Peace Corps Morocco volunteers in the Sefrou region are presently working to acquire materials and funds for a new library in the Aderj secondary school girls’ dormitory. The dormitory is located 80 km southeast of Sefrou and houses young women from several rural communes who do not have a school in their respective towns and travel to Aderj in order to attend school. Many of these girls are the first in their family to achieve a secondary school education and may be the only one of their siblings attending school.

Peace Corps volunteers are currently looking for sponsors, in-kind donations, etc. Donated books and other literacy materials must be new or gently used, appropriate for a teenage audience and sensitive to Moroccan culture and Muslim beliefs. The students are fluent in Arabic and read English and French at beginning levels. The Women’s Library Project is particularly in need of Arabic language books covering subjects including: geography & travel, nature & environment, health and hygiene, Arabic & Moroccan fiction, art & culture, how-to books, (i.e. knitting, cooking, building, art projects)photography, Arabic, French & English language reference books, French & English language resources for beginning levels.

If you would to contribute to the Aderj Women’s Library Project, please contact Peace Corps volunteer Marian Weidner at mpweidner@gmail.com. We are accepting contributions through April 3, 2011.

After a relatively mild first two months of winter, temperatures plummeted to levels more typical of winter in the Atlas Mountains. Snowfall on Monday and Tuesday covered my site with just over 3 inches, but without snow plows, salt or blowers, the winding mountain road was unpassable for two days. Sidi Moh, the local driver was stranded in a village outside mine for a night the day the snow hit. Three days of sun followed the snowfall, but it is still too cold for a bath and fewer than three layers of clothes. My concrete house is particularly frigid; the other day I glanced at the thermometer on my digital clock which read 35 degrees Farenheit. I slept in a winter hat, two sweaters and three pairs of socks. Fortunately, the sunshine, longer days and promise of a last Moroccan spring has kept me from falling into winter despair. I have already all but moved into the "Winter Room" of my house where the wood burning stove is located. I emerged from the Winter Room to spend a day in the kitchen cooking winter vegetable soup with fresh peas & fava beans. The cold weather inspired me to pay an homage to the glorious citrus in season with a grapefruit- lemon curd as well as a coconut cream pie which I brought to a PCV dinner in Ribat el Kheir preceding an environment club activity in the youth center. Not bad for a February day in the village.

Mile 0: cross-cultural collision: Sports bras & hijabs, spandex and religious beards. At the start I find there are no toilets; a common occurence in Morocco but surprising that the event coordinators hadn't made any accomodations for the 2,000 people they were hosting. PCV Emory meets me at the start. He takes my sweatshirt and we do a quick photo.

Mile 1: Lots of whoots, hollers & God phrases "In the name of God!" "May God be upon you!" The first runner drops out and limps back to the finish line. I spot a guy in a bunny suit 200 meters ahead of me. His ears flop back and forth obnoxiously as I fail to overtake him.

Mile 3: We cross from the residential street to a trail through an olive grove. I jump off the path and take the most undiscreet pee of my life along with a bunch of other overhydrated runners.

Mile 5: First water station! We all grabbed water and threw the discarded bottles on the ground, race style. See everyone throwing garbage onto the littered street reminded me of every other day in Morocco. Until I saw workers cleaning up.

Mile 6: The bunny suit guy slows to a walk and this tortise finally passes the proverbial hare.

Mile 7: The course leads into the palmerie. People on the sidewalks cheer for us as we pass and yell "Allez lHaj!" Kids hold out their hands for a high five.

Mile 8: I have to pee again and once again run behind a tree to publicly urinate.

Mile 10: An elderly man blows by me in a cloud of dust. I catch the back of his t-shirt which reads "100+ and counting...We the Happy Few". I hoped for both of us the 100+ referred to a mileage accomplishment.

Mile 12: We pass through a shanty-esque type neighborhood where there is a water station set up. Small children ask people for their water, hats and visors.

Mile 14: I stop high-fiving kids in an effort to conserve energy and because it was getting old.

Mile 16: A thought flashes through my head: Pheidippides, the first marathoner dropped dead after he finished.

Mile 17: I run across a narrow two-lane bridge with just the shoulder between me and Moroccan drivers on one side and a 50 foot fall on the other side. I run a 7 minute mile.

Mile 21: A juggernaut in my small orders me to take a pit stop. I have no choice but to obey. Shell Station, Hamdullah! The pit stop added 15 minutes to my time; I realized I fall in the camp of people who prefer this to breaking records with shitty pants.

Mile 22: Only 4 miles! The infamous mile 22 takes its toll. I am tired.

Mile 23: After running for 30 minutes I start looking for the finish line. A bystander informs me that I still have 5km.

Mile 24: I wonder which is harder Peace Corps or a marathon? Running a marathon is really hard, but I decide that it still beats out 4 months of homestay. The menacing sensations in my intestines flare up again. I pop two peptos which elicits a "bon courage" from a french lady.

Mile 25: Running is mental and I am definitely insane. Why did I pay to be here again? And why haven't I passed that guy ahead of me who has been walking for a half mile? Two french guys who have already finished tell me the finish line is 200 m ahead.

Mile 26: I finally pass the walking guy. OMG! WTF?! Where the f*** is the f***ing finish line? "YOU LIED TO ME" I groan to the long gone frenchmen. The course curves ahead and I hear my name. As I round the curve I see my PCV friends Kelly, Megan, Matt & Emory who have probably been waiting a long time. They cheer me on and I manage to smile, wave. Their encouragement gives me the boost I need to sprint to the finish line. I cross. A peddler tries to sell me granola bars. I meet my friends and Emory gives me my shirt. FINISHED.

This Saturday I tuned up my mountain bike for a ride to Immouzer Marmoucha the nearest “town”. The objective: Internet. People have been dropping into Tafajight now that the nedi is gearing up to open so I needed to be in/near my site all week. Immouzer Marmoucha is about 30 km away, though mostly uphill (up the mountain). It took about 2 hours before I caught a ride for the last 10 km, a sheer uphill climb that my quadriceps weren't up for. The bus driver told me he'd be going back around 2 so I could catch a ride back part of the way, allowing for more time in the cyber. Unfortunately, I did not bear in mind that “If something seems to good to be true....” It was too good to be true and the bus didn't leave until after 3. I got dropped off 12km from my site right before sunset and knew I wasn't going to make it before dark. I had asked the driver to take me a little farther to the edge of my town, but the sneaky weasel wanted 200 dirham. On souk days I pay 10dh to get all the way to Immouzer Marmoucha so I told him for 200 dirham he better take me to Rabat. I got out and found myself on the road at sunset. Fortunately, I knew a family who had hosted a volunteer for two months. I hiked up the hill to their house and invited myself over. I was glad to be living in a country where hospitality is intrinsic and helping strangers/travelers is considered a step up on the stairway to heaven. Mimouna and Fatima seemed happy to have me since the volunteer they hosted had since gone back to the U.S. Ben Said, Mimouna's husband was very knowledgeable about current events. He had a lot of questions stored up for an American such as “Why is the economy bad in America?” and “why did the Democrats lose 50 seats in the House last week?” I could not answer any of his questions, but we still had a good conversation. After dinner Mimouna made me a warm place to sleep piling sheepskins, rugs and blankets in the corner of a room. I slept very well and in the morning sat in the warm kitchen while Fatima and Mimouna made Moroccan crepes on the wood burning stove and absinthe tea. After breakfast I hopped on my bike and rode home in the daylight.

Today I took a walk in the sunny fall weather. I noticed many wisps of spider silk floating through the air, visible in the afternoon sun. As I walked through a field, I could see that the ground was silver, coated with the accumulated wisps. I stopped and stared for a few minutes when a man I know passed by. He saw what I was looking at and said “Spider Rugs”. The limited vocabulary in Tamazight has often amused me when I hear the translation of different words. For example, if you lose a sock and want to know where the sock's match is you say “Where's its sister?” Rainbow is another favorite which translates to "Bride of the rain" in my Tamazight dialect. Spiderrugs was a new word I had never heard used. I looked at the field of grass lying under tents of silver thread. It did kind of look like a rug. The man went on to say that ancestors believed the spiderrug phenomenon preceded a warm winter. I hope so, but no matter how cold this winter is, the sight of a spiderrug will from now on make me smile.

Well, here we are already halfway through Camp GLOW! What a wonderful three days it has been getting to know the forty-four young women who have been working hard this week.

This morning Camp GLOW was all about business. As a follow-up to the session led by Amina yesterday about building and developing a business, the campers spent the morning brainstorming business ideas in small groups and writing a business plan. Towards the conclusion of the morning session, each group presented their business plan and answered questions from staff and participants about the specifics of their ideas. The presentations were quite impressive and thorough; even more impressive were the creative ideas of each group. The project ideas included: a milk cooperative, patisserie, beauty salon specializing in weddings, cultural guesthouse, and an olive cooperative.

Following lunch and an hour of swimming, the participants re-grouped for a presentation by an advocate of the newly passed Mudawana or Family Law of Morocco. Passed in 2005 by King Mohammed VI, the law grants women more rights within marriage and takes steps towards abolishing the patriarchal family. Some of the important changes mandated by the law include:

- The legal obligation to obtain a divorce from a secular court (vs. a letter from a religious official)

- The parent who keeps custody of the children also keeps the house.

- The legal age of marriage is 18 instead of 15.

- Sexual harassment is an offense punished by law.

- Polygamy, while still allowed, became more difficult under the new Mudawana in 2003

The advocate fielded questions from the participants and provided information on the remaining challenges within Morocco's legal system that may inhibit the enforcement of the code. These challenges, she said, are especially present in rural regions. Despite Mudawana's limitations, the participants will be able to take their knowledge of the new Family Law back to their hometowns, perhaps further empowering the women with knowledge about their legal entitlements.

Women's Empowerment: 5 Steps to Success

GLOW Camp Day 3 started off with a sleepy breakfast following a dancing soiree in the dining hall. The campers perked up when Amina, the lead facilitator lead an energetic discussion about her experience starting and building the Cherry Buttons Cooperative of Sefrou. Her success as an artisan entrepreneur has become known all over Morocco and her cooperative is very active in providing mentorship and training to young women from the region. Amina explained the process of developing an idea into a plan and the process of starting and completing a project, as well as some of the challenges and opportunities she encountered while developing the cooperative selling jellaba buttons.

As Amina concluded her talk, the next speaker arrived from Rabat. Ilham Zhiri, president of the Association of Entrepreneurship for Moroccan Women arrived and led a lively, informative and inspiring discussion. After describing her educational background, challenges and career path towards becoming the Association's president, she outlined the five components that she believed had been crucial components to her success. These steps to success Ilham described are:

1. Self-confidence

2. Self-reliance

3. Positive attitude

4. A solution-oriented mind

5. Self-improvement

As she identified each step she applied each of them to one of more of the challenges faced by women in Morocco. The young women identified some of their own personal challenges and were very curious about in what specific ways she was able to use these steps to persevere, little by little. Ilham also shared information about Association of Entrepreneurship for Moroccan Women's mentorship program for young women and shared the Association's local and regional contact information.

One camper, Fatima lives in a very small Berber village called Immouzer Marmoucha with few, if any business opportunities for women. Like many rural women, she comes from a family of skilled weavers. Towards the conclusion of the presentation, Fatima slipped off to her room and returned with three beautifully hand-woven traditional Berber pillows. She presented them to Ilham and described her goal of selling them in the city nearest to her hometown. It was a truly inspirational moment for both the camp facilitators and the participants.

The young women walked to lunch glowing with encouragement and inspiration. Three of the ladies from my own site asked me to help them with their projects once they had returned from camp- What a great day!!

For many of the camp participants, it was the first time they had met a highly successful Moroccan woman, and for others the first time they had been told that developing self-confidence is an important part of achieving one's goals.

Girls Leading Our World! Thank you Ilham, Amina, the Association of Entrepreneurship for Moroccan Women and the Cherry Buttons Cooperative!

After a two-day training of facilitators for Camp GLOW, 45 young women arrived in Sefrou yesterday morning. They piled in the bus rented for the camp and we pulled out of the parking lot. Amina, the lead facilitator popped a CD of Berber music and the fun began. The girls sang along, clapped and soon were in the aisles belly-dancing and shaking it without reservations. Wow, what a great start, no need for an icebreaker! The exuberant singing and dancing held out the entire five-hours to Mohammedia. After arriving at our campsite, everyone had a good night sleep.

This morning began with group exercise on the beach, and after breakfast we began our first session. The campers were split up into four groups and assigned to a facilitator who lead a discussion on attitudes about personality, gender and cultural differences. When the time came for the young ladies to partake in the discussion, they seemed unrecognizable from the group on the bus the day before. It took awhile to get warmed up and encourage some of the more introverted females to participate in the activity.

As the day went on, the campers began to acclimate to their new environment and roommates. Some of the young women from rural villages had spent their first night away from their family the night before and all were new to guided discussions in which they were invited to share their thoughts, ideas and opinions. After lunch everyone took advantage of the sunny weather and spent a few hours on the beach. The thrill of seeing the ocean (many for the first time ever!) and playing in the waves was a fantastic way to wear down the guardedness inhibiting some of the GLOW Campers; for the first time since the beginning of camp the separate villages began to intermingle.

After an afternoon session, the evening willl be spent in the dining hall for a dance party that will hopefully rival yesterday's bus ride.

Thanks for supporting Camp GLOW Morocco. More updates, stories and photos ahead!

My site, located deep within the Middle Atlas lacks several infrastructural amenities, one of them cell phone reception, or riseau as it is called here. To make a cell phone call or send a text message, one must hike up the mountain road to a certain point where the phone can pick up reception. There are also various spots pocketed throughout the village. These spots, mostly located in nondescript patches are known by those live nearby. One day after going to see my friend Malika, she accompanied me a ways down the path. She stopped on a point indistinguishable from the rest of the road. “There's riseau here” she informed me and held up my cell phone to show me the two bars. Across the road and over a hill two girls have showed me their riseau spot, six inches of grass near an irrigation canal.

My neighbors have riseau on their rooftop, which goes in and out with weather and wind. They have built a small sheltered shelf for their cell phones in the exact riseau spot. Warm evenings are spent crouched near the riseau spot as they read and send text messages, or make an occasional phone call. “There's a lot of riseau tonight” they tell me. Or sometimes on a windy day I'll spy one of them holding their phone at a precise height and angle.

“Did you find riseau?” I'll ask.

“No. There's no riseau now” She'll say and crawl down the ladder into the house.

I'm in Sefrou, the ancient city outside Fes with my mom enjoying the festivities of the 2010 Annual Cherry Festival. Thousands from surrounding villages in the Fes region have poured into the town to enjoy the four days of festivities. The festival is one of the oldest in Morocco and features a Berber tent with nightly concerts, literature & poetry readings, the crowning of the Cherry Queen, a Moroccan horse fantasia, an artisan market and displays of works by local artists. Besides gorging myself on a half kilo of cherries each day, so far I've had time to enjoy a few of the envents. The most impressive have been the evening performances by Berber and Arabic musicians, each featured in a separate tent, often simultaneously. The massive crowd of young and old have gone wild singing along to songs from the traditions of Gnaoua, Berber folk music and other influences. This afternoon I hopped over to the stadium to check out the fantasia of horses and Berber riders. When we arrived in large field full of rustic nomadic tents and tethered Barbary Arab horses, I experienced the long forgotton feeling of being in a strange land. The Berber riders were dressed in traditional robes and took refuge from the sun in their carpeted tents. As they sipped their tea, I got they impression that they were taking in the day from their shaded vantage points as much as the tourists roaming the grounds peering sideways into the tents.

I was quite sorry to miss the coronation ceremony of the Cherry Queen, which was not open to the public. Though, I've never taken much interest in pageants, attending one in Morocco of all places filled me with a morbid curiosity. Most of the contestants come from out of town as previous Sefrouian cherry queens' pure images were tainted after being paraded around publicly getting smooched by politicians. For the non-native cherry queen hopefuls, being a finalist promises a bounty of marriage proposals following the festival's conclusion.

The Cherry Festival is a great reason to visit the underappreciated, culturally rich city of Sefrou. Though the cherry trees have since gone the way of the city's Jewish population, it's a great way to begin the summer and preludes the much-anticipated Festival Gnaoua taking place next week in the southern port city of Essaouira.

Dear Friends,

This July I'll be heading out to the city of Temera to help out at Camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World). Camp GLOW is a week-long event that brings health professionals, lawyers, star athletes, Peace Corps volunteers, and business entrepreneurs all together under one roof to encourage young rural women to break the cycle of dependency and to take control of their future. By exposing the young women to successful role models and by engaging in dialogue with community leaders, the young women begin to formulate ideas of what could be. The camp is a place to develop the confidence to take on a new endeavor, exchange ideas, and to build a larger support network. I am very pleased that four young women from my town will be invited to attend. It will be the first time any of them have traveled outside the Fes region!

Camp GLOW is based on a model used by Peace Corps volunteers worldwide to promote gender awareness and female empowerment. The camp invites women from rural villages, many of whom have limited or no access to educational opportunities. This year's camp is focused on the self-development of women who have either never attended school or left before achieving a degree. The camp facilitators strive to provide a special environment where females can feel free to partake in activities and discussion among their fellow peers without outside influences. Camp GLOW provides an experience that empowers girls as leaders, challenges them to realize their full potential as individuals, nurtures self-sufficiency and connects them with other girls and women who are committed to change and personal development.

Several Peace Corps volunteers living in my region are collaborating on the camp with the Golden Buttons Association. Golden Buttons Association is a non-governmental organization who encourages women to take ownership of their future, helps them to identify their skills and assets, educates on how to organize as a collective group to demand access to training opportunities, and provides a network of women leaders to lend support. Golden Buttons Association has received various awards and certificates of recognition from the government and the King for its role in advancing the status of women. The association has established 15 literacy classes that have improved employment opportunities for married and single women. Amina Yabis, the association president and lead coordinator of Camp GLOW has also coordinated a number of natural dye workshops benefiting countless weaving cooperatives in the Middle Atlas region.

As recruiting coordinator for the camp, I hope to recruit 4-5 women from my site to attend the camp with others from the Middle Atlas region. We are still short of the $5,000 USD needed to provide 30-40 females with the opportunity to attend Camp GLOW in Temera from July 25-31. On behalf of Golden Buttons Association, I invite you to support the women from my village who will be attending Camp GLOW with a donation. Camp GLOW will provide a special opportunity to the participants from my village who will be invited, since as leaders of the new women's training center in Tafajight, they will be providing training to many women in my town.

The High Atlas Foundation (HAF), a 501(c)(3) organization founded by former Peace Corps volunteers that invests in the growth of small communities across Morocco, has offered to process and transfer all donations from U.S. donors to Morocco free-of-charge. Please support Camp GLOW and donate!

To donate online, click here Afterwards, please send a quick email to haf@highatlasfoundation.org to let them know that your donation is for Camp GLOW. HAF is a U.S. 501c3 nonprofit organization and will send receipts for tax purposes to all donors.

You can also mail a check to:

High Atlas Foundation

Park West Station

PO Box 21081

New York, NY 10025

Thank you for your generous support. I look forward to posting Camp GLOW updates and photos later this month. For more info on Camp GLOW, check out our Facebook Cause  

and feel free to join.

Once again thank you for helping Camp GLOW!

Sincerely,

Marian

This morning I hopped on a train from Fes to Casablanca with one month's worth of clothes and soap. I'm on the first leg of a long traveling stint. My BFF Jessie Wilde Wolfe is coming to Africa to fulfill her promise to visit me during my Peace Corps service.

The day began with my train being canceled; an omen of sinister transport hang-ups ahead. When the second train finally pulled into the Casablanca airport entrance I power-walked with my huge backpack weaving the crowds in the anticipation that Jessie had spent her first hour in Morocco alone, exhausted and confused. As I approached the arrivals information sign, I saw one word next to each posted arrival: "Annulee". Though my French is poor, I knew that word from countless hours at the cyber clunking away on French language operating systems. English translation: Canceled. Yikes. The lady at the kiosk informed me of more volcano dust delays in Europe. What?! I wished to be back in my isolated village where worldly ignorance allows me to live in a state of wonderful bliss. I still have not been completely filled in on the volcano dust situation, but I have five hours to figure it out.

I have since staked out a power outlet in one of the airport cafes, got online, changed my hostel reservation in Marrakesh and logged on to the hilarious and informative sleepinginairports.com . Jessie's flight will get in once all the night trains have stopped running and a cab from the airport will set me back at least 200MAD. I was happy to learn from the website that the Casa airport has a children's playroom with wall-to-wall floor mats. I am looking forward to finding this airport amenity.

Although this delay is really just an opporunity to catch up on computer work, study, read, etc. I am compelled to express how much this sucks because:

1) traveling on no sleep puts a strain on the sense of humor that makes me a good traveler.

2) I've already lost 180 dirham on the train tickets to Marrakesh I purchased in advanced.

3) I have to go to the bathroom and don't want to lose my outlet spot and drag all my crap into the public bathroom where the floors are usually soaked.

4) It's dinner time and I have to choose between eating all the snacks I brought for Jessie and paying 45 dirhams for cheese on a baguette.

5) I spent one of my vacation days in an airport.

On the other hand, I am thankful for this unfortunate occasion which has allowed me to become intimately knowledgeable about the late night transit schedule for buses and trains from the airport. Since my mom is getting in around 11:30 or 12 next month, I'll be able to pre-arrange transportation for her late arrival.

I also have considered taking my virgin trip to an airport prayer room for some yoga on the plush oriental rugs. According to a comment posted on an online travel article multi-faith prayer rooms are an appropriate and ideal place for yoga and meditation.

Regardless of what happens, this is really the first major problem I've encountered traveling and don't think it will stop the fun once Jessie finally gets in.

This weekend I headed out to Sefrou for a henna party with several female community leaders. The group included artists, writers, a development worker and two young women from my village. The two women from my town, Cawtar and Loubna are two of four ladies who are in Sefrou for the next several months at a training center for women. They will learn the technical skills of operating two types of sewing machines, mechanical knitter, needlepoint, ebroidery and childcare before returning to Tafajight as trainers in the town's new nedi. The nedi, a government-run training center for women was built several years ago under the United Nations Developpment Programme. A nedi is a venue for training programs intended to improve the capacity of women through technical training, literacy and community development.

Since the nedi was completed several years ago, the convoluted beaurocracy of organizing the programs, finding and training eligible women to manage the nedi, creating and funding an annual budget have all delayed its opening. My town is particularly in need of such a space for two reasons: The first is that the conservative local culture and limited local infrastructure has resulted in the absence of a public space for women to meet non-family members outside the home. Many towns and villages have a local hammam or public bath which serves the purpose of giving women a safe venue to meet with one another. My village has no hammam or other women-friendly public space. Secondly, the town I live in is quite undereducated. The next town over, where local kids attend high school only built a dormitory for out-of-town students several years ago, meaning most women over 17 are illiterate. My tutor is the only woman with a college degree (A B.S. in Physiology from the most prestigious university in Morocco). Loubna, one of the women training in Sefrou may be the second female ever to earn a high school diploma.

Providing rural women with technical training and skills to build the capacity of other local women is an obvious and simple tenet of the Gender and Development (GAD) model. It is also one important step on the long road to building the economic capacities of rural communities. The nedi is still a long way from opening but it is only three months away from acquiring its most needed resource. During the henna party, Cawtar and Loubna talked about their experience so far and the new things they were learning. They said they are looking forward to completing their training, returning home and beginning their work as trainers, managers and leaders of their community.

I know Earth Day was awhile back, but this has been my first chance with a computer for awhile. Last week, Enviro PCVs Andrew, Casey and Chris came out to my site to help with three days of Earth Day celebration activities at the local elementary school. The 170 students were divided into a morning and afternoon group by age. Each day of activites corresponded to the respective themes: Appreciation, Awareness, Action. Tuesday morning started of with Casey giving some kids their first glimpse of a world map and teaching them about Earth Day and some environmental features outside Morocco (Grand Canyon, Great Barrier Reef, etc). The next three days were full with activities. Students drew pictures of a clean environment, we collected, named and pressed native plants, Played "Tour Guide of Tafajight" and had a trash-collection race. On Wednesy morning the older students hiked halfway up a mountain where they planted 45 baby cedar trees. The kids got really into it and even built little shelters to protect the tiny sprouts from grazing sheep and goats. The six-eight year olds planted 12 cedars around the town square. That afternoon an impromptu Animal Race was held as an age-appropriate activity with the younger crowds. It was probably my favorite part of the entire week and it was very, very silly. Those kids ROCKED the Animal Race. First, 9 animal movements were demonstrated until mastered (bird: arms flapping; grass-hopper: jumping; bunny: hopping). They then ran a relay race with one person on every team running like their animal.

The Earth Day activities also contained a celebration of our bodily environments: Health PCV Casey Coes and future D.D.S. Andrew led hand-washing (microbat) and toothbrushing lessons. On Thursday, the activities were concluded with waste-management activities including a guess-the-decomposition time game. The grand finale of Earth Day/Week involved 170 hands over hearts repeating an Arabic translation of the following:

Earth Day Pledge

As a citizen of Earth, I realize my actions are important to the survival of our planet.

I pledge to help make Earth Day every day by acting responsibly to prevent pollution and help the environment.

I pledge to do what I can to recycle, conserve energy, save water and protect our natural resources.

I pledge to help my family learn how they can help the environment and work together for a cleaner and healthier Tafajight.

This weekend I headed north to Tetowan to help out with a national English camp taking place each year during the week when all schools are closed for Spring Break. I arrived at the Dar Chebab (youth center) and met with four other Peace Corps volunteers (Erin, Candace, Anthony and Marissa) and a staff of six Moroccans. We prepared for a week with 30 twelve-eighteen year olds ranging in English ability from beginning to advanced levels.

English camp has been going great thanks to a great team of counselors and staff as well as a WONDERFUL group of kids. Each morning they learned a new song, helped set up breakfast and spent two hours in a classroom learning English from one of the five volunteers followed by an hour of sports. The afternoons have been filled with art, dance and music club, AIDS & environment awareness activities, game nights and leadership discussions. The highlight of the week were two excursions: one to the beautiful beach town of M'diq (I went to the Mediterranean!) and one to the old medina of Tetowan where we visited the local artisana, an archeology museum and a history museum overlooking the street. The students, though mostly local, loved every minute and took about a thousand pictures of themselves, each other and with their new English Camp love interests.

Spring Camp will culminate on Friday with a English Olympiad competition in the morning followed by an evening talent show featuring students performing skits, songs and dances based on their week at the Dar Chebab. Although I've enjoyed the experience so far I'm looking forward to Saturday morning when the kids finally return home with their parents so I can recover from an exhausting week.

Only three days into spring, the weather has warmed and the landscape is blossoming. Nature is springing to life! Unfortunately, my house has become host to some very unwanted forms of life: spiders. I hate spiders and I've seen the largest, ugliest ones of my life a few feet from the head of my mattress. With each sighting I am confronted with an internal dialogue along the lines of wishing for someone to come in and kill it for me while reminding myself “You're an environment volunteer, wimp”. I have also come to terms with the fact that while spiders may be beneficial bugs eating flies (also a problem in my house) and other pests, any spider sighted in my house is fair game. I tend to overlook the tiny “wispies” that live in the corners of my ceiling. The ones I go after are the ones big enough to observe it's joints or jaws anything colored, shiny, or hairy looking. I am still scarred from three frightening encounters with the loathesome camel spider last summer. Camel spiders grow to the size of my hand and eat scorpions-beneficial indeed! Not wanting to get too close, I disassembled my wood burning stove and used the pipe to crush them all to death. The battles lasted over twenty mintutes, the first eighteen of which were spent in a frozen, wide-eyed panic.

This spring I have been on the lookout for any spider. Each night I whip back my covers, check under my pillows and examine the walls near my bed. I've also checked the wall to which I smashed a reddish looking spider to make sure it stays smooshed and that its legs aren't moving. I try to think of each killing as training for my next confrontation with the Big One.

This past week I had the opportunity to take part in International Women's Day, a celebration of the past, present and future. Though Women's Day officially takes place on March 8, special events coordinated by Culture Vultures were held the three days prior. Literature readings, yoga classes, musical and artistic performances were open to the public at the American Language Center. The weekend's highlight was an intimate, women only, by-ticket-only Diva's Dinner in the bowels of the medina at Dar Touria. Coinciding with the theme of Women of the Past, the gala's motif was a Roman Feast, music courtesy of DJ Collie Flower.

International Women's Day events were capped with the announcement of essay contest winners from the American Language Center submitting their hopes and predictions for women of the future.

The whole event was an inspiring amalgamation of talented, accomplished, mind-blowing women all gathered together in one synergetic celebration of women, past, present and future.

This past weekend I hosted four volunteers from the Ifrane region. We spent two days running trials of adapted recipes for cheese. The purpose was to work out the kinks of the cooking process and then conduct workshops in each volunteer's respective site with interested host country nationals. The greatest logistical challenges was the predicament of securing 20 liters of fresh, raw milk and keeping it from spoiling since I do not have a refrigerator. This issue was resolved by giving the containers and money to a friend living in Sefrou (three hours from Tafajight). He then delivered the milk to the Tafajight transit driver over two days to ensure the freshest milk.

The cheese-making enterprise coincided with the warmest three days of the year so far which had advantages and disadvantages. We cooked four types of cheeses over two days: feta, ricotta, gouda and farmer's (cream) cheese. The recipes were relatively straightforward and we substituted rennet with an enzyme tablet available in pharmacies used in raibe, a yogurt-like dairy product. After heating the milk, adding cultured buttermilk we cut the curds and hung them in a cheese cloth. Interestingly, the type of cloth best suited for this is the cloth some Moroccan women wear as hijabs. The cloth's name in Arabic translation means "Fabric of My Life". Before the volunteers returned to their sites we were able to taste the ricotta and farmer's cheese which were delicious; much richer and creamier than their commercial counterparts. The gouda and feta require thirty days of aging and are sitting in tupperware containers on my concrete floor.

The meticulous process of sanitation, cooking the milk to precise temperature, rest time and brining process made me marvel at the abundance of cheese. If cheese wasn't so delicious would we work so hard to make it?

When I first arrived in Tafajight, the volunteer I replaced advised me that having one of the only cameras in town would make me a popular wedding guest and subject to constant requests for photos. Like the volunteer before her, she charged two dirham per photo, the cost to develop each prints in Sefrou. When I attended my first wedding, I abided by this practice rather easily since people were by now accomstomed to it. Last autumn however, my next door neighbors began giving me upfront payment and coming over to my house dressed in their most fashionable outfits, where I would then take portraits similar to Glamour Shots and develop them on my next trip to Sefrou (ordered to instruct the photo tech to whiten skin tones and PhotoShop-out sun lines).

This caught on, and before I knew it I had a full week of appointments for portraits at people's homes. When I pass people on the street, at the spring or in the fields they tell me to come over and that they'll pay me for the photos I take of them. I have since taken baby pictures, as well as individual and family portaits. Initially apprehensive of people reimbursing me for their photos, I soon realized that most people are good to their word. Although some people do not have the money on the spot, I have eventually been paid for the photos I've taken. Some people who don't have the money, pay me in eggs, two eggs per picture. Eggs are happily accepted in lieu of cash since I don't have any chickens and my eggs tend to suffer high casualty rates when I buy them outside of town and try to transport them back to my house.

The only downside of the local photo craze is the volume of requests I receive whenever I leave my house. Children accost me on the street to take their picture for free (“fabor!”) which I do not. People stop me when I am out for a run and obviously am not carrying my camera. Additionally, I am constantly asked when I will travel again, and produce the prints to the asking individual. I've established a few policies to help keep such disturbances at bay, such as working by appointment only. No on-the-spot photos just because someone is grazing their sheep right outside my house, which happens a lot more these day!

In addition to a unique integration method, becoming the town photographer has rewarding moments, such as when I give people their first and only pictures of their baby, or take someone's picture for the first time. When I photographed my seventeen year old friend, she informed me she had never been photographed and asked me what she should do with her arms. Upon receiving the brown envelope containing the precious photos, people pore over them with the utmost attention. They notice everything in the picture and verbalize its presence whether an almond tree, rug, upside down clock, or pile of clothing. The greatest joy of all, is the massive collection of portraits of people in my village I have amassed that are now mine to keep. More photos for you, more photos (and eggs!) for me.

Meet Driss. Driss is deaf, mute, limps and his right arm is non-functional. Most of his time is spent in the souk square where the men hang out. He sells cigarettes out of his pocket in single units. There are three interesting things about Driss. First, he is perhaps the most likeable person in town due to his charming smile, friendly approach, and his lack of ability to mutter a single unsavory statement. Secondly, despite his inability to speak or hear and the absence of a standardized sign language, he is able to communicate with the guys remarkably. The men he associates with are familiar with the sets of gestures he expresses himself with and can respond to him with the according gestures themselves. Thirdly, Driss knows everyone in town, knows everything that happens, not just say, the upcoming election, but gossip. And he knows everyone's whereabouts at any given point.

For example, on the way home from a jog, I passed Driss. He pointed to a house across the field, pointed to my house and then pointed to a nearby sheep. When I arrived at my house the man who resides in the house across the field was grazing his herd of sheep in front of my yard. That being said, I cannot grasp Driss's vague gestures when he is communicating a more complex and thereby significant, often juicy piece of news. There is nothing more wrenchingly agonizing than to see Driss signal the populous of my town and then point at me, unable to comprehend the nuances of his message. What? What are they saying about me?!!!!!

Yesterday, while in the midst of conversation with Sidi Mo, the town transit driver, Driss pointed at me and then made a bunch of motions that I could not wreak meaning from. Sidi Mo said “Did you get that?” I said no, and Sidi Mo interpreted “Driss said you went to over to Ait Benaisa yesterday and came back in the afternoon” I had indeed, hiked over the mountain to the next town over for the day. I confirmed Driss's assertion and went home pondering Driss's omniscience, as well as the clarity of communication between himself and everyone, except me.

While visiting my friends, two young shepherdesses, they initiated an impromptu English lesson in the field where we were standing. I taught them the word for sheep, goat and so on. Their curiosity turned when they asked me in the local dialect “How do you say boy?”

“Boy”. I answered in English.

“And how do you say girl?”

“Girl”.

“And how do you say if that man sheep wants to marry that female sheep?”

After some clarification, I produced the correct interpretation: “He loves her”. I was then prompted to teach them the crucial pronouns- “I love you”. Fatima and Basma quickly picked up the phrase and all but mastered the pronunciation. They were delighted.

“I love you!” “I love you!”

I warned them of a nearby boy who can understand a little English and then left them in field repeating their first English sentence to one another. “I love you!”

This weekend was the biggest holiday of the year in Morocco. L3id Kibira, or "Big Holiday" commemorates the story of Abraham's test by God to kill his son. As the story goes, divine intervention swapped the son for a lamb. This Sunday, the eldest male of each family slaughtered a sheep or goat.

I woke up Sunday morning and went outside to hear the sound of men singing. I climbed onto my roof and saw all the men from my neighborhood on the hill wearing their white robes and hats. I guess that the huge holiday filled up the mosque so everyone stood in a line and performed the ritual prostrations of prayer and recited the Koran. It was quite a site, since I had never been inside a mosque, though people routinely prayer inside their homes or outside. As soon as the prayers were finished the men dispersed to perform their religious duty as soon as word came that that king had killed his sheep.

I went over to my neighbors' house to partake in the feast. Bahija swept off a little spot in the grass were the ceremonial sacrifice would take place. As the sheep was led outside, all the cats and dogs ran out and perched around the swept grass with an uncanny sense of what was about to happen. According to Islamic law, there are rules governing the practice of animal slaughter. First, the animal must not see other animals being slaughtered. Secondly, the knife used must be sharp enough to sever halfway through the neck in one stroke. The killing was anticlimatic to my expectations. Fauzi, the brother held down the sheep while Mohamed did the job. It was very quick and much less Tarantino-esque than my imagination had led me to think. No spurting blood, no barbaric hacking. Just one slice and then I found myself shooting a family portrait in front of the Moroccan equivilant of a Christmas tree. It was very endearing to see everyone all dressed up taking part in various responsibilities of the meat-making process. One interesting part, was the skinning of the hide. Mohamed inserted a small reed into the animals leg through which he blew. The fuzzy sheep inflated like a beach ball, its expanding cavity swallowing the stubby legs. I had no idea that sheep did that and I hope no one ever does that to me. The skin was then taken off while Zeinab (the mom) threw little stones to thwart the puppy from licking the sheep's face while the men were at work.

The rest of the butchering process was smooth and uneventful. According to tradition, the animal parts are eaten in a certain order. First, the "guts": heart, liver, intestines. Yuck, I know. Just bear in mind what you would do with a whole sheep and no fridge! As a closet vegetarian, I felt conflicted about partaking in the cultural experience starting with liver kababs wrapped in stomach pieces. The Anjfoul family was very gracious and invited me to eat as little or as much as I wanted. I tried to eat a kabob, but shoving it into a loaf of bread was not enough to dilute the sensation of chewing meat. I hid the rest of the kabob in my socks (a trick I learned at weddings this summer). I snuck the meat to the dogs later in my ongoing campaign to get them to stop barking at me when I leave my house while it's still dark.

As it turns out, L3id is very much like American Thanksgiving. The day is spent in good cheer, either preparing to eat, eating, or resting from eating. Family and friends visit one another and I took a little nap by the fireplace. It was lovely.

The next day I traveled to Her Mo Mo to celebrate Thanksgiving at Lynn's house with some other volunteers-Jess, Chris, Kedar, Lynn, Pete and Casey (sporting a new hat given to him by his barber). We had a bountious potluck, featuring five deserts, mulled wine and homemade stuffing. I felt pretty thankful to be able to experience both holidays and learned a lot about Moroccan culture. People asked me about Thanksgiving and that was neat too! I told them it's just like L3id only turkeys instead of sheep.

This weekend was the biggest holiday of the year in Morocco. L3id Kibira, or "Big Holiday" commemorates the story of Abraham's test by God to kill his son. As the story goes, divine intervention swapped the son for a lamb. This Sunday, the eldest male of each family slaughtered a sheep or goat.

I woke up Sunday morning and went outside to hear the sound of men singing. I climbed onto my roof and saw all the men from my neighborhood on the hill wearing their white robes and hats. I guess that the huge holiday filled up the mosque so everyone stood in a line and performed the ritual prostrations of prayer and recited the Koran. It was quite a site, since I had never been inside a mosque, though people routinely prayer inside their homes or outside. As soon as the prayers were finished the men dispersed to perform their religious duty as soon as word came that that king had killed his sheep.

I went over to my neighbors' house to partake in the feast. Bahija swept off a little spot in the grass were the ceremonial sacrifice would take place. As the sheep was led outside, all the cats and dogs ran out and perched around the swept grass with an uncanny sense of what was about to happen. According to Islamic law, there are rules governing the practice of animal slaughter. First, the animal must not see other animals being slaughtered. Secondly, the knife used must be sharp enough to sever halfway through the neck in one stroke. The killing was anticlimatic to my expectations. Fauzi, the brother held down the sheep while Mohamed did the job. It was very quick and much less Tarantino-esque than my imagination had led me to think. No spurting blood, no barbaric hacking. Just one slice and then I found myself shooting a family portrait in front of the Moroccan equivilant of a Christmas tree. It was very endearing to see everyone all dressed up taking part in various responsibilities of the meat-making process. One interesting part, was the skinning of the hide. Mohamed inserted a small reed into the animals leg through which he blew. The fuzzy sheep inflated like a beach ball, its expanding cavity swallowing the stubby legs. I had no idea that sheep did that and I hope no one ever does that to me. The skin was then taken off while Zeinab (the mom) threw little stones to thwart the puppy from licking the sheep's face while the men were at work.

The rest of the butchering process was smooth and uneventful. According to tradition, the animal parts are eaten in a certain order. First, the "guts": heart, liver, intestines. Yuck, I know. Just bear in mind what you would do with a whole sheep and no fridge! As a closet vegetarian, I felt conflicted about partaking in the cultural experience starting with liver kababs wrapped in stomach pieces. The Anjfoul family was very gracious and invited me to eat as little or as much as I wanted. I tried to eat a kabob, but shoving it into a loaf of bread was not enough to dilute the sensation of chewing meat. I hid the rest of the kabob in my socks (a trick I learned at weddings this summer). I snuck the meat to the dogs later in my ongoing campaign to get them to stop barking at me when I leave my house while it's still dark.

As it turns out, L3id is very much like American Thanksgiving. The day is spent in good cheer, either preparing to eat, eating, or resting from eating. Family and friends visit one another and I took a little nap by the fireplace. It was lovely.

The next day I traveled to Her Mo Mo to celebrate Thanksgiving at Lynn's house with some other volunteers-Jess, Chris, Kedar, Lynn, Pete and Casey (sporting a new hat given to him by his barber). We had a bountious potluck, featuring five deserts, mulled wine and homemade stuffing. I felt pretty thankful to be able to experience both holidays and learned a lot about Moroccan culture. People asked me about Thanksgiving and that was neat too! I told them it's just like L3id only turkeys instead of sheep.

This morning the environment volunteers split up into taxis and set off for training field trips at various NGOs and government agencies, arranged by our program manager, Mohsinne. The destinations included a renewable energy technology center, a women's training center, an eco-park and several others. I opted for SPANA, the Societe Protectrice Des Animeaux et De La Nature. When we first arrived at the entrance, it seemed like another too-good-to-be-true story. Malnourished mules struggled to hobble in. One donkey had an unsightly abcess on his back. A skinny horse lay down, unable to stand. We were greeted by the head veterinarian and then introduced to our guide. As we were led around the facility, we were surprised to find ourselves surrounded by a beautiful, state-of-the-art veterinary clinic and environmental education center. We learned the history of SPANA; two Fritish women traveled to Morocco in the 1920s and were shocked at the country's mistreatment of its animals. They returned home and established the organization, funded by themselves, the British embassy and several other contributors. The center provides a wide range of services to Moroccan people and animals. It provides free veterinary services to any animal brought to the center and also sends workers to weekly markets in rural areas to provide vaccinations, medical treatment and to educate owners on nutrition, treatment and care of their animals. SPANA also visits schools and hosts a class each week at the environmental education center to educate children on the environment and importance of animals, as well as to discourage them from abusing animals. In addition, we met an English and Irish veterinarian, both working at SPANA as part of its volunteer vet residency program. One of the vets had recently delivered a premature donkey by cesarean when its mother arrived in a cart suffering from the advanced stages of tetnus. We learned that SPANA will purchase the little guy from his owner and use him in their education programs.

The whole experience was something I had never seen in Morocco. I especially loved it when the guide let one of the captive kestrels perch on his gloveless hand and passed him on to the also gloveless hands of his small audience. Yes, the kestrel had large talons, but fortunately no one was punctured. After everyone had a chance to awe the elegant little bird he returned to his chair perch next to the gerbil cage. Now that I have the contact information for their northern office, I'm excited to explore the prospects of inviting them to or near my site for a day of education & animal care.

Today was an exhilarating day for the first year environment and health volunteers. I rode the train to Marrakech this Sunday to attend week-long Interservice Training marking six months of Peace Corps service and eight months in country. Yikes! The training coincided with the Middle East Forum for the Future hosted by Morocco in Marrakech. On Monday evening, we were introduced to the new U.S. ambassador to Morocco Samuel Kasper who graciously received us with his wife at our hotel. Tuesday morning we received the announcement that Hillary Clinton who had arrived in Morocco to finish off her tour of the mid-east at the conference, was interested in meeting the Peace Corps volunteers at the conference venue. Our training was postponed and we hurried back to our rooms to grab our passports and change into our most formal clothing, which for the environment volunteers comprised of cargo pants, hiking boots and a North Face button-up. When we arrived at the Forum, we were escorted downstairs to a room inhabited by the U.S. State Department from Washington & Rabat. The ambassador was also there and passed the waiting time with introductions, question-answer and some stand-up. When the Clinton entourage finally arrived we rose and applauded the Secretary of State. She wore an ocean blue pants suit that really made her eyes pop. Her hair was perfect as was her diction. Mrs. Clinton spoke for about twenty-five minutes thanking the State Department for their work on the Forum, their work in diplomacy in Morocco, women's empowerment and Morocco's development progress. The highlight of her remarks came when she called Muriel Johnston to the podium and recognized her as the oldest (and best) Peace Corps volunteer. The cargo pants side of the room cheered and fist-pumped our inspriring colleague; the black suit side of the room (State Department) applauded warmly and snapped photos of the exciting moment. Secretary Clinton was shortly thereafter off to a bilateral meeting with important unnamed people, and many of us got a Hillary Handshake to top it all off.

My friend Jess came to town this weekend for a knitting circle. I invited fifteen or so women from my town to the new women's training center (nedi) to learn how to knit. Unbeknownst to me, the president of the commune had also picked that day to throw a post-election victory party for the entire town. Needless to say, most people opted to attend the biggest local event in recent history rather than knit square panels. We ended up sitting outside knitting with two female sheepherders for a few hours. It actually worked out for the better because the two women got pretty excited about it and want to do more knitting. We cut a deal that I would find them some needles on my next trip to Fes in exchange for some wool yarn made from their sheep.

It's fall and my village is a dreamland of autumn harvest. The apples and corn came to fruition shortly after Ramadan. Migrant workers have flowed into the orchards to assist with the harvest and the rooftops of houses are bright orange with drying ears of corn. Whenever I pass someone returning from their land they insistently shower me with bundles of apples and corn to take home. I like this time of year. The bundles of cornstalks leaned against houses and crows flying over brown fields reminds me of the American midwest. The most delightful bounties, however are the pomogranates and figs pouring out of warmer towns at lower elevations. I have become quite a glutton for pomegranates and the tiny explosions of flavor in my mouth; I have already consumed several kilos of the very appropriately biblically designated fruit only two weeks into the season. The glamorous fruits have lent to some avante-garde meal creations, such as fava bean-mint soup garnished with a handful of pomegranates. Delicious! Even the obvious combinations like pomegranate and yogurt for breakfast and pomegranate-grape juice put a bounce in my step, which is usually towards the kitchen these days.

This past week myself and another volunteer from a nearby site facilitated a workshop in my village. Sixteen families are currently growing saffron as part of a pilot initiated by the United Nations Development Program several years ago.

The idea was to bring community members together with third party experts for a two day workshop on cooperative development, cultivation techniques and business/marketing education. Last month I had made a week-long journey to Taliouine the southern town hosting the world's largest saffron cooperative. I invited a former co-op member who now exports saffron abroad to attend the workshop and present on his experiences. We also received commitments from our counterpart, The Department of Water and Forestry, the Office of Cooperative Development and the Institute de Development Humane.

The project itself was somewhat of a disappointment as the process became entwined in local politics and when all third parties were no-shows on the morning of the workshop. The representatives from Taliouine did come and conducted an exhaustive question and answer session. The workshop ended one day early due to cuts in the program and we ended up with a goat that was supposed to be eaten on the second day of the workshop. Fortunately, I was able to dispense of it before having to shelter it overnight in my house.

Although none of the objectives set forth in our proposal were met by the beneficiaries in my village, I believe some gains were made. Submitting a proposal and organizing a project so early into my service will be valuable as I plan other community development initiatives in the future. A positive rapport has been established with some members of my community that I have yet to engage with on account of gender norms. People recognized our efforts and will hopefully want to do more work together under more favorable circumstances.

Summer ended abruptly this week. One day I was sweating through my jeans on the transit, the next I was pulling my sleeping bag and sweaters out of my suitcase. Everyone I speak to says the winters in my site are cold, long and dark. For now, I am basking in the joys of cooler weather such as fewer flies (and hopefully camel spiders!) I am also pretty ecstatic to change up my wardrobe and wear something other than the same three t-shirts and two pairs of pants I've been donning since May. Thirdly, the sweltering summer heat (excess 115F) did unpleasant things to any perishables I brought into my house. It was nice to buy butter at souq and have it last the whole ride home. I celebrated by making delicious, buttery scones for a lovely Saturday breakfast.

I hiked from my site to Casey's site today, about four hours round trip. Casey, a second year health volunteer met me in my town and we trekked the route together. The weather was beautiful and the views breathtaking with Bou Yblane, a 3100m peak towering in the distance.

I'll be returning to my site tomorrow with a full schedule and three month action plan based on a fruitful two week technical training. Hopefully at the end of August I'll be travelling to the Ourzazate province to visit a cooperative producing the best saffron in Morocco. There are 16 families growing saffron in my village as part of a pilot income generation project started three years ago by the United Nations Development Program. With a 45 MAD/gram price potential (domestic), we are hoping to hold a workshop building local capacity in cultivation techniques, quality control, marketing and starting a grower's cooperative.

The city of Azrou offers a welcome abundance of amenities such as running water, municipal trash collection and refrigeration. Between training sessions I've been enjoying myself enormously with my fellow environment volunteers making nightly trips to buy 15 Dh ice cream and cooling off from the sweltering heat in the guesthouse shower. Technical training has been productive and educational, with session topics ranging from wood efficient stoves, community needs assessment and creating environmental education curriculum. I'm looking forward to some down time this weekend . I'm hoping to devote more time to language and explore the surrounding area including nearby Ifrane, a ski-resort village with Swiss architecture, cedar forests and a university campus.

This weekend I'll be travelling to Azrou for a two week technical training with the environment sector. I don't know the specifics yet, so it will be interesting first few days. Azrou is a Berber city outside of Fes built in the cedar forests, so I'm excited for some bird watching and barbary ape sightings. With the annual local Berber craft fair taking place the first week in August, I'll be scouting the grounds for some good deals on carpets, baskets and daggers.

After four long months of home stay, I am settled in my own Berber house. I spent the weekend in Sefrou and Fes buying furniture, food etc. and it's beginning to feel like home, despite ants and other entomological residents. My neighbors have made all the difference; two girls my age and their family. Having friends to talk with has been advantageous for my language learning & cultural integration. They've helped me a lot moving in and have three fierce guard dogs to protect my American property, which is great.

It's wheat harvest time in my town. The fields have turned golden yellow and families spend the hot summer days in the fields cutting the stalks, tying them into bunches. The bunches are then carried to threshing stations located throughout the village. Each family spreads out the stalks on the concrete foundation and runs their mule team over them, around and around, the hooves pounding out the grain. It's amazing to watch, although my contribution to the process has been minimal since I have yet to learn the cutting technique needed to use the frightening harvesting knife. I have been surprised at how quickly the harvest has progressed considering all labor is performed manually and animally. The only truly mechanical component of the seed-to-bread process takes place after the threshing when the grain is ground up in a mechanical grinder. With Ramadan around the corner the pressure is on to finish the harvest and before the long, hot days of summer become long, hot days of fasting.

Last week a nation-wide transportation strike brought all business, pleasure and markets to a halt. The anxiety and anticipation in my village crescendoed as the strike demanded that the annual Horse Festival (or moussem) was postponed. Fortunately, the government caved and the festival came to town.

The Horse Festival celebrates the wild steeds of Morocco and their wild warrior riders, the Amazight people also known as Berbers. The horses were massive in stature and I later learned were Barbs, a breed native to North Africa cross-bred for hardiness and speed. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barbary_horse) Barb owners keep their equines fairly green for the crowd-wowing effect of a prancing stallion. The show consists of costumed horses and riders armed with traditional implements of warfare; guns, crooked knife. In groups of about 15, they strut a few paces, whoop their battlecry, gallop down the runway and shoot their guns. After seeing and hearing this performance 15 times a day for three days, I am ready to see the tents go back to their homes in Marrakesh.

It was fun to walk around the Berber tents and see the horses tied up during their off-shift. The men were very gracious about being photographed and posing for pics atop the stallions. One man dressed me in his white hooded robe, belt and knife and handed me his silver plated gun when I had mounted. It was pretty gimicky, but I still had a strong urge to put the knife between my teeth and let out an "Aiii yiii yii!". I maintained composure only due to the already massive crowd of people gawking at the loud Americans wearing fake warrior outfits.

The atmosphere was reminiscent of various fairs/festivals in the States, minus the beer tent. (Islam forbids alcohol) I have yet to enter the inner circle of secret imbibing, so I can't explain where the booze was or how it got there. All I can say is that around 11:30 p.m. (very late in Morocco) the heydus or drum circle was getting rowdy with no signs of slowing down.

This Sunday was my host sister Sommia's eighteenth birthday. In anticipation of the event, I perused my recently-issued (and new favorite) Peace Corps-Morocco cookbook for a cake recipe. In the spirit of simplicity, I decided to make zucchini bread. We had a great time baking together and they were surprised that veggies and pastries can mix. My host mother Fatima showed me how to bake a Moroccan cake with a container of yogurt, delicately topped with orange konfitur and sprinkles. All was well. A few families came over including two of my co-volunteers who are neighbors. One of the families has a two year old daughter named Rabab. With the pragmatism of seasoned parents, whenever Rabab is restless, they pop in a DVD so as to pre-empt unpleasant noise. The video is a campy montage of belly dancers in full garb, engulfed in a hedonistic trance that goes on for about an hour and a half. Rabab loves the belly dancing video and has mastered several of the moves. As you can imagine, we all almost died laughing while watching Rabab shake her hair and swing her chubby waist. The food went down with glasses of mint tea and the BerBer drum rthyms eventually got to the Moroccans. They soon were doing what they do best, tying scarves around their waists and trying to dance with three unfortunately arythmic Americans . I shook it, we all shook it. I was deftly out-partied by the host country nationals. I gotta get learn me some moves before Wedding Season in Morocco.

Last night I shared an important component of American culture with my host family: pizza. Ever since my arrival, pizza has been a topic of discussion. "Do you eat pizza?" "Do you like pizza?" "Do you know how to make pizza?" I was forced to confirm the rumor about Americans. Yes, we love our pizza. Some stereotypes are just true. The next time I had meetings in the nearby city, I picked up some shredded cheese and tomato paste. My host family was ecstatic. The evening was quite an affair. The neighbors came over to watch. My host mother plugged in the blender to make fresh juice, more complementing to pizza than mint tea. The baking event also revealed shocking discoveries to my Moroccan host family. “Don't you need some cumin in the sauce?” “Shouldn't we grate the tomatoes into a pot and simmer them with cilantro and onions?” I diplomatically held my ground. We diced onions and tomatoes. My host sister cracked open a can of sardines and I explained the ½ and ½ compromise in pizza eating cultures. We put the sardines on one half of the pizza and sprinkled the freshest, most delicious olives over everything. I must admit, the result was fantastic. We sat around the table licking our fingers and watching Gabon's football team destroy Morocco.

I am now living with a family of four in a tiny Berber village. It is a good place to spend two months learning Tamazight, the original language of Morocco. Although around 70% of the population are native Berber (Tamazigt) speakers, all official business, media and education is conducted in either French or Moroccan Arabic. My Moroccan family is comprised of Fatima and M'hamed, their daughter Sommia (18) and son Aziz (15). There is no high school in the village, so Sommia lives in the large city near our village to attend school there. My village is an interesting place. Only about 60 families call it home and there is no internet, municipal garbage collection or sewage disposal. Despite the mounds of trash, our town is quite nice. The steep hillsides are rocky and becoming greener every day with the changing seasons. The air is full of animal noises. Today for instance our class was disrupted by a cat fight outside the classroom. We all rushed to the window to check out the action.

Saturday is souq day, the weekly outdoor market. People come from miles around to buy and sell items otherwise unavailable in town. The hillsides are jam-packed with tethered donkeys and swarms of people descend into the square to haggle the price of vegetables, clothing, sheep and household items. After my second souq, I am still a weak bargainer. I have yet to acquire the confident alacrity needed to navigate the crowds and master the haggling dialogue. In addition, the Moroccan currency system hails from the upper echelons of confusing. The dirham is the standard monetary unit (like the dollar). There are also smaller units of money called ryals which equal 1/5 of one dirham (kind of like a nickel). However, some regions of Morocco, including where I live, only use ryals in transactions. For example, if I ask how much something costs and the price= 8 Dirham, the seller will price the product at 160 ryals. Then, I have to divide by 20 in my head to determine the amount in dirhams and decide if the price is fair. This situation is analogous to something costing 530 nickels with the transaction paid in dollars. Go figure.

Today I was delighted to see the heavy, gray skies open giving me the first opportunity to see the Mid-Atlas mountains. It was strange to see palm trees back-dropped with snow-covered peaks. The bus ride ascent into the hills was all spring flowers, grazing sheep and stray dogs.

Our group of health & environment trainees has been quite busy studying survival Moroccan Arabic and participating in cultural training exercises with the goal that we will not act like American Borat once we are placed with our host families. Tomorrow, the Peace Corps Language & Cultural Facilitators will conduct a session teaching useful expressions to use with our new families on Monday. Although I have been catching on at a reasonable pace, I anticipate my homestay hosts are in for some long nights of Pictionary.