterproductive. Thus, my decision to no longer feel incessantly guilty as a PCV was regarded as more of a second year (of PCV life) mantra than a so-called New Years resolution.

I worked my ass off last year. I gave 110%. I was a freaking PCV poster child. And I happened to feel like crap for most of that year. Let me explain. Any afternoon spent in my house reading, I felt guilty instead of relaxed. Every lunch extravaganza spent with the sitemate, I felt culpable rather than indulgent. Every opportunity given to travel outside of site, I felt reprehensible more than excited. Every 'American' moment I spent in country, I felt like I stole. Somehow, it seemed PST (Pre-Service Training) had instilled a fear in me more than a honed moral code.

To combat this ever-present self-reproach, I had decided to add more classes to my schedule at the Dar Chebab. I declined invitations to regional collaborations to be in-site as much as possible. I took four days vacation in a span of 16 months. And I ended up feeling pretty miserable by the time Thanksgiving rolled around.

It was as if depriving myself of 'American' time was supposed to make me a better volunteer or something. PCVs can get it in their heads that the only way to be a good PCV is to integrate as efficiently as possible. And at some point or another, every PCV makes the mistake of confusing 'efficiently' with 'completely'. We become anxious. We get caught up over not having roughed-it enough or not continuously committing enough. We tend to lapse into brief periods of losing ourselves because we've submersed ourselves in Moroccan-ness beyond the call of duty. Sacrificing a lot of our happiness along the way. Collectively, we need to chill the fuck out.

Going home for the winter holidays was the single best thing I could have done for my service.

And my sanity.

It helped me realign my priorities for why I'm here and why I want to continue doing the work that I'm doing. It helped me appreciate the short amount of time I have left here in Sedona-miz and to enjoy that time doing what makes me happy with the many people in my community I truly care about. It reassured me that I am, indeed, working my proverbial ass off and I do deserve a break every once in a while. I was reminded that even though I decided to give up my previous life to spend two and a half years in Africa, I am still entitled to having an actual life.

I (thankfully) realized that it's totally within reason to stay at home and read sometimes, I don't have to attend every tea or lunch invitation given. My community isn't going to 'tell on me' if I don't make it to every couscous Friday. I don't have to stay in-site just for the sake of staying in-site. If a better opportunity to collaborate or help train presents itself somewhere else, that just so happens to be outside of Sedona-miz, then so be it. I don't have to judge myself or be judged because I'm spending my next few holidays outside of the country for two of my closest friends' weddings, instead of staying in Morocco for them. I didn't come here to be a martyr. None of us did. We came here to learn. We came here to help. We came here to live. And that's exactly what I intend on doing for the duration of my time here.

In order to do our best work as PCVs, we need to better learn how to balance our time. We need to ration our American-ness more liberally into our now almost completely Moroccan lives. Without our own scope of mind, confidence in who are, and fulfillment in our own lives, how are we supposed to help others find their way?

So I haven't written for a month and a half. About that.

After my November post, I had a week of mid-service medicals with the staj up in Rabat - Parasite free! - then headed back to site for a week before I departed for my jaunt up and over the Atlantic for three weeks. While in America, I vowed to completely remove myself from all responsibility in Morocco, which happened to include this here blog, and become an absolute glutton. Mission more than accomplished as I've seemed to gain somewhere in the neighbourhood of 10-15 pounds. Life was wonderful, if not sluggish, but now I'm back and ready to story-tell. So please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their upright and locked position and here we goooooo.

While en route to America for the holidays - snuggled up in my plastic-wrapped, economy-class, Air Canadian blankie - sugar plums, grande lattes, corn dogs, and bacon-related breakfasts danced in my head. The glory of these calorific products multiplied in tastiness exponentially with my expectations beginning to brim over with promise of parades, fireworks, and pure jubilation hitting the tongue with every bite. Turns out, my brain exaggerated. Just a little.

The following is a list of munchies that totally lived up to my unsurmountable expectations. And those that, unfortunately, did not.

Those that more than made the grade:

- Corn Dogs. Okay folks, I'm just calling 'em as I see 'em. I know you're probably tempted to judge my corn-bread-coated-mystery-meat-on-a-stick pick here as it's not exactly haute cuisine, but seirously, it was freaking DELICIOUS.

- Pork Wonton Nachos. Shredded pig. Lotsa (technical measurement) of cheese. On deep fried wonton skins. Um. Duh. Yes, please.

- Seafood. All. Of. It. It makes me really sad my little town only has sardines. One day a week. Of questionable quality.

- Berrrrrries! Blackberries, Blueberries, Strawberries, Rasberries. I had them like for everymeal. On cereal, pancakes, salads, sauces, desserts. It was berry-tastic.

- A Baja Chicken Chalupa. This I had at 2am, post bar-hopping, pool-playing. I don't think it would have tasted as good sober, thus an exception.

- Bratwurst. Do I even need to justify?

- Movie popcorn. I don't know if Paula Dean called ahead to verify the quality and quantity of butter involved, but God bless her parents if she did. Glorious.

- Mushrooms. Corn. Asparagus.

- Cannolis. My god.

Those that failed to impress (aka: those my brain lied to me about for 16 months):

- Starbucks fancy-schamcy-half-calf-no-foam-double-stuffed-extra-hot-saucy-mcsaucy-caramel-toffee-crisp-whip-cream-bad-ass-mama-jamma-venti-whatevers. Seriously, their coffee is good, but like, I couldn't deal with anything bigger than a tall and with more sugar than whatever I put in it myself. It was gag-inducing. Which is astonishing, as I LOVED this shit before leaving for Morocco. Looks like I'm luckily back to buying a buck cup of coffee and not a $5 one.

- Most fast food. Del Taco Burritos? Meh. McDonald's Cheeseburger? Cardboard. Jack in the Box Chicken Sandwich? Stomach Ache. Any and all french fries? Greasy and way too salty. The stand alone exception was the In-n-out Double-Double. Mmmm. Well that and the aforementioned corn dog. God bless the corn dog.

- Red Bull. What the hell was I thinking drinking this stuff before?

- Bud Light. I repeat. What the hell?

- Pizza. Pretty much any take-out pizza. They were gross. All of them. Hard. Bland. Doughy. Greasy. Disgusting. It almost made me sad. But then I had a 'gourmet' one at a swanky Italian place my parents love so much and it restored my faith in the art of the pizza. You give me artichoke hearts, sundried tomatoes, and extra mozzarella on just about anything and I'll testify my faith.

- Cupcakes. So what?

I could continue, but I digress. I did get the new Anthony Bourdain book for Christmas (Medium Raw, go out and buy it), so I suppose I can blame that for my culinary (ha, a significant portion is fast food, not exactly culinary-ific) monologue.

I shall be back to work soon so shall have more Peace Corps related updates sooner than later I'm sure. In the meantime, you might find me posting random (apologies if unwelcome) anecdotes. Otherwise, I'm happy to be home with Jeter!

Ps. Artichokes are back in-season in Sedona-miz, yay!!

"So don't let the world bring you down,Not everyone here is that fucked up and cold,Remember why you came, And while you're alive,Experience the warmth,Before you grow old."'The Warmth', Incubus, Make Yourself 1999

They say that a year into service one senses a lull, a dragging, a low point on the roller coaster of emotion that is being a PCV. After 14 some-ought months, work is routine, experiences familiar, cultural integration commonplace. For all intents and purposes, things are just less shiny and new. Thoughts steer away from immediate surroundings to ever-closer holidays and post-PCV life.

Now, I wouldn't say I've been completely enveloped by this state of mind, but I'm sure about 50% of my allocated active-imagination time most certainly revolves around the aforementioned topics. The thought of going home, being with my parents, seeing the beach, playing with my dogs, eating and drinking till my holiday heart's content - I can taste it. [Quite literally as I'm expecting to gain some serious pounds during Christmas - I'm planning on near double figures (ha, pun apparently intended).] Only 24 days until I'm free to be me. For three weeks at least.

Honestly, I don't attribute this case of cabin fever solely due to being a PCV. Being anywhere for 15 months, with only 4 days of taken vacation, will drive anyone stir crazy. As lovely a place as St Andrews was for Uni, I was itching to go home both at Christmas and summer alike. Never mind the fact Scots speak English, that I had a Starbucks in town and that some of my closest friends were at hand - I still needed out. And obviously a girl who went to Uni abroad and swiftly joined up with the Peace Corps soon after gets sick of home just the same... this roller coaster of emotion Peace Corps warns you about apparently applies to my entire life, not merely my two year stint in Morocco.

However, during a rather testing bus ride this past week - one that included a near-eighty people in a fourty-something capacity, two drunks, one crazy, ticket checkers, two fights between ticket checkers and said drunks, crying children, livestock, and an hour late, two-hour time-span on a usually one hour bus - I was truly about to lose it as homeboy in front of me would not stop turning around and unsubtly staring. Luckily, Branden Boyd and Co. came to the rescue on the good old ipod random shuffle (a serious life saver future PCVs readers) and reassured me that I shouldn't let crap like this get me down and I should, indeed, remember why I came and enjoy the warmth around me while I'm here. There are so many here who have showed me so much love and care and who are more than worth the sacrifice. I just need to recharge my batteries at home it seems and return refreshed and anew. [Shaking it off.]

''Consider this dismaying observation: this chamber has no windows, and no doors. Which offers you this chilling challenge: to find, a way out!'' - Ghost Host, Haunted Mansion

This week is not my favourite. I'm in the midst of a pretty relentless cold, temperatures have taken a serious nose-dive, and my favourite PCV & fellow Sedona-miz-ian has abandoned me. And by abandoned I mean successfully completed his two-year service and is moving on with his life to San Francisco via Paris and Copenhagen. Jerk.

Night before last was his last in town, so we celebrated with Risotto and Key Lime pie. I made the mistake of over-pushing dessert when the poor kid had been making the rounds and stuffing his face with sweets all day. Nothing like a cavity or two as a souvenir of his stay. Any-who, in order to combat any potential waterworks, I attempted to remain devoid of any emotion. Assertively telling (aggressively yelling at) him to avoid any mention of 'I'll miss you'. I think I leaned too far that direction, as upon reflection, I think I came off pretty nonchalant about his leaving... oops. Either way, I'll miss you dude! Officially the best sitemate ever. Not that the replacement has big shoes to fill or anything...

Speaking of new guy! I got to have him, Nathaniel, & Heather (wonderful friend visiting from Scotland) over last Sunday, which also happened to be Halloween night. We had curry pumpkin soup, some pumpkin seeds, and a spectacularly carved Jack-o-Lantern by Nathaniel. It was a perfectly misty night and lots of candles, my meowing cat, and the soundtrack to the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland (don't judge me) helped set the mood. The evening was brought to a close with a group viewing of Shutter Island. Not too shabby, Halloween 2010, not too shabby at all.

Nathaniel & I

Halloween Feast

AHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Carving in Action

So after two years of hard work, it seems he did, indeed, find a way out. Well done & good luck!

So a few of you may have heard through the grapevine that while I was up North helping out with the new staj's training, a bit of baiting and switching occurred here in Sedona-miz. It went a little something like this:

I was happily up north, in a gorgeous mountain town near Fes, enjoying my time with five bright-eyed PCTs when I get a text from the sitemate.

'So, I went to your house to borrow some butcher paper [to wrap his backpack and ship it home] and there's no sign of Jeter. There is, however, food, water, and shit all over the place. Would your family have taken him? Or should we be worried.'

Panic set in. I was about 11 hours away with only my host-sister's phone number who is currently living in Marrakech... Hmm. I text her anyways asking about my kitty's whereabouts. I text her again the next day. And again the next day. To no response. I get another text from the sitemate maybe three days later stating:

'So I'm 99% sure the cat that is now in your house is not Jeter.'

?!?!?!1alhj92i3d$!35oj3i1?!?

Right. Time to call the host-sister.

'Hey! No evil? Everything good? Thank Allah. You know where my cat might be? Nathaniel is pretty darn sure the one in my house isn't Jeter'

'Nope, it's definitely him. He just gained a lot of weight, he got really fat!'

'Where was he? How did he get out/back in?'

'He was ... at the neighbours... through a window... lots of food... scratching host-brother... I brought him back when I was home this weekend.'

'Okay, I'll trust you! See you next week, Take care of your head'

And so I then called Nathaniel.

'Um so host sis said [insert aforementioned scenario here]'

'[Guffaw] HA there is no way that this cat is Jeter, but let me know what you think when you get home tomorrow'

So I travel back to Sedona-miz, debating any and all possible scenarios of what the heck went down while I was gone. Did Jeter jump out the window in desperation due to loneliness? Due to starvation of host-family innocently forgetting to feed him? Did he scamper out the door when the opened it? Was he hiding/dead inside? Is this even my cat in my house? Why would they have switched him? Do they think it's really him or do they feel guilty for losing/killing mine? Whaaaat happened?

The bus arrives. I drag my belongings up the hill. I put the key in the door and hear a meowing on the other side. After opening the door I was face to face with one BEAST of a feline. Other than mild colour similarities, this most certainly is not my animal. This monstrosity was at least three times the size & weight of my cat, snarling, and following me around the house incessantly. W.T.F. So I called Nathaniel to help a) get rid of this grotesque freak of nature and b) find my poor little kitty. We accomplished goal a relatively quickly, disposing of the vermin just up the street. Part b proved more difficult.

It wasn't until three days later, while getting dressed for work, that I heard a familiar meow outside my window. There, in the garden, was Jeter. I booked it down the stairs, down the street, and around the corner half dressed and in slippers to grab my emaciated and affectionate little kitty.

For the record, I still have no idea what actually happened.

Jeter

The imposter.

This Sunday, I'll be leaving Sedona-miz for a couple of weeks in order to help out with the new staj's training up north. Thus, my presence here in blog-land will be scarce if not non-existent. So without any further ado, and with brevity on my side, here are a few random musings over the last little while:

- The horrible sensation of spiderweb passing over my face, dragging it's sticky appendages along my cheek and forehead, has not happened in over a year. Until Tuesday. When I took a shortcut home from the Dar Chebab. One I won't be taking again any time soon.

- While bucket bathing today, I managed to get some water up my nose while rinsing off my face with my mini-rinse bucket. At first I had the usual 'gack-ahh-uckha-fmmmmmsh-sniffle-woah' reaction. Until, all of a sudden, I was back swimming in the pool with my dad, while he incessantly dunked me over and over again, until - like today - some chlorinated agua would find its way up my nasal cavity. The memory, however, was a happy one. The stinging, gaging sensation seemed to come with a side of nostalgia... sigh.

- I had my first sweet potato in over a year yesterday. It... was... MAGICAL. Why didn't anyone remind me how delectable those are? I literally, like, exclaimed out loud - to no one in particular, mind you - that this was the most fantastic thing I've eaten all month. All year, even. I mean, my God. How long does batata hlwa season last here in Morocco people? Anybody? Bueller?

- People in my town LOVE the fruit-in-baked-goods thing. It's not something you find much around Morocco, but it is obviously a good old American past-time. Banana bread, peach pies, carrot cake, zucchini bread, and today's apple cake have all been big hits with my local friends and family. However, gingersnaps have been met with some serious suspicion. Traditionally, ginger is strictly used in savory cooking here in Morocco. So for me to use it in a dessert makes them seriously question my cooking ability. It'd be like them serving us garlic-chocolate cake... or something along those lines. I hear a few other volunteers have had their communities love them, however, so maybe I just have to sell the idea better.

- For the first time in over... it's got to be at least 10 years now, my bangs - fringe to some of you readers - are finally long enough to put in a ponytail! I know, not news worthy stuff right there, but in Morocco - where showers are in frequent and styling is unheard of - this is a happy day indeed.

- A few weeks ago, the sitemate, my mother, and myself had an unlikely conversation about which Bruce Springsteen song was the sexiest... the candidates included:

I'm on Fire

Dancin' in the Dark

Fire

Though all three of these songs do carry the theme of 'fire' throughout, the latter, I feel, is the most worthy contender. I mean... C'MON people. So do any of you all out in blog-land care to weigh in on this superiorly intellectual debate? Feel free to submit your own nominations below.

"You know the difference between you and me? I want to be the guy. You want to be the guy, the guy counts on." - President Bartlett to Josh Lyman, The West Wing Sometime during season 4

In addition to adding one more reason to the infinite list on why Josh Lyman and I are soul-mates, the aforementioned quote, I have recently realized, succinctly defines my current assessment of self.

Within the scope of career, of relationships, and of life, I've prided myself in being a person - that for lack of a more refined, scholastic term - gets shit done. My resume and past employers would croon over my willingness to do what others might not, to accomplish more than what is asked for, and to do it all with a smile on my face. I consistently expect myself to overcome any self-doubt and push aside any self-interest in order to facilitate the most efficient outcome for that of the greater good.

It is only recently I've been wondering to myself - why? Since a young age, I've seen myself wanting others to foster an image of me as responsible, reliable, and true to my word. In recent conversations with my best friend back in London and my current sitemate-extraordinaire, I've been challenged with assertions such as 'well, why aren't you 'the guy'?', 'what makes you feel the need to carry those expectations?' and 'why can't you just say no?'. Honestly, I'm not really sure what the answers are to any of those questions at the moment.

What I am sure of - after a year of facilitating cross-cultural communication while being a PCV, after a year of lobbying in Orange County for environmental legislation with Greenpeace, and after four years of studying International Relations at a truly international university - is that I'm looking forward to the path I've dictated for myself in being civil servant. Somewhere along the line, whether it be my parents, my superiors, or my surroundings, something has instilled a sense of duty within me I recognize I am not one to avoid.

Despite the difficult times I've been through, will go through, and most certainly am experiencing right now, it's important to contextualize those events and resolve them as not being a part of the bigger picture. F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, 'The test of first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.' For me to simultaneously hold the frustration, resentment, and disappointment I may feel at times with my current situation in conjunction with the perspective, hope, and determination I have to not only make it work, but to make it better, I believe speaks to what Mr. Fitzgerald was alluding to.

To put it very ineloquently - I do believe I embody a certain level of intelligence, and I want to use that power for good and not evil.

So I address this to you, future bad guys - who will more often than not be Right-Wing Republicans - watch out. This guy - a guy some other important guy counts on - is ready to battle.

Ps. I truly apologize for any self-righteousness or pompousness that may have come across during this entry. I simply felt compelled to put my internal mission statement to paper, er, blog.

The October 15h issue of Rolling Stone features an interview with Obama, reflecting on the usual agenda such as the economy, global warming, and the BP oil spill. However, things you probably won't read anywhere else but RS include the following:

What do you think of Fox News? Do you think it's a good institution for America and for democracy?

[Laughs] Look, as president, I swore to uphold the Constitution, and part of that Constitution is a free press. We've got a tradition in this country of a press that oftentimes is opinionated. The golden age of an objective press was a pretty narrow span of time in our history. Before that, you had folks like Hearst who used their newspapers very intentionally to promote their viewpoints. I think Fox is part of that tradition — it is part of the tradition that has a very clear, undeniable point of view. It's a point of view that I disagree with. It's a point of view that I think is ultimately destructive for the long-term growth of a country that has a vibrant middle class and is competitive in the world. But as an economic enterprise, it's been wildly successful. And I suspect that if you ask Mr. Murdoch what his number-one concern is, it's that Fox is very successful.

What do you think of the Tea Party and the people behind it? I think the Tea Party is an amalgam, a mixed bag of a lot of different strains in American politics that have been there for a long time. There are some strong and sincere libertarians who are in the Tea Party who generally don't believe in government intervention in the market or socially. There are some social conservatives in the Tea Party who are rejecting me the same way they rejected Bill Clinton, the same way they would reject any Democratic president as being too liberal or too progressive. There are strains in the Tea Party that are troubled by what they saw as a series of instances in which the middle-class and working-class people have been abused or hurt by special interests and Washington, but their anger is misdirected.And then there are probably some aspects of the Tea Party that are a little darker, that have to do with anti-immigrant sentiment or are troubled by what I represent as the president. So I think it's hard to characterize the Tea Party as a whole, and I think it's still defining itself.What has surprised you the most about these first two years in office? What advice would you give your successor about the first two years? Over the past two years, what I probably anticipated but you don't fully appreciate until you're in the job, is something I said earlier, which is if a problem is easy, it doesn't hit my desk. If there's an obvious solution, it never arrives here — somebody else has solved it a long time ago. The issues that cross my desk are hard and complicated, and oftentimes involve the clash not of right and wrong, but of two rights. And you're having to balance and reconcile against competing values that are equally legitimate.What I'm very proud of is that we have, as an administration, kept our moral compass, even as we've worked through these very difficult issues. Doesn't mean we haven't made mistakes, but I think we've moved the country in a profoundly better direction just in the past two years.You had Bob Dylan here . How did that go? Here's what I love about Dylan: He was exactly as you'd expect he would be. He wouldn't come to the rehearsal; usually, all these guys are practicing before the set in the evening. He didn't want to take a picture with me; usually all the talent is dying to take a picture with me and Michelle before the show, but he didn't show up to that. He came in and played "The Times They Are A-Changin'." A beautiful rendition. The guy is so steeped in this stuff that he can just come up with some new arrangement, and the song sounds completely different. Finishes the song, steps off the stage — I'm sitting right in the front row — comes up, shakes my hand, sort of tips his head, gives me just a little grin, and then leaves. And that was it — then he left. That was our only interaction with him. And I thought: That's how you want Bob Dylan, right? You don't want him to be all cheesin' and grinnin' with you. You want him to be a little skeptical about the whole enterprise. So that was a real treat.Below is a clip of Dylan's performance at the White House during an event celebrating the Civil Rights Movement back in February of this year.Full article available at: Rolling Stone

My friend Matt - whose blog can be checked out via the links on the right - recently wrote a post about competition and rivalries within the PCV community - in regards to whoever 'roughs-it' more is somehow a more valid PCV than another. I'll let you read his blog in order to weigh in on that argument, but it got me thinking how my own home stacks up against others within the PCV world.

At one point or another, every person I've spoken to on Skype has wanted a virtual tour of my home here in Sedona-miz. And though I do have internet in my house, my computer is attached to at least three cords and the telephone at any given time. Thus, not the most portable thing to lug around in a spur of the moment interest in my living quarters.

So, after doing a massive clean yesterday - which included squeegeeing water from one end of the house to the other and out through a tiny mouse hole - I felt motivated enough to do a little video tour which can now be viewed below. I apologize in advance for my utter awkwardness.

My Home in Morocco:

And for comparison's sake:

A PCV's Hut in Zambia:

A PCV's Apartment in China:

"I'm not comfortable with violence, I know this country has enemies but I don't feel violent towards any of them." - 'President' Bartlett, The West Wing

Today began my adventure to make my way through the entire series of The West Wing. I found myself, by the second episode, physically compelled to hug Martin Sheen after hearing him speak the words above. If only every world leader felt this way.

On the ninth anniversary of September 11th, I find myself exhausted. Not by daily activities, not by overbearing responsibilities, and most certainly not by current work load (Happy L'Eid everyone!), but rather by the media coverage surrounding a certain Terry Jones and his Dove World Outreach Centre. The volume at which this has received attention is deafening. And I'm still uncertain as to how exactly the world let a maniacal single radical voice speak for an entire nation.

What surely began as a Gainesville local news blip about an off-his-rocker pastor with a demented plan to mark this tragic day, the international media followed - chomping at the bit of a shock-factor headline. In allowing a minuscule fraction of radical opinion to penetrate the image of America both domestically and to the far reaches of the world, ignited an equally radical response from those nations we have already been building to resolve unsteady relations. From Pakistan to Afghanistan, burnings of American flags and effigies of Mr Jones followed mere mention of their holy scripture being torched.

With both ideologies being so utterly rash and audacious, the impulse to grab each side by the ear and drag them to separate corners permeates my instincts. The level of frustration, bafflement, and helplessness goes beyond words. Being an American and realizing these bonfire planners also call themselves American is nauseating enough. Being an American in an Islamic Kingdom watching this blasphemy on television with your Muslim family is frankly embarrassing, if not mortifying. With all the love and generosity that has been shown to me over the last year of my service, I can't imagine how some Americans are being brainwashed by such a man as Mr Jones.

He mentioned at one point that he would only suspend burning plans if he was to meet with the Imam (or Iman as he incorrectly put it) and was promised that the Islamic Centre would not be built near ground zero. To quickly list few of the infinite reasons why this completely illogical and uncalled for - the centre would be two blocks from ground zero not marking where the two towers once stood, remember that one time we had a first amendment?, the centre includes multi-faith prayer rooms, a swimming pool, a children's play space, classrooms - anything a successful community centre would have. The entire discussion over the ill-placement of this compound is beyond me.

America desperately needs to be reminded that 'It was not a religion that attacked us that September Day, it was al-Qaeda' as President Obama spoke recently. Islam is a beautiful religion. As is Christianity and Judaism. And so, this weekend marks significance in all of our walks of life. Whether it is celebrating our first year of Peace Corps service (pats on backs fellow '09 volunteers), remembering those we lost on that fateful September day, celebrating L'Eid al-Fitr and the end of Ramadan, or Rosh Hashanah and the Jewish New Year, I urge you all towards peace, love, and compassion, and at least an attempt at understanding.

So due to my lack of cognitive function while half-assting, this entry will be in list form.

Top 5 things that occupy my time right now:- Finding random things to blog about (which can be counter-productive to my intelligence level... see my recent hair-related post.)- Talking to my cat like he understands me (who else can I vent about how big a douche Don Draper is? A remarkably attractive douche nonetheless.)- ...Watching Mad Men. I recently acquired the entire series on my external hard drive . Dangerous.- Hanging out with the site mate. He brought me banana bread today. He made banana bread yesterday so he could bring it to me today. We literally schedule fake activities in order to occupy time. Oh, Ramadan.- Tidying. Sometimes I just bake something so I have something to clean up. I can't wait for work to start again.

Top 5 things I google to kill time:- http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/ (you're welcome.)- http://www.2birds1blog.com/ (again, from Alli & I to you, you're welcome.)- Things vacation related, so mostly things London & St Andrews. Just recently Paris as Alli & I are beginning to plot...- http://www.foodnetwork.com/ and http://allrecipes.com/ to make the most of what produce is available this season.- My favourite restaurants' menus at home. It's like food porn. I'm ashamed. Only a little though.

Top 5 foods now available at souq:- Figs! Oh the glory.- Melon, more specifically one we call bitekh. Not sure what the equivilent is in English, but it kind of looks like 'Hey Arnold!' 's head but yellow with parallel grooves. Delish.- Cauliflower. The closest I or my pocketbook is ever going to get to broccoli, so I'll take it.- Grapes. Though, if only they were seedless.- AVOCADOOOOOOOOS. Alhamdulilah.

Top 5 newly acquired albums:- Buena Vista Social Club - Buena Vista Social club.... what took me so freaking long?- Otis Redding - The Very Best of Otis Redding... his cover of The Stone's 'Satisfaction' is spectacular.- Espoire 2000 - Calculeuse - I dare you to not dance around the room your in right now to this. I dare you.- Gorillaz - Demon Days - I had completely forgotten how good they were. Kids with Guns strikes a chord somewhere within my shoulder-control-nervous-system. I can't help grooving along even at inopportune times. In public places.- Edith Piaf - The Very Best of Edith Piaf - You know, preparing for my Spring Paris trip... and being Marion Cotillard in my next life. Padam, padam, padam....

Top 5 reasons I wish I had been in the states this summer:- My brother's Anchorman themed going away party. Neat-o gang!- Seeing Wolfmother do this. And this. A little piece of me dies every time I watch that.- Summer + beach + booze + bbq + sports + music festivals- I miss my dogs.- Air conditioning.

Top 5 reasons I'm glad I was here instead:- Avoided getting too heated over Arizona SB 1070- Moroccan Summer Camp on the beach- Experiencing a full-fledged Ramadan- Hanging out with the host-family- 4's good.

Top 5 movies I wish I could have seen in theatres:- Inception - Scott Pilgrim vs the World- Shutter Island- Alice in Wonderland- Black Swan (but, wait, I do! I'll be home when it's still out insha'allah)

Top 5 things I hated about Sex & the City 2:- 3 couture outfits on a camel trek? Seriously?- The fact the whole thing was blatantly Morocco with CGI'd Abu Dhabi-ness cut & pasted into the background.- The pretty disgraceful comments the made against Islam and the ridiculous scenes that followed them.- The karaoke sequence made me physically uncomfortable.- The entire thing.

Top 5 things I love about Ramadan:- How satisfying anything and everything tastes the moment the sun goes down.- Harira. My host-mom makes a grated carrot based version. Fantastic.- Fish balls. My family is a big fan.- Village's communal daylight hour suffering.- The fact it's ending in less than a week.

Top 5 things I'm looking forward to these next few months:- Dar Chebab opening again and more posts about actual work than what I'm biding time with.- Helping to train the newbies once they arrive in country in a few weeks and getting to go to Fez to do it.- Eid Kbir and all of the meat and nasty bits that goes along with it.- Heather visiting at the end of October and the arrival of my new site mate!- Going home via London on the 13th of December. Only three months to go.

Top 5 things I'm not looking forward to these next few months:- Travelling out of my site A LOT and working a total of around 5 weeks in Sedona-miz before shipping out in December.- Smelling like sheep for the month following L'Eid- My host-sister moving to Marrakech for University... tear... but I'm so proud!- My brother leaving tomorrow for Iraq and not seeing him for two straight years.- My site mate leaving in November. I may or may not cry. You can probably bet on it.

Ps. Remember that one time people used to comment on my blog? Where'd you all go!

“Operation Iraqi Freedom is over, and the Iraqi people now have lead responsibility for the security of their country.” - President Obama

Yesterday, President Obama spoke from the Oval Office to the American people, informing us that the combat mission, which has lasted for the last seven years in Iraq, is now over. After 20 months in office, the President has begun to follow through on his campaign promise. With Operation Iraqi Freedom now complete and the remainder of troops due to return by December 2011, his attention will now focus on the domestic economy and the ongoing war in Afghanistan. As of today, the majority of troops have been pulled out of Iraq, leaving nearly 50,000 in-country to help rebuild and reorganize as part of Operation New Dawn.

Source: Centcom via http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-us-canada-11147300

"We have sent our young men and women to make enormous sacrifices in Iraq, and spent vast resources abroad at a time of tight budgets at home... Through this remarkable chapter in the history of the US and Iraq, we have met our responsibility. Now, it is time to turn the page." - President Obama

Joining rank with those still stationed, my brother will be deployed next week, exactly one year to the day after my own departure to Morocco. Despite any apprehension or anxiety about my brother's deployment, this seems as good a time as any to be there. Combat having, in theory, come to a close, his role will now be to train, advise and support those of a war-torn country. It seems we may not be so far apart in job description as we once thought.

My mom always says she doesn't know what her or my dad did wrong to drive both of their kids so far away from home. I, for one, think it speaks more to what they did right.

I'll refer you to my favourite The Roots song in order to best appreciate this post.

So, remember that one time I've been in Africa for a year? Well, in addition to losing my ability to speak English properly and developing questionable showering patterns, I've also let my hair do as it pleases. Which means getting really effing long and returning to its natural darker blonde state. Resulting in this:

An obviously flattering picture of me giving Pete a thick-cut Mohawk

Which I was originally disappointed in letting happen. Until, wouldn't you know it, I realized my progressively darkening locks were hippest of trends back in the good old US of A. Please turn your attention to exhibit A + B:

Lauren Conrad & Kristen Cavallari of Laguna Beach & The Hills

Two fellow Orange County-ans recently sporting intentionally darker roots & lighter ends. Though this is hardly remarkable I suppose, as Southern California beach hair has almost always resembled this (however, usually closer to a white bottle blonde I will argue). But I stand by my case due to the following examples:

On set Blake Lively and Drew Barrymore

Both these celebrities are working this trend hard. And not only is Blake Lively sporting it, this photo was taken during a shoot for the upcoming season of Gossip Girl. Serena Vanderwoodsen is embracing it all the way in Manhattan, far away from the beach bum excuse in California.

So whether or not it looks good - and let's be honest, it doesn't - I, apparently, am schwiya in-fashion all the way out here in Morocco. Boo-ya.

Alli & I flashing some pearly whites.

"I write. I travel. I eat. And I'm hungry for more." - Anthony Bourdain

I can't believe it took me this long to tap into the secret foodie society within Peace Corps Morocco. Within the last few weeks I've found others, like myself, who are volunteers by day - food aficionados by night. Sharing a common bond of all things Food Network, Top Chef, and Food & Wine Magazine, I've been able to let my gastronomic geek side of me run free for a bit.

For the last few nights my friend Kathryn has been staying with me and after a few dropped cues - her Marrakech article in Food & Wine, my Anthony Bourdain t-shirt, and a mutual decision to have huevos rancheros for brunch - we realized we had much more in common than we originally thought. Thus, our morning quickly turned into a Top Chef season 7 download session and a heated debate on whether Angelo, Ed, or Tiffanie was going to win.

Debate then turned to discussed frustration on the inability to cook pretty much anything seen on the aforementioned Bravo program. Any given dish on this series requires at least one key ingredient that is nowhere to be found in this village, this province, this country, let alone region of the world. If it doesn't consist of a base of onion, potato, carrot, or green bell pepper, I can pretty much guarantee you it can't be done. Don't get me wrong, I'll experiment and substitute until almost no stretch of the imagination can get you back to it's original identity, but I'll still make damn sure it tastes good.

Between Kat and another few foodies at camp, I've gotten my momentary fill of Paula Dean, Two Fat Ladies, and Tom Colicchio, followed by marathon viewing sessions of No Reservations and a late night screening of Julie & Julia.

I think I'm going to bake today.

So after successfully hibernating in my house for 48 hours now, I have mustered the courage to combat this here blog and rejoin the land of the living. Huzzah! The need to hide out for a wee while in my humble abode was due to being on the road for just over three weeks - a little vaca, a little camp action, a little visit up to PC headquarters. The month of August had treated me pretty well, up until the start of Ramadan. With the help of some seriously sub-par food served towards the end of our camp extravaganza, my bowels and I were at war and decided to take cover once back in Sedona-miz, much to the chagrin of my host family, who has tried baiting me out of my fox hole for many a day now. Tomorrow, insha'allah, tomorrow.

Despite any gastrointestinal pyrotechnics I may have been dealing with, this last month has been one of my favourites here in country. I got to spend a lovely couple of days with some of my best friends in country down in Agadir just before camp started. We ate, we drank, we burned. Us white folks will never quite learn our lesson when it comes to pacing ourselves in the sun. Nevertheless, ice cream, cheeseburgers, and beer healed our summertime wounds and refueled our group morale just before the start of the last session of camp.

Now, I can't speak for anyone else, but I was a-feared going into session 4, Ramadan session, of camp. I'd heard some horror stories from previous sessions about inter-staff tension, inter-pcv tension, crap food, bratty city kids picking on our bled kids, the sub-par living conditions we had to look forward to. I may not have emitted it, but going in as co-coordinator of this session, I was definitely glass half empty. Hamdullah, was I wrong or what.

I don't think our camp could have gone smoother if we tried. Though there were a few minor things out of anyone's control - the barracks we were sleeping in, the humidity, and some inter-moroccan-staff issues - I can safely say all PCVs involved had a freaking blast. I couldn't believe how great the kids were during our session. With just over 80 total, half bled, half city, they got on like a house on fire and treated all of us counselors with respect and like friends. We had no issues between the most urban Casa kids and the most backwater rural kids. Everyone intensely bonded with their country teams and camp played out like we all hoped it would.

I was also pleased to find out how much I really enjoyed the company of the second year volunteers working with us. I had heard great things about all of them previous to arriving in El Jadida, but I didn't expect to bond with them as much as I did. It's a shame that within Peace Corps Morocco, we are all so separated from each other within the country. This was my first time meeting a few of them, and unfortunately, probably my last before they COS in November. A truly great group of people though, whose company I enjoyed very much - air guitar sessions, halloween dress-up, that's-what-she-said-ing, and 4am ftur-ing all included.

If you want to be in the correct mind set for picture viewing, I will refer you to these tunes as the happenstance soundtrack of summer camp:

Stromae - Alors on Dance, or what we PCVs commonly referred to as ' I LOVE DANCE ' complete with Night at the Roxbury head tilts.

Shakira - Waka Waka, this is like dance party GOOOOOLD in Morocco. This was played at least a handful of times any place I've been before, during, and after the World Cup. After learning the dance that goes along with it, us PCVs are an African force to be reckoned with.

The Isley Brothers - Shout!, us PCVs definitely performed this during the final show at camp, Duncan holding down the fort with lead vocals and us ladies working the ever present 'wooooooo' and 'shoobie doowa dowa wa wa wa'-s. Good times.

Ali, Audrey, me and Alli in Agadir

Shakira's 'Waka waka' in action

David, Alli, and myself in Essaouira at sundown

Beach time in Agadir

Beach time continued

A little Bohemian Rhapsody air guitar session never hurt anybody

Kid's lining up for announcements

United Arab Emirates Club in action

Legit boy band status during 'spectac' our last night at camp

Most of the PCV staff involved in session four

Prepare yourself for a totally un-related to PC rant.

I had an unfortunate run-in with this yesterday. At an exhibition entitled 'Inside/Out' held by SHOP at SHOWstudio.com, Lady Gaga decided it was her place to contribute an original piece to an exhibition that focused on 'the idea of seeing inside ourselves, using body parts and internal organs as visual imagery'. By simple description of this show's expectations, it seemed appropriate enough Gaga could contribute some wack-a-doodle something-or-other with enough shock value to satisfy the press. However, she decided to tread on dangerous territory, one close to my heart.

Gaga took it upon herself to mimic and/or mock my favourite artist of the 20th century, a one Marcel Duchamp. Duchamp was a driving force behind the Dada movement, which thrived around the time of the first World War, roughly 1916-1922. An artistic, social, and cultural phenomena which was mostly labelled as irrational, illogical, and anti-art, was in my opinion, largely underestimated in it's intelligence and wit, Duchamp displaying both these qualities at their finest.

Though The Fountain of 1917 was never my favourite Duchamp piece ('The Bride Stripped Bare of Her Bachelors, Even' of 1915-23 (one which he wrote an extraordinary book analyzing) and 'Etant Donnes' of 1946-66 would hold that honour), the role it played in identifying what made art art, was crucial to what would come after it. By taking an everyday urinal, turning it on it's side and choosing to have it serve a different purpose, gave it it's freedom to become something else entirely. In his own words:

"Whether Mr Mutt made the fountain with his own hands or not has no importance. He CHOSE it. He took an article of life, placed it so that its useful significance disappeared under the new title and point of view – created a new thought for that object." - Marcel Duchamp, 1917

The historical importance of it's creation was the most significant definition of art qualification until Brancusi's 'Golden Bird' of 1926. In short, Brancusi's sculpture had been sent to a buyer in America and was highly taxed due to it being deemed an import of raw material rather than a tax-free import of art. Thus, igniting a further dialogue of what qualifies art as being art. A mission Duchamp fought for the duration of his career.

So, as long winded as my point may be, for Lady Gaga to have the self-righteous arrogance to write 'I'm not fucking Duchamp but I love pissing with you' on the side of rotated urinal is just ridiculous. What's more frustrating is to think that if it had been someone else, anyone else really, Duchamp may have gotten a kick out of it himself. He was a fan of manipulating other's work after all -L.H.O.O.Q of 1919 - but this dumb pop-star I'm sure knows nothing of his career besides this single shocker, which I'm sure she's only seen on a postcard in a gift shop somewhere. I'll refer you to a few posts back when I displayed another one of her 'inspired' references.

Anyway, listen here Gaga, stick to your music. Keep dancing around in malleable pvc, making out with Alexander Skarsgard, and dying your hair until most of it seeps into your brain. I'm down with that. Just leave physical art out of it. It's not your forte. Leave my Marcel alone. Thank you.

Gaga's poor interpretation

Duchamp's The Fountain - 1917

I don't know how to pin-point it exactly, but I am one happy camper today. Could have something to do with this spectactular iced latte I've made myself (thank you Miss Allison Moss for the fantabulous suggestion), or maybe the couple of beers I had poolside yesterday? Fresh laundry on the roof drying? Hot but breezy weather whooshing in my bedroom window? Whatever the cause, it is a welcome change from the gloomsville mood I was in last week. Mrhaba crazy grin.

One thing that has put in me in this joyous mood is the state of all of my close friends' relationships. As a bit of background, starting around February, it seemed as if everyone I knew was getting engaged. Mind you, this is not an exaggeration. Literally all but one of my flatmates from University had rings on their fingers within weeks of each other. Then others slowly followed the trend, and before I knew it, as of today... nine of my uni friends are engaged. Not to mentioned the few that are already married, a couple that have kids, and some who've been together as long as I've known them. Just recently a friend shared with me she's picking up and moving country, making the good old grand gesture to be with her fella. Others just returning from a Filipino engagement extravaganza. And even though I live as far away as Africa, they continue to make the effort to keep me in the loop and involved in all of their romantic life-changing bliss. Which, by the way, this girl needs when her closest male companion is a dumbass, albeit goodlooking, kitten named Jeter. I'm so genuinely happy for all of you. Despite the initial questioning of my life choices (what the balls am I doing in a rural village in Africa? My friends have real jobs and fiances! I need to shower more...) I couldn't be more grateful to have what little involvement I do in my friends' happiness.

Another endorphin stimulator can be attributed to the brewing vacation plans I have for the rest of my service. Given I've only taken one out of country trip (6 days in London) and one in-country stint (3 days at Gnaoua), that leaves me with... 15 days for this year and all 24 for next. That's 39 days of awesome to look forward to. 20 of those are going to my Christmas trip home. Well, technically 13 will as I'm spending a few days before and a few days after (through New Year) in London. Yay! I had contemplated not going home, and then only going for a short while. But as it's recently been decided my folks won't be heading out here next year, I decided to spend more time with them now. Plus, the brother will be in Iraq starting September, so I think a good dose of their daughter will do them good.

As for next Spring, I'll be heading to East Africa! After almost being wooed into a West Africa trip with Felicie (which I would have loved to do) an old friend from London told me he got a placement doing economic development work in Ethiopia starting this September. Ding, ding! We have a winner. So slowly but surely, I'll be convincing Ravi to not only let me visit (luckily the invitation was there as soon as he found out), but to accompany me through Kenya to Uganda and Rwanda, ending up in Burundi where his friend also has a placement. Let the plotting begin. I couldn't be more excited to cross some of my 'top 10 countries to visit' qualifiers off my list. Long has this little girl dreamed of going to Uganda and Rwanda, so if any of you have contacts, friends, or know other PCVs there, let me know! I'd be more than grateful.

The last bit of my vaca time will be a week at the end of July in Scotland for my best friend's wedding. I couldn't be more ecstatic for something that is, well, almost exactly a year from today. I could get all gushy about how much I love them and how I'll be able to see all my uni friends as this will be a reunion of sorts, and what I'll be wearing and... but I'll save that as I'm sure they'll be many future posts including those details and emotions as the time gets closer. And though it is a whole year away, I've been in Morocco for almost a year now and that time has seriously flown, so I'm sure it'll be here before I know it.

So as thrilled as I am to be in this oven of a country right now, times do get tough, so I'm happy to have these check points to look forward to. It makes the isolation seem less lonely and the time here less infinite. Now all I have to do is get my friends to cement their plans to come out here. Though as of last night, my good friend Heather will be coming at the end of October, so three cheers to that!

I'll have you know that while sitting on my bed typing this, I have sweat dripping from the back of knees down my thighs, from my neck down my what passes as cleavage, and from the small of my back down, well, just down. I have two frozen water bottles at my sides and a fan about 12 inches from my face. Hello 110 degree late afternoons in Sedona-miz. Which to be honest, isn't all that bad, I just need to wash my clothes (and sheets) way more often. However, it's the nights that are the real killer, it only gets down to about 90, mid-80s if we're lucky. Though, unfortunately, I don't have the worst of it. Those volunteers further south than I, over the Atlas, are at least 10 to 15 degrees hotter than we sort-of-south folks. Tip of the hat to their survival techniques.

Anyway this past roasting mid-July weekend was a whirlwind of activity that has now, alhamdulilah, come to an end and will be followed by about three weeks of pretty much nothing before camp begins. Las week I was invited along to my host-cousins wedding in a tiny, like 10 house village east of Marrakech. We arrived Friday morning welcomed buy numerous Aunts and small children all lounging around the house chatting and catching up on the latest gossip. After copious amounts of (mostly bread) eating the Henna application began, done by a special lady hired in for specifically 'Mrrakshi' henna - a more angular, detailed pattern than the traditional flowery, curvy design you typically see. We then napped, ate, and food prepped through the super toasty afternoon before heading out on a walk around the village.

A few of the children, my host brother, host aunt, and host cousin walked me around the property and to the various wells and water sources. It was a perfectly beautiful evening in the middle of nowhere and I thoroughly enjoyed the company. When we returned to the house I was hoping for a quick dinner and maybe sleepy-time as we'd woken up at 6am that morning in preparation to leave. No such luck as more arrivals would be coming through the night and dinner was to be had at midnight... or only 11pm old-time as that's what this particular village runs on. As you would expect, being tired, hungry, and sweaty, I had my grumpy pants on that evening and was slowly losing my ability to keep my game face on. As midnight approached the kind women were beckoning me to sleep on their laps outside on the floor as we waited, I politely declined and attempted the perma-smile until sleep.

Once the food was consumed and I was allowed to retire to the salon and a welcoming ponj, I realized I was not alone... not only was there a frog attempting to share my room with me, a black massive bug/scorpion/beetle thing was attempting to share my bra. I'm well aware there's room down there for the little guy, but a 1am freak out as I'm squealing and shoving my hand down my mumu isn't the kind of goal 3 cultural exchange I was planning on. Bleurgh.

As the sun rose on wedding day I awoke to 40 chickens being gutted and cleaned outside the window, assembly line style by the women of the family. I nudged my host brother, asleep at my feet, and we stumbled out of the sauna-esque room towards the coffee. Once awake and dressed I had the honour of accompanying the bride to be with a couple other lady family members to the coiffeurs to get their hair and makeup done. After a two-hour set back (another wedding party was already in there) and a quick nap at her aunts, we returned to the glory of Moroccan nuptial preparation.

Now here might come a controversial statement: I can't stand the traditional Moroccan wedding get-up. The Korean drag queen make-up, the alien bee-hive, the gold-painted (note: not gold-plated) plastic tiaras... it kills me. Moroccan women are some of the most beautiful women on the entire planet, my host cousin seriously one of the most beautiful among them, so to have her be slathered over with layers of whitening foundation and cheap tranny eyeshadow? Breaks my heart. This day should be about looking your most beautiful in front of all of your family and new husband to be, not looking like a paint-by-number sheet filled in by one of those 'talented' Asian painting elephants.

Anyway, after finishing up at the salon, we returned to the house to find at least a hundred more people there than when we left, and lots of getting ready happening every where. After a minor freak-wind-storm accident (orange-mocha-frappaccinos!), we got dressed, ate some deliiiiiiiiicious food (I LOVE Moroccan wedding food) and then we pretty much danced until dawn. Amidst at least five costume changes from the new couple (love that tradition), the family dragged my butt up to the dance floor, and much to the surprise of the locals, white girl has got some moves! After being mostly ignored for the first hour by the 300 some-ought guests there, this girl busted out some butt moving and shoulder shimmying and was swiftly passed around like the neighbourhood bicycle. Everyone wanted a piece. So, thus, by 5am I was ready to kill myself due to exhaustion and dehydration and was happy for the hour and a bit direct car ride home. A car that actually had seatbelts! Which I ignored so I could lay down and get some much needed shut-eye before arrival back in Sedona-miz. As, wouldn't you know, we had a soccer camp to hold that afternoon... Stay tuned for an update on that.

Official moment as he slips the ring on her finger

Host cousin, host sister, happy couple, myself, and host aunt during celebrations

Host brother strolling through the family land

Brother and I amongst the (not-so) wildlife

Hanging out around the house courtyard

Quick timeline of events since last update: hike with family to local village, Brendan visiting site, Yorda visiting site, Gnaoua music festival in Essaouira, Yorda in Sedona-miz for three days, safi.

Let's start by discussing travel day 1 to Essaouira. Which begun promptly at 5:15am. My naive little brain assumed when I set my alarm for just after 5 am that morning, that the sun would indeed be up. Yeah, no. Negative. Big fat nuh-uh. Dragging ass out of bed before the sun takes some serious dedication to get to the beach by noon. After installing a quick caffeine IV (read 'eye-vee', not 'the fourth', as I have no idea what caffeine the fourth would be in reference too...), I rounded up the troops (Yorda) and we walked down to the bus stop with only minor delays - mint sellers & a pack of about 15 rabid dogs ready to eat my well-defined calves for breakfast. We made it to the stop safe & sound, bright & early, and apparently with 'harass me before dawn' written on our foreheads.

Okay before I give you the deets on that story (which, let's face it, you're dying to hear), I'm going to break down what follows into individual anecdotes: a few music related, a few harassment related. Enjoy.

Harassment: So we're chillin at the bus stop, a couple local girls hovering near us, communally yawning and squinting as the sun comes up over the mountain. Enter two douchebags stage left. Let's recap: 6:00am, rural village, bus top, Yorda & I, douchebags. Usually my 'screw you' armour is up, but seriously, at this hour, I was not with it enough to give half of a shit. I would have probably let Rodney Dangerfield, Gary Busey, and Hannibal Lecter have carte blanche with me, and I probably wouldn't even have noticed. These guys were persistent little buggers, however, literally not shutting up or moving more than a foot away from us for like twenty minutes. It was so annoying it drove me to take a transit instead of the bus for the first time ever having been in site for over eight months. In summary: it sucked.

Music: Anyway, we get to Marrakech and aim to get a CTM bus from Marrakech to Essaouira. After people watching for about three hours (we had arrived just before 8 hoping for an earlier bus... kill me) We hop on, three ladies in tow (Sarah has joined us by now), and we have the pleasure of sharing the four hour journey with the loudest, highest, drunkest Moroccan teenagers available in Kech at that hour. Ugh. So after about three hours of nauseating hell (not all due to the gentleman company... I attempted reading for more than 5 minutes... bleurgh. You think my childhood would have taught me a lesson on car-sickness), Yorda and I hear something in the distance... is that?.. there's no way... is that 'Like a Prayer' on Moroccan radio?! So after the initial 3 seconds of pure tear-filled joy that came out of this sound-bite, it occurred to me that 'could it be? could it beeee?? is that Lea Michelle???' I looked at Yorda with glassy, raised eye-browed, puppy dog eyes searching for conformation, when, in unison, we both squeal 'It's Kurt!' God, in recognition of the douchebags he placed on our bus, threw us a proverbial bone with the Glee version of Madonna's classic. Alhamdulilah.

Harassment: Fast forward to bus ride home from Marrakech to Sedona-miz after Gnaoua (you'll get a post on solely the festival soon enough) and the serious CREEPER whose memory has kept me up at night the last few days after returning home. Right, so Yorda and I sit together on left side of bus. Insert creepster old man in brown jilaba and straw hat to my right. Sitting in the seat across the aisle, yet not facing forwards. Facing me. Turned sideways. About 12 inches from my face, leaning in for a good look. For thirty minutes. Mostly, I found that more funny than anything, playing the game of not looking him in the eye and completely ignoring his existence before the major mid-stop between Kech and my town. So when half the bus exists at this stop, he makes some moves and sits behind me instead. Then leans in between Yorda and I to get a good perspective on the left side of my face since obviously it's completely different from my right. He leans back, scoots over a seat and proceeds to hump the back of my chair. Yes, you read that right. He literally pulsated his knee/groin/fist/all of the above against the rear of my seat for a good few minutes before I grabbed Yorda's arm and drug her across the aisle into seats far from the super-perv and his thrusting something-or-another. The guy kind of freaks out and starts swiveling his head to and fro to get his view back, when he decided to move AGAIN. Up two seats so he could turn around and stare at us backwards. Obvi. Welcome to my life in Morocco.

In short: I've decided my kind of harassment is sort of different than other PCVs. I understand the annoyance and fishbowl-ness and disgust that comes with the 'gazelle' 'oh beautiful' 'i want to love/marry/f**k you' quotes thrown at you at a daily/hourly/minute-ly basis, I get that from time to time too. But I get the dudes that I swear are planning my demise in their mother's basements. Guys who don't say anything, just follow me with their uninterrupted stares like those damn statues in the haunted mansion at Disneyland. They make scary movies out of the fellas I deal with down here. It's like the prologue to Dexter rather than a hashuma version of the Archie comic books. It kind of freaks me out. But I try and make light of it. Especially when I have Yorda to sit here and laugh about my sexual oppression with. Fun!

Music #2: So sitting in a cafe. Enjoying a cup a joe in Kech, people watching like it's my job (or my favourite sport, which it is), taking in the afternoon sun. When, after a round of Moroccan pop I couldn't (and won't) tell you anything about, the most hashuma song I've ever heard in my LIFE comes on. Flash back to middle-school: does this ring a bell?: 'my neck... my back... lick my p***y and my crack...'

Uh.

What now?

Did they just...?

That song played for the next five minutes straight. We were flabbergasted. Literally debating whether or not to tell the coffee shop staff that they should immediately stop playing this filth from their speakers. They, along with their patrons, were just bobbing along, grooving to the beat, blissfully unaware of the impure smut they were serving along side our Mochaccinos. I mean, my God.

Stay tuned for Gnaoua update & some pictures from a local mountain village hike tomorrow.

Ps. Send me a package! :)

How the hell do people who watch Dexter sleep at night.

I managed to watch the entirety of season 1 within two days of being back at site. It should seriously come with a warning label: increases blood pressure, triggers schizophrenia-like outbursts, expect prolonged nausea, and a high likelihood of wetting your bed. I have never been so paranoid as I was night before last, strung out at three am, five episodes deep. My God. Thankfully, I only had season 1 on my hard drive, so my current state of emotional instability can slowly come back to normal.

The interim Country Director and new PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer) swung by Sedona-miz yesterday for a little visit with the site-mate and I. Other than a jaunt up the mountain and consuming copious amounts of pastries at my host-family's, we didn't really do much else. It was kind of nice to have some PC people to show around though, even though I'm sure the entire village just though they were my grandparents. Or as my host-dad joked 'Wesh huma grand-grand-grand-grand parents dyalk?' Followed by a long-rolling belly-laugh. Oh tact, how often you are ignored here in Morocco.

Today I managed to get an association meeting rescheduled due to my wanting to watch the America-Slovenia game at 3. I love a country that has its priorities straight.

So when lots of PCVs get together, as was the case during IST last week, we like to catch each other up on American cultural gems we may have missed out on being in our rural corners of the country. I'd like to share with you three musical items I could have continued living without, but have been recently exposed to nonetheless.

Katy Perry - California Gurls - Okay, so terrible lyrics aside - why mess with Beach Boys territory? - the beat is obviously catchy, Snoop Dogg is involved, and hi, I'm from California, so I want to like it. What won me over was not the video per-se, but the video concept. I freaking LOVED Candyland as a kid. I think I still have it in the top shelf of my closet at home. Lord Licorice? Queen Frostine? Jolly the jujube/gumdrop? All about it.

Lady Gaga - Bad Romance - Obvious commentary aside, it occurred to Yorda & I what the obvious inspiration was for one costume choice... I give you: the car-dealership blow-up sock.

Rhianna - Rude Boy - Can. Not. Get. This. Song. Out. Of. My. Head. I waiver between dancing along alone in my house and wanting to wash my ears out with soap. The lyrics are out of control. Are the same girls who love Hannah Montana and that Beiber kid listening to this?

Anyway, off to some rooftop lunching before the game. GO USA!

I have never felt as patriotic during my Peace Corps service as I did this past Saturday night. With IST (Inter-Service Training) having finished on Friday in Rabat, a few of us decided to stay an extra day in order to watch the USA-England game. Our crew of expats arrived around 6:30 to the Irish pub of choice, early for the 7:30 start time, and were initially a little worried as the place was pretty quiet upon arrival. But one hour, two beers, and a BLT later, the house was packed with Brits and Yankees alike, and the friendly, yet, combative banter we hoped for looked promising.

As the teams marched out, cheering commenced. And with the start of the national anthem we compatriots gathered together, stood on our feet, with hats off and hands on our hearts, we belted out the Star Spangled Banner much to the chagrin of our British company.

And then England scored 4 minutes in.

You all watched the game, you know what happened. In the end, we won, 1-1. Alhamdulilah for Tim Howard, who is about ten times the goalie Green is. And as a fellow PCV noted: 'good thing Green isn't playing for Columbia circa 1994...' True that.

The testosterone-filled members of our group. Menacing n'est-ce pas?

What did I do this sweltering, humid Tuesday? Compiled a playlist to use and abuse on the train ride up to Rabat tomorrow, that's what... It feels like aaaaaaaaaaages since I've indulged and let myself fall into the infinite abyss that is itunes and stroll down memory lane all afternoon, hand in hand with the likes of Mr White, Mr Plant, and Mrs O.

Here are some oldies but goodies I forgot had existed and who are now happily in regular rotation once again:

Red Hot Chili Peppers - Road Trippin' - Appropriate n'est-ce pas? Still need to get some snacks & supplies though, as Anthony suggests.

Supertramp - Breakfast in America - Still upsets me how so many tweens think the Gym Class Heros came up with this bit of melodic genius. Hodgson deserves better.

The Nightwatchman - The Road I must Travel - Few things are sexier than a solo radical Tom Morello.

Tom Petty - Don't Come Around Here No More - I still remember being like five or six years old and watching this video for the first time. Despite the fact that they ate her as dessert, I SO wanted to be this version of Alice over the Disney cartoon. Plus, anything with a sitar is a winner in my book.

Sublime - Rivers of Babylon - I love this song because a)it's pretty damn catchy in a s'mores around the campfire type way and b) it includes flashbacks to when every male at my high school would play this song in the bowl - our HS outdoor amphitheater - thinking they were going to get laid or something. Every girl's face resembling a literal translation of 'oh pleeeeeeeeeeeease'. Cue mocking giggle-fest.

TV on the Radio - Dancing Choose - Merely for a foam injected Axl Rose, life size. Finer poetry has ne'er been written.

Weezer - Kids/Pokerface - The most epically hysterical mashup ever. Weezer coming out on stage in snuggies, on a rotating couch, proceeding to lead their set with MGMT meets Gaga. Searched high and low for an audio of this puppy and plan to play it on repeat for a significant duration of my trip now that I have it.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Zero - I'm a girl. I love her. Don't judge me.

The Raconteurs - These Stones Will Shout - I don't know how to explain it, but I felt like this song had been hiding, living somewhere inside me this first time I heard it. Something about it is just really lovely and familiar.

Santana - She's Not There - I'm a big Zombies fan, but still prefer this version wayyyyy more. Much like I prefer Jimi's version of All Along the Watchtower and Clapton's version of Knockin' on Heaven's Door. Sure Dylan's a genius, I just like it better when other people sing him.

Dead Man's Bones - Name in Stone - Anything that lists the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland one of their inspirations has my vote. And, you know, Ryan Gosling isn't bad to look at either. Drool.

Stillwater - Fever Dog - Just because they are a fictional band living in Cameron Crowe's imagination does not mean they are not worthy of my love. How many of you list Spinal Tap as one of your favourite bands? Yeah, exactly, that's what I thought.

Other than those little morsels of musical joy, I'll probably be listening to full albums of Beck, Neutral Milk Hotel, Saves the Day, The Dead Weather, Wolfmother, Fire on Fire, and Zeppelin as per usual. I love days when I get to fall in love with music all over again.

Although I'm sure I'll be winning a Pulitzer any day now for my accounts of a stinky, sub-par bus ride, most of you readers (read: my parents and/or extended family members) are probably looking for more of what I'm actually doing lately, a progress report if you will. (Man, I hated those things... every time they arrived I had to give an oh-shit off-the-cuff middle school speech of 'but that was before I turned in my report and got an A on that test, it'll be at least a B by the time the quarter ends!'' And it was... usually an A actually.)

And I give you, what my google calendar looks like:

The kid's club - a project I was working on with some of the local ex-pats - finished up last week and was a really successful pilot project that will hopefully continue during the next school year. Each week we held two three-hour sessions that consisted of two activities and one talk/lecture/discussion. The day would start with something like games, arts & crafts, or songs, we'd have a 20 minute talk on something like 'how to admit when you're wrong' or some other lesson/moral, and then finish with an activity on the environment, language (tash, tam, or english), or chess. We invited the sixth year students from each of the three primary schools in Sedona-miz and with each school on a four week rota, the project lasted a total of three months. It was a great way to meet a lot of the younger kids throughout town and brought me closer to some of the other development workers in town, friendships I am currently very thankful for.

English classes at the Dar Chebab are also slowly coming to an end. As I leave for IST (inter service training) in Rabat next week, today is actually my last class with the Baccalaureate students in preparation for the big exam in June. When I get back to site about half way through June, temperatures will be well into the 100s and people will be starting to vacate my village, making it relatively pointless to hold classes on a daily basis. I'll be continuing my adult classes, as they are super keen, but won't be resuming regular DC duties until September. And though part of me is sad to lose routine, the other half is screaming 'ALHAMDULILAH!' as I really am burnt out from the redundancy of the DC at the moment. A change of pace is welcome, and I'm looking forward to what the summer brings.

So what is going to be brought by this delightful season? Firstly, IST as I mentioned. A week long PC extravaganza in which we meet up with some NGOs, get some grant writing education, and most people will be meeting with their Mudirs in an organized group-like fashion. My site has had like a kajillion volunteers (five YD I believe... so in PC terms... a kajillion), so my Mudir pretty much knows what's up and was not exactly invited... one of 5 Mudirs not invited. He's a little butt hurt, but mashi mushkil. Anyway, IST is going to be awesome as it's the first time we'll be in a fabulous hotel with both with YD and SBD. Sweet deal. Actually, if you recall from an earlier post (yes, about 7 months ago), that gorgeous hotel we all stayed at after swearing in... the one where staff effed up and we had 8-9 people in a 1 bedroom room?? Mmm hmm, yeah we are back there, and insha'allah, we will actually have a bed, if at least a pillow, to ourselves. Not that I didn't enjoy spooning with half of my female stage on the floor... Love you girls.

I'll return from IST for about two weeks before heading off to Gnaoua, that epic music festival I had mentioned previously in Essaouira. SO STOKED. I'm taking a couple vacation days for it even. Yay for relaxing beach side and dancing my tuchas off for a weekend. Much needed. Especially as it will be roasting in my site by then, the salty off shore breeze will be more than welcome.

July will be mostly in site, doing a couple classes a week at DC and... balls if I know. This is my call to you people: find me a new hobby. Crocheting? Nah. Reading? Do that already. Sports? Not in 120 degree heat folks. Underwater basket weaving? If I can find a water source deep enough. I plan on attempting to paint more... and better (read: I suck), start running (read: jogging... it may be pronounced yogging... apparently you just run, for an extended period of time...) with my host sister at like 6am a) so it's not too freaking hot out yet and b) so the creepers in Sedona-miz don't stare. Also mid-month we'll be having a soccer team from America heading into site for a bit. We'll be setting up a day camp for the girls we did the kitty league with in which they rotate between booths, manned by both Moroccan and American players, focusing on various football skills and techniques. Should be awesome. I've also recently completed a grant application to pay for uniforms and equipment for next year's season, so let's hope that comes through as well!

August will be... dun dun dunnnnnnn... Ramadan. I'll be fasting folks, so prepare for a lot of bitchy rants on this here blog about how hungry I am. Or, well, I'll be fasting until I go to Portugal at the end of the month! Or at least that's the plan. A fellow PCV has family there who are ducking out back to America for a bit and have thus bestowed crashing rights to us during the super skhoon (hot) month of August. Lisbon is going to be AWESOME.

Also at some point late July/early August I'll be doing summer camp for a few weeks. We'll find out at IST when exactly our region's dates are, but should be wonderful. Back up in El Jadida, along the beach, and we get to bring three kids from our sites for free, so super happy about that :). Looking forward to it as I really loved Spring Camp and can only imagine this being even better as the Atlantic Ocean is involved.

That about sums up my to-do list this summer, along with cuddling with the kitten, hanging out with the sitemate as much as possible before he leaves (wahhhhh), and (oh yeah!) meeting up with the new region mate 30 min down the road from us in a beautiful site containing a lake (yippeeeee). Felicie is the new (read: only) environment volunteer in the region and (alhamdulilah) is seriously awesome. French born, Ohio raised, PC Benin, Miami, now here. Chick wrote a book too. She is definitely a more than welcome addition to the Marrakech region.

Ttttthat's all folks.

Birthday Dinner at the Sushi-Thai place in Marrakech

Felicie and I at the Almazar shopping mall

Relaxing at our Riad during Alex's, Juan's, Cynthia's, and my birthday weekend

So there I am, minding my own business - ipod in, sunglasses on - waiting for take off to commence towards Sedona-miz from Marrakech after a consolidation drill this weekend. An unveiled young lady comes and sits next to me with a welcome smile and in the back of my mind I'm thankful for a female seat mate for the duration of the ride. My mind wanders out the window and for a moment I'm blissfully unaware of the nuclear strike that is about to commence against my nasal passage.

These two, obviously troubled and possibly homeless, young teenagers - tweens if you will - are the last of the stragglers hopping on board before we pull out of the bus stop. No seats are left vacant, so they are forced to park their rears directly in front of myself and my soon to be bff, just beside the exit doors of our fine bus. In that very moment a wave of absolutely, deliriously, bitingly sour nausea passed over me. The little receptors on the interior of my nasal passageway were literally screaming 'WTF?!?!' And pushing through the vomit inducing fumes, I tried to figure out what the hell was creating this plume of epic disgust.

The source of my current dry heaving was obviously a direct result of these two youngsters in front of me, but the act of pinpointing exactly the cause of my imminent fainting proved difficult to say the least. The kids blatantly hadn't showered for... Allah knows how long, but the smell was much more pungent than that alone. Pee? Their own mixed with any other domestic or otherwise wild animal? Skid marks left from an ineffective bitlma run? Souvenirs of vomit-packed mikas? Possibly... But there had to be something else... It did occur to me that it was a hot, damp summer day... could it just be an extreme case of swamp-ass? Or worse, genital sweating in combo with poor hygiene? We were too early in the ride for that to have developed, I was sure, though to some degree there had to be something awry with either their perspiration levels and/or junk. Lil' Johns timeless prose of 'til the sweat drop down my balls' internally programmed on repeat despite the omnipresence of my ipod.

While all these various options were further dizzying my lightheaded brain, I bonded with smiley lady next to me. I gave her some intensely minty gum, two pieces to be factually accurate, in order to relieve some of the stress upon our nasal cavities. She in turn hosed me down with her spray deodorant - focusing mainly upon my fingers and palms so as to suffocate myself with the fumes in order to best override the road to unconsciousness lying before me. Our strategies were mediocre at best. The thirty minute travel time with Stinky and the Pain exhausted any power the aerosol can may have once had.

It was upon their exit, however, that we discovered the mystery of the Moroccan stink bomb - glue huffing mixed with hash out of some sort of pipe device they each had up their sleeve (literally). Gag worthy to say the least.

Though Stephen Sondheim once argued that it's a hole in the world like a great black pit, and it's filled with people who are filled with shit, and the vermin of the world inhabit it... I still vote London pretty much rules. After eight long, albeit rewarding, months I managed to vacate Sedona-miz for greener, er colder, pastures. In a matter of three airborne hours, I went from 38 degree weather to 9. Though this happened to be the least of my problems that day.

I'll spare you all the details but the twelve hours prior to take-off consisted of: ipod headphones breaking, at least 40 seriously rambunctious school boys destroying public property - aka dismantling the bus i was on - en route to Marrakech, making a new friend on the aforementioned bus due to much needed distraction, sleeping in the cafe of the Marrakech airport, getting kicked out from 2am -4am and sleeping on a bench, wanting to kill myself during takeoff/descent due to the congestion I had accumulated during my stay in the airport, and haiving my ears plugged for the first 12 hours in country and perpetually sounding like I was a prisoner on the inside of a muffler. Joys.

Once in good old Angleterre I couldn't have been happier. Though I had pretty much lost my voice for most of the weekend and wasn't exactly prime partying material, it didn't stop me from eating my body weight in pork and taking at least two showers a day. It was a dream. All of you know the foodie inside me wants to take you through a far too descriptive play by play of my grazing habits during the calorific four day stay, but I'll just mention the highlights: Bodean's BBQ, Hummingbird Bakery, HK Diner, Snog, The Hoxton Pony, Nude Espresso, Insert nondescript Curry delivery here, Zizzi's, and Itsu, in chronological consumption order. It truly was a culinary tour de force for someone who has pretty much been eating tagine as a religion for the past eight months. Not to mention the fact that my friends paid a micro-country's GDP for our marathon feasting extravaganza. No regrets. Let's just hope my souq has celery, and nothing but, next Tuesday. And the Tuesday after that.

On a more 'blog-worthy' note I suppose, I was happy to find out I was still me there, as I am still me here. Part of me was legitimately concerned I would all of a sudden find myself wanting to stay in London and having some sort of out-of-body freak-out while some officially dressed officials dragged me by my heels through customs to make sure I got on a plane back to Morocco. Part of me was equally as worried I wouldn't fully connect with my dearest friends in London over lifestyle changes, priorities, personal hygiene... etc, and that I'd be preaching some pompous save-the-world dogma while we ate our crudités. Thankfully, both worries were not present in the slightest - well maybe slightest, as in my friends didn't fully appreciate my donkey side-swipe anecdotes amongst their 'screw people and their baby buggies in stores' conversations - and I was as happy to be there as I was to return here. It made me realize how much I do love about my life here in Sedona-miz and how much I will love returning to somewhere like London or New York afterward. Time and a place, insha'allah. And just for the record though, I kind of have the best friends in the world by the way. Like, seriously.

On another side note, the broski is officially off to Kuwait in June for a year's tour. And apparently he's thinking of not going home for Christmas... Now this puts me in quite the predicament. Now I can see why he's thinking of not doing so, abroad for the first time, seriously different surroundings, keeping a certain mindset while there, having a chance to travel, etc. The same things I faced to some degree in deciding to return home for the holidays. However, last year's miss of xmas was not by choice but by PC policy. I have been planning on flying home this Christmas as to hopefully get another point in the 'not going to hell in a handbag' column, but with the brother not going... do I go? I seriously cannot be held responsible for my mother ODing on Scotch and Sodas before sticking her head in the oven if both of her kids are in the Middle East during this joyful holiday season. This brings options to the table: home for just a week? Meet in the middle and do a New York celebration? Get thrown out of the will and take advantage of some travel during the time period in question? All things that will be discussed tomorrow during our Skype date I'm sure. Oh, am I posting this on the interwebs before chatting with the mumsie about my ditching her on Christmas? That would be correct. Wish me luck.

Say what you want, but hotdamn that tasted good.

Heather, Me, and Mckinley. I need to start wearing a new cardigan. Oy.

Giovanni and myself with a pretty fantastic cupcake in the foreground.

God's gift to international pastry culture: the cheesecake brownie.

Eyjafjallajoekull Volcano - Iceland

This is not a bluff, so don't bother calling it. I will be kicking ass and taking names if this volcano malarkey continues through the end of the month. I have 12 days until my trip to London and no amount of ash, rubble, or glass shard is going to keep this tuchas out of the UK.

YA HEAR?

My best friend used to have to travel through Reykjavik airport nearly every time she came to and from St Andrews and her home in Manhattan. She used to swear that no good has ever come out of that place, it was the purgatory of all airports, and she loathed each layover more than the last. So far, her theory is correct in my eyes. You've got a lot of ass-kissing to do Iceland. Do work.

Photo courtesy BBC News.

So I don't know if I've recently just hit my stride or something, but hot damn I'm loving this whole Peace Corps experience more and more every day. I mean, I'm definitely counting down the days until my vacation in London at the end of the month (17 days!) but that would occur in any situation when I hadn't had a vacation for over seven months.

Anyway, the last three days have been relatively noteworthy. Sunday was the culmination of the girls' soccer league here in Sedona-miz. I felt a tad bit arsey on my way to the pitch Sunday morning as I hadn't shown much face during the month of March with all the travelling I had been doing for PC - VSN, Spring Camp, etc. So, my first day back in eons (or epochs... a word which was on my host-sisters practice BAC exam this monday... wtf?) happened to coincide with the playoffs and closing ceremonies. The final match was decided by a shoot-out, we had music and dancing, trophies, medals, new shirts and shoes, and certificates to boot. It was an all out extravaganza. Total success and will definitely be happening again next year! Insha'allah I'll be able to wrangle some team uniforms together during the summer through one avenue or another...

Ouidad, Me, and Sana - my favourite girls in Sedona-miz

Silver medalists proudly displaying their new swag

Handing out some certificates

Nearly all of the girls playing in this year's league

After returning home from the blistering heat of the football terrain - hello sandal tan in a matter of four hours - I quickly shifted into cooking mode as I had a few guests coming around for lunch. My spectacular sitemate Nathaniel, another PCV in town Jonathan, and a British couple who also live in Sedona-miz. The plan of action was to get the stuffed peppers actually stuffed with the stuffing and into the oven to cook before the folks arrived. I manically attempted to get the timeline right but when you've only got two burners and around the same number of pots, rotations don't always go down as planned.

Thus, the knock at the door came just as I was heading into assembly mode, aka, all hell broke loose in my kitchen and I looked like the Swedish Chef on crack. The kitten was running a muck, water was boiling over pans, the stove top was lit with nothing on top, I was in full crunch time mode, and made a really shitty host for about 3 minutes there. Nathaniel, having cooked with me on numerous occasions, knew I could pull a decent meal off so he was happily entertaining my cat, while the other three, I'm sure, we're heavily doubting my cooking abilities and most likely contemplating which sandwich stops were on the way home. Alhamdulilah, I popped the trays in, had some lovely conversation, and a pretty decent meal about 20 minutes later. Self high-five.

Later that evening I got a chance to speak to two of my dearest friends on skype which was a lovely end to a day I thought that couldn't be topped anytime in the near future... and then Monday came.

Okay so, there had been this relatively tame drum roll, a mild tremble if you will, leading up to Monday's outing to Marrakech. Only a mere week ago, a new outdoor, multi-level mall... ahem... MALL opened a few minutes drive outside of the Medina. There is a... Cinema. TGI Fridays. Sushi. Some Chain Coffee Shop. Steve Madden. United Colours of Benetton. Virgin Megastore. A Virgin Freaking Megastore. Among hundreds of other shops.

A complete state of utter shock is an understatement.

Sarah spent more than her monthly in-country stipend I'm sure, just in complete awe of the options available. Countless stores now at our fingertips. This is the first opportunity in-country I've even had to even try on clothes before buying them. This place nearly imposed internal combustion upon me. Holy mackerel.

I definitely don't think I can go more than once every few months. The reaction was just too intense. Not to mention the hit on my pocket book (though you would be proud, I only spent money in the grocery store, none in the clothes shops!). Wow, I didn't even mention the huuuuuuuumongous Carrefour super marche that is the basement floor of this place. I know I've written about Marjane before - the target meets sears meets supermarket of Morocco - this place is Bigger. Better. Cheaper. It's Marjane squared.

And that's why I can only allow my blood pressure to cope with it bimonthly. I really have a hard time balancing my 'I'm in Peace Corps look how badass I am' image, with having this utopia available just a mere two hours away. My reputation will take a significant blow each time I allow myself pure, undiluted, consumer-driven joy. It's a risk I just can't (afford not to) take. Shiver. I promise to use it in moderation ya'll. Pinky promise.

After a day of window-shopping bliss, I returned to my lovely Sedona-miz and felt way more at home than I did in any of those stores, including Steve Madden (as blasphemous as that is). I love my little rural routine. I like running downstairs for yogurt at 7am. I like the donkeys outside cutting through my Beach Boys during dinner prep. I like how I get realllllllllly excited when it's melon season (honeydews came today!) at the souq. I like that my weeks worth of fruits and veggies cost as much as my iced coffee did at that mall. I'm starting to really embrace the simple life. That ridiculous kitten of mine included.

I am still, however, over the moon about leaving for London at the end of the month. Much needed and overdue vacation time! Mostly, I just miss my best friends in the world terribly. I was telling another PCV on the phone tonight (yay Maroc Telecom landlines free after 8pm!) that it never occurred to me that they could miss me as much as I'm missing them. And a few delightful skype dates later, it turns out they do. Much love to all of you.

The gang at sunset - the cannons in Essaouira

Okay so post Spring Camp Extravaganza Marrakech 2010, I was (easily) convinced to head towards the coast with about a kabillion other PCVs in search of some serious R&R after a week of teenage camper insanity.

First on deck was El Jadida, which is a pretty sweet port city just south of Casablanca. It was run by the Portuguese for about 250 years, so there is a beautiful area which is completely dominated by Portuguese architecture. The 'Portuguese Fortified city of Mazagan' is a UNESCO world heritage site and even includes a cistern which is available for viewing. Didn't get a chance to see that on this trip, but apparently it's the scheduled field trip for summer camps in El Jadida, so really looking forward to it. The Cistern in Istanbul is one of my favourite places on earth, so this one has got a lot to live up to.

After staying in El Jadida for one night we made an impromptu decision to move the convoy south to Essaouira, a beautiful city along the coast, three hours south of El Jadida and three hours west of Marrakech. This city was orginally called Mogador (or Mordor depending on level of interpretation and imagination) and was run by Portuguese, Spanish, English, and Dutch throughout the 16th century. Apparently the name means 'the beautifully designed', which is totally appropriate as the medina is truly stunning. This place is officially my favourite city in all of Morocco.

There's a gorgeous beach with warm water (though the boys may argue with me on this one), soft sand (which we definitely had a sand fight with), and sea-side seafood huts (can I get three cheers for fried fish, please?). I not only got to swim for the first time in seven months, but I freaking got to boogie board too. Blew my mind. I was euphoric. God, I missed the beach. Among the other highlights: shopping, gelato, schwarma, more fried fish, sangria, tanning, sunset watching, exploring, not to mention the naturally obvious dance party that concluded our trip. (Which immediately followed a highly competitive Easter Egg Hunt I mandated we do.) We stayed in a phenomenal riad, which was 4 stories and could easily house triple the 12 people that had stayed in it this past weekend. Which is why it's perfect for renting during the Gnaoua Festival in June. Apparently, word on the street is it's pretty much 'Morocco's Woodstock'. Like half a million people descend upon Essaouira for a long weekend of rock, jazz, reggae, and gnaoua music. I'm more excited for this than you know.

Sunset along the beach in Essaouira

A few of the ladies striking a pose from the cannons

The interior of our gorgeous house

The boogie boards that helped make my pipe dream come true

After hibernating in my house for the last 24 hours (with intermittent breaks working at the dar chebab), I feel rested enough to relay the past weeks adventures at spring camp.

Not to be repetitive of other PCVs posts, but the schedule went a little something like this:I'll be using italics to differentiate Marrakech camp's idiosyncrasies from the other camps.

7:00 am - Wake up call and shower time This involved the Mudir's freaking cute but super obnoxious 8 year old blowing a whistle and knocking on every door until a quarter to 8. Showers consisted of either coldstream or lukewarm chugging. Awkward.

8:00 am - Breakfast 8:00 really meant line up in militaristic fashion singing at least a handful of clap-based songs before a ear-drum destroying rendition of the Moroccan National Anthem. Breakfast actually happened around quarter to 9 and consisted of dense baguette with jam and diabetes inducing coffee, for which there was only 4 glasses to a table of 10.

9:00 am - 11:00 am - English Classes They usually started around quarter past but were great fun once they started. I was a drifter during this time so spent each day with a different level which was a great way to get to know all the kids at camp and not just one class. Activities included poetry writing, short story reading, superstition discussion, tongue twisters, and the like.

11:15 am - 12:30 pm - Sports Being in Kech offered the unique and pretty badass opportunity to use the El Harti Stadium as our place of recreation. It was located just next to the Centre D'Accueil, where the camp was held, so we spent each day playing soccer, frisbee, and American football at the professional field.

1:00 pm - 3:30 pm - Lunch and Siesta Lunch time was generally the tastiest meal of the day, but as we had 75 kids and around 15 staff, the food was stretched and pretty repetitive. We had a starter of 'smida', the English equivalent being 'gruel', and a main of some sort of questionable meat product and rice. The redeeming factor was the tastiest apples I've had in country. Massive, juicy, and not mushy. Thus, most likely imported. Siesta time usually involved the six of us PCVs huddling around a mini-comp watching The Office with questionable volume control. I'm so happy PB&J are finally together!

3:30 - 5:30 - Club Time Our camp offered the following choices: dance, theatre, trust games & oragami, and the environment. Now, as you've probably guessed, I manned the environment club, yet not by choice, I was 'Brendaned'*. Our entire camp was environment themed, our field trip was to a water treatment plant, and we had two viewings of environmentally themed movies. I freaking worked for Greenpeace and I was over the environment by the end of the day. Though 9 very sweet kids were down for my club and we had a good time. Yay for the water cycle song!

5:30 - 7:00 - Insert random activity here In Kech this usually meant the Moroccan staff took over and did some sort of trivia game in Arabic, or a walk in the park, or one day, much to the surprise and bafflement of the PCV staff, they began to circle up on the floor and place a bottle at the centre... now what would you think was going down?? Apparently 'spin the bottle' takes on more of a truth or dare without the dare type model in Morocco. The person who spins asks the person who it lands on some silly teenage giggle-induced question. Still relatively inappropriate and staff stepped in to set some ground rules after one girl answered she has had 16 boyfriends. Awkward.

7:00 - 9:00 - Dinner and general chill out time Dinner sometimes made it out by 8 or 8:30, but it was always a surprise. Dinner was generally as lack luster as lunch, but on the last day we definitely had some couscous and hariria. Totally made up for the carb overload we ingested earlier in the week.

9:00 - 11:00 - Fun activity time Okay, so, as I mentioned start times were totally up for interpretation in Kech, most of the activities scheduled for a start at 9, usually started at like 11. So talent shoes, movie nights, closing ceremonies, usually continued until around 12 or 12:30 am. Kill me. Around the midnight mark I was already cursing the little boy's presence with the whistle the following morning.

All in all, our camp ran pretty damn smoothly. No arms were broken, no alcohol drunk, no girl's got pregnant... insha'allah. One girl got her laptop stolen, but apparently the room was left unlocked, so whoopsie. Saturday morning was definitely a sob-fest, however. I've never seen that many people simultaneously weep outside of a funeral. The most ridiculous part is that most of the kids live in Marrakech. I mean, suck it up. She lives like 15 minutes across town honey, invite her over for dinner next week. The kids were great though, some of them I really adored, and six of them happened to be from Sedona-miz, so that was a pleasant surprise.

Highlights include:

Singing songs on the bus to and from the water treatment plant fieldtrip. Edit: singing songs always.Muriel, the oldest serving PCV in the entire world at 85, calling Brendan a 'pain in the ass' and following it with the fact she's never told anybody that before. In 85 years.Teaching kids how to Ceilidh in the dance club.Having a couple lessons on poetry and haikus and having them desperately want to share them with the class.Learning more Moroccan camp songs than I think we taught them in English.

All in all - success.

*The term being 'Brendaned' relates to the fact that Brendan was a few hours late in arriving to camp the first day, so thus got stuck with the stuff nobody else wanted to do. Thus, the rest of the week, whenever someone got last pick or stuck in a shitty situation, they were therefore 'Brendaned'. Ex: Aw man, I was just using the bathroom and I totally got Brendaned. Now I have to supervise movie night.

So I've been travelling crap-loads this month and have had an exorbitant amount of time to analyze why I'm not brilliant in Arabic yet. Yes, I'm aware I've only been here six months and admittedly I'm not terribly shabby at the moment, but hot-damn I like being ahead of the curve. I mean, stuffs goin in, kanfhm bzef, but the turn around just isn't there yet. I've got the comprehension of a teenager I reckon, but still speak like a bloody eight year old. Or a mentally impaired teenager. You pick.

Either way, during the aforementioned cross-country bus trips, I've mentally compiled a list of random crap that could happily be dragged to the recycle bin in order to make room for what Arabic does go in to actually stick around and get comfy.

Recycle Bin:

- the ability to say the alphabet backwards- my friend's home phone #s from middle school and/or high school- calculus- all conversion rates that don't include dirhams, ryals, or francs- automatic emptying of cookies 5 minutes after I browse PerezHilton- the entire The OC plot after season 1

External hard drive to be saved for later:

- Idina Menzel's entire repertoire- the ability to quote any scene from Anchorman on the spot- 50 nifty united states and knowing the states in alphabetical order- the secret menu options and In-N-Out- the negligible bit Italian I still retain from Uni- any and all fashion related lingo

to be continued...

So this past weekend I finally got a chance to get down south to Ouarzazate, Morocco's Hollywood if you will, to do some Peace Corps related training. In order to actually get down there, however, one has to conquer the Tishka pass. Basically, it's a five hour bus ride at an elevation of 8,000 feet with minimal guard rail-age saving you and 45 other heavily nauseated travellers from plummeting off sharp corners and steep inclines to your horrifying, not to mention legen.... wait for it.... dary, death below. Add to the picture insane fog and impending night-fall... I think I may have peed myself a little.

L'hamdullah this country has some stellar bus drivers as I arrived there and back in one piece. Increased blood-pressure? Definitely. All limbs in tact? Check. I'll take the cons with the pros. Anyway, Ouarzazate was a pleasant surprise. When work-related activities were complete we had a chance to meander about town and, man, is it chill. I mean, compared to Kech, which I spend a significant amount of time in, Oz was a breathe of fresh air. Cute cafes, friendly people, taxi drivers who actually stick to the fair fare (you see what I did there?). I wouldn't necessarily recommend it for tourists, not really anything special except for the night stop on the way to the desert, but dude, for PCVs, it's perfect. Great location to just calm down for a second and catch up without being hassled. In summary, 'twas a delightful weekend, getting work done, catching up with friends, making new ones. Mental high-five Ouarzazate.

In regards to other going-ons in my life, I chose the medium of the bullet point. (or dashy-thingy as I don't really think there is a bullet point option...)

- Had a Peace Corps site visit yesterday. Most important thing Amina told me - Jeter is apparently a girl. Who knew. She also brought me Twix and pasteries. Dangerous woman. God, I love her.

- My mommy's package stilllllllllll has not arrived. It's something like 8 weeks now. Balls.

- I was informed this weekend of a MONUMENTAL discovery in regards to the Turkish toilet. I give you: 'the reverse-squat'. Who knew the best method of female peeing was to turn around?!?! Yes, I'm aware of how many cool-points I'm cashing in sharing this discovery with all of you, but I mean, come on! Blew my mind.

- I rearranged my entire house. It's beautiful. I'm even thinking of purchasing a wayyy overpriced bed so I don't have to ponj-it for two years. We'll see...

- Spring has arrived to Sedona-miz! I slept with the windows open. It rocked my world.

- Ooo... um, reconsidering the window-open plan as I am just remembering the 4 inch centipede I found in my house while rearranging the other day. Freaked out a little. I'm sure you have no problem manifesting that mental picture.

- I'm making fish tacos this afternoon with my fantabulous site-mate. Neither of us have bought fish in site, however. We'll let you know how it goes.

- I've been waking up at like 7am this past week. For no good reason. I don't know how to make it stop.

- I've found myself listening to a lot of Boston, Foreigner, and Journey lately. I mostly blame Glee. And my mother. But I'm seriously concerned for the longterm effect Peace Corps will have on my musical taste. - Shudder-

Anecdote: During class last night, we were discussing different terms for relationships: friend, buddy, colleague, etc. I thought 'crony' was going to be the most enjoyable to teach, turns out I underestimated foreign language learners. After extensively trying to describe what a 'date' was, and convincing them it could mean more than the food or the day of the week, they epiphanied when one of the students (using words previously learned that afternoon) was like 'so it's like an appointment with affection?' Um, yep, that's exactly what it is, sir. 1 point Muslim upbringing, 0 points Donniell.

Just to give you a window into a typical day of PCV life:

The last hour has consisted of me translating the lyrics from 'Frere Jacques' into Darija and Tashelheit for a primary school project next week, while a youtube video - a Star Wars spoof of Ke$ha's Tik Tok video - downloads on my slower than slow internet connection.

My morning sounded a little something like this:

Don't stop, make it pop, Frere Jacques blow my speakers up tonight. I'mma fight till we see the sunlight. (Or Darth Vader.)Sonnez les matines, Morning bells are ringingMeow, meow, meow. Meow, meow, meow. (Kitten was hungry.)

Tik Tok on the clock but the party don't stop no.Allahu Akbar.........