I will stop apologizing for not regularly updating this blog. Just accept it as normal that you might not hear from me for 2-3 months at a time. And expect that most updates will now just be about food.

A meal this fresh is completed only by a glass of fluorescent orange soda. After a year of searching, I finally found a steady supply of basil!

Okay, so it’s been but an eon since I last posted something on this blog. You know, I love the idea of journaling, blogging, documenting my thoughts and experiences. But as I’ve stated on this blog before, I’m really bad at it. But anyway, let me tell you about this late-winter rain that pattered against my roof. The droplets struck, the echo reverberated through my cold but somehow cozy concrete-box-of-a-house (must be the 4 layers of sweaters, long-johns, and wool socks). I looked outside, the gray sky hovered eerily over the hollow formed by the two gentle argan and olive tree dotted hills. The wind blew a cold sheet of small rain droplets through my open kitchen window, wafts of freshly brewed coffee then tickled my nose. I sipped the pleasant coffee, its humble flavors engulfed my pallet. I continued to stare out the window, thinking how far I’ve come since arriving to Morocco just over one year ago. I am now far less confused and significantly less innocent, yet a much more capable resident of this country. I sat at my kitchen table and from an old Fanta soda bottle I poured some fresh and delightfully fruity olive oil in a plate dusted with salt, pepper, and ground cumin. I dipped my fresh bread in the oil, and by a Morocco-induced habit I softly whispered “bismillaah,” literally: “in the name of God.” Fresh bread, fresh oil: this is the breakfast of Morocco and is now a breakfast I have come to thoroughly enjoy. The salt, pepper, and cumin addition is perhaps purely American on my part; salted and spiced olive oil is certainly ludicrous in the minds of my villagers. I bismillaah-ed like a Moroccan, yet I ate my Moroccan breakfast like a foreigner – a reminder that I am a metamorphosis of the individual that de-boarded the Royal Air Maroc flight over one year ago. In honor of orange season (and in honor of my love for all-things food)… Fresh oranges, ready to be juiced at home; 3dirham juice stand in Marrakech; the grand Koutoubia mosque in Marrakech

Diana and Josh hard at work. When do you wash your hands? Why? Hot water or cold? Bar soap or liquid soap? Clean towel or reused towel?

An odd mixture of bright sun, Godly thunder, torrential rain, and occasional chirping birds. And winds strong enough to have seemingly pushed my concrete-box-of-a-house a couple of inches north. Great day for staying indoors and eating… beet soup. Beets Large onion Many a clove of garlic Veg or chicken broth en masse salt and pepper yogurt for garnish

To give you some vague insight into the life I live, I just sent this text message to a fellow PCV: “I’m unusually cold tonight so have turned on [butane-powered metal-box of an] oven, put a blanket over kitchen entrance, and am sitting in kitchen all night.” I do love this life, I promise.

.. in addition to seeing children chase run-away donkeys, I see two little kids climbing up an argan tree to avoid the sheep which they’ve angered by throwing rocks.

I love standing on my roof watching young children chase run-away donkeys.

It's been a while since last updating... so much, yet so little, has happened since I left you with that curious photo of a camel in my backyard. Just like I did a couple of months ago, I'm recommitting myself to more frequent updates.

Excellent in-service training with stagemates in Marrakech.Hot minute trip to Fez with great people. It's a lovely city. The culture up yonder is so different than down here in the south. And the bisara (fava been soup-ish) is soo sooooo good.Even hotter minute trip to America for family reasons.Diversity training and VAC meeting in Rabatville.Thanksgiving retreat at province-mate's rustic and falling apart mansion house in the middle-of-nowhere. I made the most delicious stuffing I've ever eaten... mmmm mmmmm good. Despite the heavy rain, absent electricity, and absent running water, the good company kept things fabulous. Watched my little village flood. Watched the water seep into the baked earth. Watched people trudge through muddy-swamp village. Watched mud turn back into baked earth. As I write, it's raining again... baked earth turning into mud... the cycle begins again. SIDA event at local souk with province-mates. Beautiful weather, beautiful work. Gorged on too much cauliflower and beet greens. Definitely not an unhealthy thing, but made the bathroom run an interesting experience. Nonetheless, I am grateful for the beet-man at my weekly market who gave me a heaping bunch of beet greens for free.

And can someone please identify this unidentified vegetable thing that looks sort of like celery, but isn't. And I have no idea what to do with it.

SIDA table at Had Dra health clinic.

It's odd how sometimes I just don't have enough time to get anything done, but at the same time, I feel like I have nothing to do. It is an odd, odd paradox.

This quirky creature was standing 2 feet from my front door when I returned home yesterday, mowing my grass and chewing my vegetable scraps in that lopsided and comical way that camels chew.

...

Potato SamosasMint ChutneyApple/Onion ChutneyWhole-Wheat ChipatisMorocco's Finest Channa MasalaSome of this deliciousness was missing some key spices (specifically cardamom, caraway, and nutmeg), but we gobbled it all up anyway and later rolled around on the floor like bloated roly-polys. Basmati rice would've been nice, but I'm not willing to cough up 75MAD for a half-kilo.

During months 7-10 of my service, they told me I'd be going through this:

Month: 7-10

Issues:Slow work progressLanguage plateausCross-cultural frustrationCulture shockBehaviors/Reactions:Comparison with othersOver-zealousnessHomesicknessUncertain about adaptation/abilitiesIntolerance with host cultureInterventions:Reunions: talk with other PCVsCommunication with homeSimple projects: crafts, classes, meetingsConsolidate host-country national friendshipsReview this sheet on changesI'd say they were mostly dead-on in terms of accuracy. Kudos to Peace Corps for predicting my mental state!

I never really blog about the many mundane things that fill my day, yet so many of my fans are probably quite eager to know precisely what I do from sunrise to sunset. So here's a timeline of what I did on Tuesday, September 28th 2010. This may be one of the most boring things you read, but I truly hope you're all as excited to read this as I know my mom will be.

6:30am: Snoozed the alarm.6:35am: Snoozed alarm.6:40am: Snoozed alarm again, considered turning off blasted alarm.6:45am: Gave up battle and woke up instead.6:50am: Stood up, puzzled by the cooler weather. Walked to kitchen, puzzled by absence of mouse poop. Made coffee.7:00am: Sipped on coffee, checked email, read NYT online, smiled because Mad Men season 4 episode 5 finished downloading overnight.7:15am: Scarfed down a cereal yogurt; thought about the fact that cereal means grain in French.8:00am: Headed to elementary school, conveniently located five steps away from my house.8:02am: Downed an unfathomably sweet cup o' tea. Blessed the parents of the guy who gave me tea.8:03am: Chatted with various teachers and school director, talked about weather. Sat awkwardly.9:30am: Popped into commune building (like City H... errrrr Village Hall) to give my salams.9:40am: Popped into health clinic; promptly left health clinic... too many eyes staring at me. Returned home.10:00am: Began arduous task of laundry; loafed around house; perused the internets.11:00am: Ate cold leftover tomato/cream cheese/bulgar concoction.11:30am: Sat under olive tree and read Miranda July's "No one belongs here more than you." (Good author... I like the way she thinks).12:30pm: Biked to nearest middle school and visited some peeps; introduced myself to school director and stared blankly at him as he refused to speak to me in Arabic... French only. Ran into 3'6'' tall saHibi (friend), shocked that he's in middle school, given his minuscule height.2:30pm: Lost track of time at this point... it happens; chilled in a barber shop with a bunch of dudes that told me how much they like whiskey.3:00pm: Biked 15km south to buy some fresh butter and recharge my internet stick; sat in a basket shop and waited for a store keeper who, sadly, never came.4:30pm: Returned home, curious as to why my butter does not smell like butter; appeased craving for french fries by making them out of my 2 month old potatoes. (This craving was obviously rooted in my upcoming trip to France.)5:30pm: Read more of July; indulged in tasty french fries; blasted Simon and Garfunkel as loud as possible without raising suspicion.6:30pm: Began writing this blog post. --------- None of this has happened yet, but I'm nearly certain it will.7:30pm: Finish off french fries; lick mayo and ketchup off finger; grumble and burp because I ate too many.8:00pm: Dishes without running water... it's as exciting as it sounds; sweep up dead cockroaches, fling them into the fields.9:00pm: Catch up on Mad Men while finishing off the leftover tomato/cream cheese/bulgar concoction.10:30pm: Freak out 'cause I did not yet fill out the form for tomorrow's visit from my Peace Corps program manager.10:35pm: Fill out said form.10:43pm: Kill blasted cockroach that's watching me be productive.11:00pm: Consider watching another episode of Mad Men... resort to reading instead.11:45pm: Sleep. Scrub, rinse, repeat.

Don't be fooled, today was not an 'average' day. Average days do not exist anymore. No, everyday is curious in its own way. Some days involve more super-sweet tea, other days involve fewer encounters with people. Some days involve lots of haggling with taxi drivers. Recently, some days involved nothing but sitting naked in my living room with a wet towel being the only thing between me and my fan.

When I'm not loafing around my village trying to get invited to tea, sitting with my host family pretending to study Arabic, or lounging in my house catching up on the most recent episode of Mad Men, I'm likely to be trying out a new recipe. Morocco is a fabulous place for an eager cook... lots of fresh and cheap produce, lots of spice (except I can't find cardamom), lots of butter and even more olive oil.

On the menu for this week's gathering of PCVs: Roasted Almond and Mint Pesto Linguini with Goat Cheese Pan-Fried Cumin Chickpeas

Pumpkin Mousse

And for breakfast the next morning: Apricot Scones with Yogurt

Meet Si Miloud... the gecko that has been making abode in my living room for the past week. Named after my landlord who frequently lurks around my apartment, Miloud likes to make random, unsolicited appearances just after sunset. He is elusive, yet easily spotted when scurrying across my white living room walls. He is important because he eats the other unwanted critters in my house. His half-tail makes him that much more adorable and the van der Waals forces that keep his little rounded toes stuck to my walls make him that much more interesting.

Si Miloud

Today has quite possibly been the best weather I've so far encountered in Morocco: impeccably blue skies, gentle breezes, just enough long stretches of stratus clouds to prevent the sun from being its usual scalding self, a high temperature of around 80 degrees, nearly non-existent humidity. The swift breeze last night was cool enough that I closed the windows in the middle of the night; my thin hand-me-down sheet was insufficient to keep me comfortably snuggled. I woke early this morning, around 6am, just before the sun could peak over the gentle mountains that hover just east of my village; a barely existent layer of fog blanketed the dusty little town, though dissipated in no time. I spent the early hours reading the New York Times, checking my email, and of course browsing Facebook, all the while sipping a most delicious frozen banana-coffee breakfast smoothie and crunching on a good ol' country apple (the non quality-controlled, non-GM kind you'd pick off your grandfathers apple tree in the backyard, not the kind you'd pay 2 bucks for at Whole Foods).

After my morning routine that would certainly liken me to a real adult (wake up early, down some coffee, read the newspaper... all before most people are awake), I hopped on my bike and headed to my souq town (market town), about 15km away, where I had a few errands to run. The bike ride made me highly reminiscent of my life back in America. I kept imagining myself running through Wesleyan's campus and into the neighboring Connecticut countryside on a sunny but cool and crisp early autumn morning. After that flashback passed, I began picturing myself, again during early autumn, jumping into my parents old faithful Honda Civic early on a Saturday morning to make it to my youth soccer games. As I biked down the main highway to Casablanca, I could still smell the all too familiar rustic scent of tree leaves beginning their color transition from all sorts of green to all sorts of red, yellow, and brown.

Nostalgic moments like this morning have been particularly frequent during the past month or so. This morning's flashbacks were likely brought on by the beautiful autumn-like weather, though I assure you that my current surrounding landscape has essentially no resemblance to the lush fall foliage of Kentucky or Connecticut. Perhaps this is what folks call "homesickness?" Wikipedia makes a clear distinction between "nostalgia" and "homesickness," the later being related to negative thoughts and sadness while nostalgia is both sadness and joy. I'm very much enjoying my experience in Morocco, but certainly have many nostalgic moments of joy from the past.

Lots of things are triggering these nostalgic moments. Despite the donkey calls and calls to prayer happening outside my house, listening to Bon Iver or Regina Spektor still brings back strong memories of my road trip across the United States last year. Frying onions in the early evening hours here in my house takes me back to my childhood, when either of my parents were very likely to have been sauteeing onions just before sunset so as to have dinner ready at a decent hour. Sipping on a glass of wine in Essaouira inevitably makes me yearn for the days when I had endless amounts of wine bars at my doorstep in San Francisco. Oddly, even spending the day working at the Peace Corps office in Rabat takes me back to the days when I'd scurry around my college campus, meeting with professors, popping in my research lab to check on my cells, or sitting in the frigid library trying to write mildly coherent essays. These flashbacks make a lot of sense; they're memories of positive emotional moments in my life, memories that are resurrecting themselves during a time when my mind and body finds itself in a new world, a new culture, a new language. These memories all happened at a time when I could communicate in my own language, pick up on social clues, understand deeper cultural intricacies, and was very well educated about the historical context that influenced all of that. I knew darned well how to operate in my American world.

I certainly make no claims of truly understanding Morocco, Moroccans, or Moroccan languages; but I am trying. And that's one of the many beautiful things about Peace Corps, and precisely one of the many reasons I applied and accepted an invitation: to challenge my very ingrained lens with which I view the world, to put myself in a position where I can at least try to understand a different way of living in the world, to remove myself from all of that which is familiar in order to better make sense of the world.

So in another moment of nostalgia, I returned home today from my bike ride and whipped up one of my all-time favorite foods, a food that is very near and dear to my heart, a comfort food that my father made for me so many times, a food which I wish everyone could know: Egyptian kushari, كشرى.

I try hard not to become irritated by people like Bill Keller, a Christian televangelist. But when they say things like "[Muslims] can go to their mosque and preach the lies of Islam" it's hard to maintain any sense of calmness. Bill Keller claims Islam is a "false faith" that teaches "hate, violence, and death." According to the New York Times, in a recent speech in New York City regarding a mosque in the proposed Muslim community center in Manhattan, Keller "called the mosque's potential worshipers guilty of terrorism by association, saying it was 'their Muslim brothers' who 'flew airplanes into the World Trade Center towers and killed 3,000 people.'" I am truly confounded by his ignorance, though not surprised by his intolerance, yet I will do my best to respect his opinions, ideologies, and beliefs. I wonder though, why can't he respect the opinions, ideologies, and beliefs of other people?

With people like Bill Keller making known their intolerant two-cents, it's no wonder that American Muslims are beginning to re-question their place in American society.

Thank you Mom for painting a picture of what it means to be accepting. Thank you Dad for showing me that Islam is, indeed, a real religion that teaches peace and love. Thank you United States Peace Corps for giving me the opportunity to live in a Muslim country. And thank you Morocco for reinforcing that Muslims around the world are good people. Without these things in my life, I fear that I might be one of the 2.5 million people reading Bill Keller's daily devotional emails that spread intolerance and fallacies.

Let us all take a moment to appreciate the beautiful, finer things in life: good people, happy people, smiling people, cool morning breezes, water molecules, green grass (not in Morocco), gentle mountain slopes dotted with olive, fig, and argan trees (only in Morocco!). And very pertinent to my life these days: Essaouira's old city walls, the old Mogador standing strong, the everlasting sun setting over the Atlantic, delicate figs freshly plucked from countryside trees, calls to prayer that permeate Essaouira's ocean-scented air. Life ain't bad.

Case in point:

Used my oven for the first time this morning. My biscuits were all flaming within 5 minutes. Sad.

Stepping out of my house, looking past the donkey poop, dusty road, and a ditch full of plastic shopping bags, what do I see? I gentle mountain dotted solely with argan trees and an occasional olive or fig tree. Argan? What? What's that? It's a tree endemic only to my corner of Morocco (although apparently is now also growing well in Israel), and designated by UNESCO as demonstrating a model means of sustainable development. Argan nuts are harvested by the locals, who press the oil for culinary and cosmetic use. With an extremely low oil-output per kilogram of nuts, yet packed with health benefits, argan oil is not surprisingly a huge hit in high-end European and North American boutiques.

Back in the Moroccan countryside, however, argan is still a huge hit. Family's in the bled know and love argan oil, using it in their cuisine and as a beauty product for their hair and skin. They also know how incredibly time-consuming the oil production is. This year's harvest is now over. For most of July, however, my host family spent all day trailing the mountainside, picking the nuts from the ground, tossing them in bags, and then leading their donkey down the hillside, into their courtyard home, where they spread the argan nuts to dry in the sun before cracking them open and pressing the seeds for oil.

Read more: The New York Times knows this and this, and Wikipedia knows this. Peak your interest, perhaps?

Photos courtesy of NYT.

In keeping with my recent vow, I made myself sit down and write this update...

I've just returned from two weeks of Peace Corps training back in the good ol' Ouarzazate. I had a splendid time hangin' out with the other volunteers who I hadn't seen since early May, and am forever grateful for the technical training that makes my presence in Morocco much more legitimate than my language skills would otherwise indicate. We learned how to implement different projects in our sites, such as latrine building, peer education, maternal and child health education, etc. I'm still in the "community analysis" phase of my service where I'm slowly but surely trying to assess the needs of my community, but the recent training in Ouarzazate gave me an excellent foundation and context to begin planning future projects.

During my two-week training period, I made a quick overnight trip to visit my old training host family. My three-year old host sister grew tremendously, and was just as fiery and mischievous as ever. It was strange being back, but was nice to visit the town and people that first welcomed me to Morocco.

On my way to Ouarzazate for training, I made a pit-stop in Marrakech to celebrate my birthday-izzzleeee with a gaggle of other volunteers. Most PCVs tend to avoid Marrakech, if possible. The city is hot, dusty, packed with tourists on packaged tours and therefore laden with annoying shopkeepers and unrelenting taxi drivers; it's crowded and chaotic, expensive and disorienting. That was my sixth or seventh time in Marrakech and with each visit, I try so hard to love the place, but the city just isn't growing me...

Agadir, on the other hand, grew on me instantly. A coastal city, intentionally built-up as a tourist destination after an earthquake demolished the city in the 1960, Agadir is high on the list of PCV "favorite cities." Looking to avoid the Tishka pass en route from Ouarzazate to my site (a mountain pass in the High Atlas Mountains, which despite it's natural beauty, can make even the strongest soul terrifyingly car sick, especially when mercury reads a hefty 100+ degrees), as well as take advantage of the opportunity to explore more of this miraculous country, I made a quick trip to Agadir on my way back to site after training. An escape from all things Moroccan, Agadir quickly won my heart. Not sure it's a city I'd love if it wasn't in stark juxtaposition to my site in the countryside (which I also love), but sometimes an escape from Morocco is what a PCV needs. Sidewalk cafes, night clubs, white sandy beaches, good ice cream, good restaurants (Indian, Chinese, and Korean food... McDonald's and Pizza Hut too, but I wouldn't consider that "good"). No hustling from shop keepers, no crowded medina, no wacko taxi drivers. It was still dusty, but I'm learning to deal with that. Also, Agadir reminded me a heckuva lot of Capetown, South Africa.

I didn't take any pics while in Agadir, but figured ya'll might want a visual, so this pic is courtesy of google.

I'm back in site now and was welcomed home by lots of mice who discovered that oatmeal shipped from America is delicious. Ramadan also started yesterday, and although I did not fast yesterday or today (I've got the funky stomach right now...), I will do so this weekend. I never fasted in the US, but watched my father do so every year, so I'll consider my presence in Morocco an opportunity to try it out. After all, it should be nice to experience Ramadan in a Muslim country.

Chhheeerrrsssss!

Dear Blog,

I really, truly, most sincerely think about you often and despite my recent and prolonged negligence, will, insha'allah, keep you alive for the next two years. I'm also considering giving you a face-lift.

In the meantime, think about this: Ramadan in Morocco: To Fast or Not to Fast

Love,

Adam

As promised, here are a few pics of my house. Shwiya b shwiya, little by little, it's feeling like home. The house is halfway painted, the kitchen is stocked. Haven't had the right combination of water, energy, time, and mental capacity to scrub the bathroom, but I did paint it. Still tryna figure out why the heck I thought it was a good idea to buy those ugly green chairs...

Hand mixed the colors for that yellow wall!

View from my bedroom window.

Beet/Orange/Cumcumber puree that was supposed to be juice...

Baygon! Be gone cockroaches! This stuff is scary and amazing.

Received a care package from home today, complete with quinoa and yesties! Chocolate-covered cacao nibs too! Luckily didn't have to pay outrageous customs fees... was worried about that. Thank you, MOM and DAD!Spent most of today in Essaouira. My site is only about 40-50km from Essa, but Essa is literally a good 20-30 degrees cooler than my site. I will be making many escape trips this summer...I love the shopkeepers in Essa. Friendliest people. Most talkative people. Unbelievably talkative... had tea and donuts in a shop that I entered with the hopes of simply buying some cheap tupperware. If they don't invite me in for tea, they just smile and laugh a lot, which keeps my spirits high. Bought a fan. It's a cheapie, but is keeping me from melting right now.Also bought a blender today. Not a cheapie. Can't wait to start making fresh juices, nut butters, and grinding my own coffee! I have plans to make a fresh melon-mint juice tomorrow for breakfast, insha'allah.Put mosquito screens on my kitchen and bedroom windows. Will hopefully sleep without fears of mosquitoes and scorpions creepin' in on me. Still looking around for a shower head nozzle. Next home-improvement project: connect shower nozzle to my bathroom faucet...My water was working at 11pm tonight, which I still don't believe was true.Off to sleep now.Was a long and tiring day...

Less than a month ago, I got a phone call from my programing staff in Rabat telling me that I would switch sites. I had been in discussion with them about my original site placement and they even drove out to my site for a site visit to check things out. I was generally unhappy with my old site for many reasons, though was mentally quite prepared to tough it out for two years. Unfortunately, there was no housing available for me in my old site, and I was not willing to live with the host family for two years. That specific site has a history of housing issues, and Peace Corps respected my request to transfer me to a site with housing.

So now I've been in my new site for a couple of weeks, which is only about 50-60km from my old site. I will return to my old site from time to time to visit... my host mother was a lovely woman and they fed me incredibly well. I love my new site though. I felt far more integrated in my new community in the first three days than I felt in a month and a half at the old site. My host family talks at me (they seem to think I understand a lot more Arabic than I actually do... which makes sense given that I tell them I understand when in reality I don't), women talk to me, the local officials are very receptive to my presense, I have an in-site tutor, and the best news... the president of my commune is a women! Unbelievable, actually. I'm also closer to other volunteers, and there is essentially hourly transportation in/out of site. Not to mention, I am now only a 30-45 taxi ride away from the beautiful Essaouira.

I've found an apartment and am now living on my own. Alhamdulah, I made it through four months of three homestays! Little-by-little, I'm furnishing, beautifying, and making my apartment feel like home. The house is small, came entirely unfurnished, and is dire need of someone with enough taste to know that pastel blue, pink, and green Jackson Pollock-like splatters on the ceiling are just not aesthetically pleasing. Tacky, if you will. I'm also trying to figure out how to bring about the demise of the plethora cockroaches that like to make abode in my apartment. I must admit, though, I thoroughly enjoy watching them twitch as their nervous systems slowly shut down promptly after spraying them with souq's most powerful bug poison. I'd feel bad about that if I didn't sleep in constant fear of cockroaches crawling on my face. And as a point of interest... the word for cockroach in Darija literally translates as "oil thief," which is especially funny since the bottom floor of my apartment houses an olive oil press.

I've managed to paint my bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. Ran out of paint for the living room and hallway, and too broke to buy more. Painting a house is also hard without running water. Most days, my water works for a couple of hours in the morning, and sometimes for a couple of hours in the afternoon. Other days, the water doesn't work at all. Painting a house without running water is funny, if not challenging. But at least I have running water sometimes... many PCVs don't have that. And many of my community members have to travel upwards of 10km by donkey to gather water from a well. And I always have electricity. And I have excellent cell phone and internet reception, for which I am imminently grateful. My house, while not entirely isolated, sits far enough from other houses that I have my own privacy. This means I can blast Dar Williams or Tracy Chapmam at practically any hour of the day... Lady Gaga or MIKA if I feel like dancin'.

Life is flying by incredibly quickly. I'll be busy this month cleaning and furnishing my apartment. At some point, I need to start legitemately studying Arabic and exercising regularly. I plan lots of experimental cooking too, especially if I can manage to find an oven. I'll also probably spend lots of time loafing around my small souq town meeting rando-pando people, talking about the weather, drinking lots of tea, and eating lots of bread. I'll spend two weeks in early August with my entire training group for a post-training training. Ramadan hits if mid-August. Then a new round of volunteers will begin their service of Morocco and I'll no longer be a "newbie." Quickly enough, I'll be at my 6-month mark of service, wondering what the heck just happened.

Right now though, I'm just very annoyed with the 6 million flies and mosquitoes that have decided to prey upon my feeble body, a body that is already compromised by this awful and inescapable summer heat.

My new site is just a few kilometers off the main road from Essaouira to Casablanca... beautiful road.

TView from my roof. The ocean lies just over those yonder mountains. Looking East from my rooftop, towards my souq town. The elementary school is across the street. This is my bathroom. I'm hopeful that I can scrub away the yellow and brown "I don't want to know where you came from" stains. Still haven't decided if I will keep that tacky pink TP dispenser.

I told you someone has really bad taste.

I shared my taxi ride home today with about 7 other men and somewhere between 7-12 confused goats/sheep. Most of the people were inside the car, while the clueless goats and woolly sheep were relegated to the trunk or strapped down to the roof. It was one of those "oh dear sweet lord" moments that are, luckily, very frequent in Morocco.

Certain that my fans back home would like to hear about these glorious moments, I broke down and signed up for a Twitter account, as I can send text messages from my cell phone when such "goat moments" begin humoring me. It'll be sort of like my mini-blog. Still not entirely sure how to use Twitter, but I think you can follow me at http://twitter.com/adameldahan, or something like that.

A Voice in Egypt for an Arab Age of Reason By MICHAEL SLACKMAN

Spent the past weekend in Rabat. Headed up there for a couple of different committee meetings and a meeting with my programming staff regarding some complications I'm having in site. Rabat, about 10-15hours of realistic travel from my site, truly is a different world than the countryside sites of PCVs. Rabat is a modern, cosmopolitan city, filled with well-heeled and well-educated Moroccans, international diplomats and business people, and young and energetic students from the Western world looking for their entrance into the Middle-East. This weekend especially, Rabat was littered with a motley crew of American Peace Corps Volunteers, decked in Chaco's, weekend backpacks, greasy hair, intense farmer's tans, and armed with an odd vocabulary of Tashelheit, Tamazight, Arabic, and French.

Rabat has clean, organized streets, a highly functional train station, and is built-up like any well-established medium-sized European city. The city is a 173 degree flip from my countryside (bled) home further south. In the bled, I wake to the sound of donkey calls and screaming roosters and the rustic scent of burning brush as my host mother fires up the mud-oven to bake her daily batch of fresh flat bread. I currently spend my days in site chatting with men in the fields, eating tajine and couscous, convincing folks of my purpose (which, let's be honest, I'm still not sure what it is), and generally wondering aimlessly as I try to make sense of my presence in such a rural village, virtually untouched by foreigners. I've spent more time in the bled than in any Moroccan city, watching herds of sheep and goats trek through olive and fig groves, fields of wheat and barley. I go weeks at a time without conversing in intellectual English in a site where women, covered in veil and cloaked in loose Berber textiles, will not eat in the same room as men. The women in my site turn their heads when in passing, a tall, bearded man with a funky accent greets them with a textbook, scripted mouthful of Godly jargon. And then I step off the train in Rabat Centre Ville, where women dressed in high-heels, tight jeans, low-cut t-shirts, and eye-makeup sit in cafes sipping espresso drinks, intellectualizing over the conflict in Gaza or chatting about the latest Zara or Mango fashion.

In Rabat, everything seems familiar to my past life in the US, but simultaneously stands in stark contrast to that with which I'm most quickly and painfully becoming familiar in the bled. And these upside down worlds of Morocco confuse me. A lot. As my comfort level in Morocco increases, this blur will, insha'llah, come into focus. I'll be better able to situate myself and my worldviews in relation to the unique dynamics and diversity of Morocco. So while Rabat and many other Moroccan cities currently perplex me bizzaaf, I readily welcome the challenge of figuring this country out.

"In the womb of winter, summer seems a myth." -Brett Dennen

But in the belly of summer, winter seems a divinity which only the sinless shall attain. Word on the dirt path is that it's upwards of 130degrees in Tata right now. My heart goes out to those lovely souls further south; the current heat in Essaouira is enough to make visions of having myself cryogenically frozen sound entirely far too enticing.

Being an Egyptian-American PCV in an Arab/Muslim country carries some interesting challenges, opportunities, and privileges. For example, in the cities, I could easily walk down the street without attracting the unwanted attention with which so many foreigners must deal. In the countryside (bled), I'm frequently asked if I'm from Marrakech, Casa, or Essaouira. But in the bled, I'm also often not approached because I'm not unusual looking enough and because, I suspect, I'm often just viewed as a wealthier Moroccan (until I open my mouth). I suspect that I'm not as likely to receive an invitation to tea and tajine as a blond or redhead.

When I'm in site, I am asked about my origins on nearly a daily basis. I usually like to reply that I'm from America, hoping that my butchered Arabic, peculiar clothing, and consistent chugging of water from my Klean Kanteen is sufficient to support my claim. But most often, I'm further interrogated about my black hair and darker skin. Sometimes, I'm explicitly and sternly told that I'm Arab and pushed for further explanation. And being the gentle soul that I am, I reply in truth, explaining both my American and Egyptian origins. With religion being a central topic of conversation over here in l-Magrib, I'm then usually asked about my religion, of course, given that Egypt is a Muslim country. It's a complicated topic in America, let alone in Morocco. "My father is Muslim, my mother is Christian." At this point, my language capacity drops tremendously, which is satisfying given that I'm usually never inclined to explain the situation further anyway. Some folks respond reasonably to my unusual religious background, but far too often I'm verbally attacked with a mouthful of abrasive Arabic claiming that there's only one God. So what do I do? "Brother, my friend! I know, I know, brother, I know there's only one God! I know!" That's apparently insufficient since interrogations into my prayer and fasting habits frequently follow. At this point, I give up, put on a big creepy smile, and say "sorry, I don't understand Arabic."

Other times, especially with storekeepers in larger cities, I'll engage in fascinating conversations about Egyptian vs. Moroccan vs. American culture. They don't care about my religion. We'll talk about food, pollution, over-crowdedness, tourism. We'll often laugh about the differences between Egyptian and Moroccan Arabic. And if I break out the 5 words of Tashelheit I know, they start laughing so hard they have to hold their guts.

Bslama!

I started to keep count, but realized it was futile. I'm well over 6 feet tall, and so naturally, there's a very high probability that I frequently bang my head on Moroccan door frames which are sized for people no higher than 5 and a half feet from the ground... sometimes just 5 feet. This is inconvenient for me and results daily in the loss of perfectly healthy and innocent braincells. At first, I kept count of how many times I hit my head. But then it occurred to me that the more times I hit my head, the worse my memory get. Plus, I hit my head a lot; too much to count.

Also, I'm meeting with a possible tutor tomorrow. Hope that goes well!

Made my host mother laugh for the first time yesterday, without even trying. Score! She's a nice woman, but she ain't into laughing.

Finally made it to my permanent site. Still have lots of adjustments to make, but happy to finally be in site instead of skipping around Ouarzazate with my luggage/belongings scattered about three different locations.

The new health volunteers had our meeting with the Ministry of Health yesterday; went spectacularly well, due mostly to a volunteer who speaks miraculously fluent French, but also because our assigned provincial health official is on board, friendly, and ready to help us in any way he can. After our meeting, I spent the rest of the day running around Essaouira, opening a post office box, meeting with potential tutors, doing some necessary shopping, stopping by the bank, etc. It felt especially good to have business to take care of, although it was a little disorienting running around Essa with an agenda and lots to do as if I was in America; meanwhile all the tourists were taking their luxurious time getting in my way and walking slowly. There's still lots of American-ness left in me.

Cheers!

Adam

(PS I have a new permanent mailing address. Email me for the address... I can't post it publicly. I'll also need to give you mailing instructions since the Moroccan postal service is certainly not hassle-free.)

One of the most enjoyable parts of Peace Corps thus far has been impressing street vendors and taxi drivers with our Tashelheit and Arabic. I don't personally speak Tash, but other PCVs do. Being foreigners, most Moroccans expect us to speak French, are not surprised if we speak English, but are pleasantly and happily amazed when we break out our Tash. Afoulki? Yes. Way to go, Peace Corps!

I've been missing Wesleyan a lot lately (think green trees, Foss HIll, beautiful spring weather), and as such, I've had an intense craving for salt & vinegar chips. Lucky me, I found some at a super market a few days ago. 1 day later, my Chaco's develop an intense vinegar smell. Correlation? I think so.

Also, can anyone provide some good tips on dandruff control?

Oh hello again. Yesterday marked my two month anniversary in Morocco. I officially swear in as a Peace Corps Volunteer on Wednesday, head off to my permanent site on Thursday. I'll be there for three months before meeting up with my training group again, which is a scary thought.

Language progress: CHECK

Good health so far: CHECK

Happiness meter: CHECK

More later friends.

-Adam

Just got back from a week at my permanent site. We basically spent a few nights with our permanent site homestay families, met the other volunteers in our province, met our gendarmes, learned transportation to and from our site, etc, etc. We also spent a lot of time utilizing our awkward silence and half-understanding skills that we developed during training.

I head back to my training site tomorrow for one last week there, then I’ll officially swear in as a Peace Corps volunteer on May 5th; I’ll officially move to my permanent site on May 6th, where I’ll live for two years. This past week’s site visit made the reality of Peace Corps set in; lots of down time, lonely, bored, confused, not sure how/what to do. I am, however, incredibly thankful that Peace Corps gives us a site visit at our permanent site before our training officially ends. It’s actually very daunting being in a small, conservative, remote village, not being able to speak the language, and out of easy contact with any American who might be able to understand you. Being at my permanent site made me realize how much work I’ll actually have to do in order to learn Arabic, which is as scary as you’d imagine. When I think about my actual health education work, I also become overwhelmed, as I have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA HOW I’LL EDUCATE SOMEONE ON HEALTH WHEN I CAN’T SPEAK ARABIC. Scary folks, real scary. Not to worry though, this too shall pass, and before long, I’ll be an Arabic expert, I’ll know every human, donkey, camel, and chicken in my village, and I’ll be darned ready to be a successful Peace Corps volunteer.

My site is located in the Essaouira province, which is convienient to both the city of Essaouira and Marrakesh. The temperature there is more moderate than many Peace Corps Morocco sites, although summer highs can reach upwards of 120°C and winter can be close to freezing. Despite this, I’ve mostly managed to escape the snow-capped Atlas Mountains (they’re perty but I don’t want to live in them) and the Saharan desert. My site is quite lush, with rolling hills covered with wheat fields and olive, argan, and fig trees. This site is beautiful and I can’t wait to begin a morning running/biking routine (Peace Corps provides us with Trek mountain bikes).

A few highlights from site visit:

I kept getting locked in my bedroom for hours.There’s a small storage room between my bedroom door and the first door that keeps locking. When I was locked in my room a few days ago, I sat patiently and silently, waiting to hear footsteps so I could start knocking. During that silence, I heard someone snoring. Keep in mind this was during the middle of the day. I thought “oh my god, who’s sleeping outside my bedroom door in that tiny storage room?” I thought maybe it was the grandma or maybe the 2 year old. When my host family finally rescued me and unlocked the door, I asked who was sleeping in there. They thought I was crazy. I thought they were crazy. I didn’t believe them when they told me that no one sleeps in that room, so they went into the room with me. Surely enough, there were no snoring humans in the room, but there was a chicken sleeping in that storage room. CHICKENS SNORE JUST LIKE HUMANS! Who knew? I’m still not sure why the chicken was in there, but it was, and its snoring has a striking resemblance to my father’s snoring.My host mother, a beastly but incredibly friendly woman in her late 50s, is incredibly absent minded. She can’t remember my name. And she keeps taking my books and pens and water bottle when I’m not physically guarding them. She’s not stealing. She’s just sort of aloof and doesn’t realize that she’s taking my stuff. If I’m not mistaking, her first language is Tashelheit, and therefore I can’t really understand a word she says. And anytime I talk to her, she just calls me “muskin,” meaning “poor thing” in Darija. Family is probably the most important personal value in Morocco, and so she just can’t imagine why on earth I’d get up and leave my family in the US. A person without family is a “poor thing” and my host mother definitely has pity on me.The 4 year old and 2 year old kids in my host family really like kissing me on the cheek, which I obviously despise but not surprisingly comply with. Sticky child slobber on my face. Bleh.

In other news, I’m accidentally almost bald. My Arabic is clearly not sufficient enough to communicate to the barber that I want and lot of hair left on my head and a little cut off; he interpreted that oppositely.

We finally found out our permanent site placements yesterday. I don't think I can publicly disclose my location on my blog, so I won't, but suffice it to say that I'm verrrryyyyy pleased with my placement in relation to large cities and other volunteers. I'm also ecstatic that I'm neither in the cold snowy Atlas Mountains, nor the curiously sweltering Sahara. I leave early tomorrow morning for my permanent site. I'll spend a week there, then head back to my training hub, and then spend a final week at my CBT training site (with my awesome CBT peeps) before swearing in and moving into my new home for two years.

I've attached a group photo of the soccer team that my CBT peers and I helped organize. Great kids playin' a great game.

Cheers,

Adam

Every Monday, I have been going with my CBT group and language teacher to my nearby souq to buy fruits and vegetables to eat throughout the week. Souq is basically a weekly farmer’s market, Moroccan style. You can find every fruit and veggie in season, tons of spices, any household item you’d ever want (except, of course, for what you’re actually looking for), livestock. If you looked hard enough, I’m sure there would be children for sell too. It’s dirty, it’s packed with not only people, but also donkeys, loud, usually a little smelly. Souq can be quite a scary thing for Americans who are used to calm shopping experiences, but it’s one of my favorite parts of Morocco so far. My CBT usually walks an hour and a half to get to our souq town. We fetch our fruits and veggies, usually rest for 15-20 minutes at a café, laugh at French tourists walking around in tank-tops and shorts, and then head back to our training village.

Instead of walking back to our village, we always take a tranzit back to town. An old minivan with a missing first gear usually hauls the 7 Americans and our teacher back to town. The van is also stuffed with anywhere from 10-20 other people, depending on how many are willing to ride on the roof. The dirt/sand road that gets us back to our village is a bumpy little path, ready to surrender only to the strongest automobiles. Our minivan fits the bill, and crosses through two rivers with as much ease as you might except from a shabby 25 year old automobile.

As atrocious as the experience may sound, I actually enjoy riding in tranzits and going to souq, mostly because I get to practice my language skills on unexpecting Moroccans. I really enjoy their surprise when a foreigner speaks Arabic, or even English, as compared to French. Souq is also an excellent time to discover how to make friendly conversation with the many friendly Moroccans.

April 3, 2010

For dinner tonight, we had a big plate of over-cooked white rice with olive oil poured all over it, there was nothing else, not even any spices. Bland-sauce extreme. We all ate from one plate. My host family kept pouring more and more oil on my section of the plate, either because they think I like eat cupfuls of oil or because they were trying to be hospitable. The thought of eating unseasoned mushy rice with oil was daunting. I ate maybe five bites and then chugged a bottle of water to fill me up. Unfortunately, tomorrow is Sunday, which means I won’t be getting a delicious, well-balanced, and sufficient Peace Corps lunch. This is particularly sad since tomorrow is Easter and I know all my family back in the States will be stuffing their faces with delicious and plentiful food.

Entirely unrelated, my 12 year old host sister has been walking around all day in extremely high-heeled dress shoes. This makes no sense to me.

I’m also currently reading Orin Hargrave’s Culture Shock Morocco book. If I’m not mistaking, Orin did Peace Corps in Morocco many a year ago, and so the book is of particular importance and insight to be as a volunteer.

April 4, 2010

I went on my first Morocco-based run this morning. Two other trainees, Avery and Caity, joined me and we provided excellent support and motivation for each other since we were all a bit out of shape. The weather was hot and our altitude is quite high, nonetheless, if felt so good to finally start running again. Insha’allah, I will one day run the Marrakesh Marathon. Or at least the half-marathon.

Today was also Easter. If I had been in the United States, I’d be with my family stuffing my face with lots of delicious home-cooked food (although now that I think about it, I have been away at college and not with family for the past 4 Easters). Since Easter does not exist in Morocco, the other trainees in my CBT group decided to organize a movie day instead. We took our laptops to our LCF house (where we have class everyday) and watched “A Serious Man” and “10 Things I Hate About You.” We sat around, drank coffee, watched movies, shared music, chatted it up, etc. Mary and Gerry were so kind as to bring us Moroccan cheese-puffs infused with ketchup flavoring; this was the closest thing to popcorn that they could find at the local hanut. And as a replacement for dying Easter eggs, Mary wore her bright green African-designed dress that she picked up in Mali.

Hello folks! Today's my one month anniversary of landing in Morocco. Early in the morning on March 3rd, we'd tumbled off the plane, onto the tarmac, through security, and into the lush and diverse land of Morocco. I'm currently at our hub site for a few days, where all the trainees come together and get briefed on Peace Corps policy, resources, and philosophy. We also had language check-ups yesterday; my language skills are coming surprisingly well and I'm even at the point where I can carry out minor conversations with folks. Time is short, so I'll be brief. I'm leaving you with a photo of rugs hanging out to dry in the sunset.

Things I miss:

• Spicy food

• Cheese

• Spinach and Arugula

• Whole grains

• Toilets with bidets (but not toilet paper)

• Friends and family

• CalliePax (cat) and Cleo (dog)

• Tuna

• Wine

• NPR Radio

• Internet and Email

• Routine

• Clean hands

Things I wish I had packed:

• Ziplock bags

• More Zebra pens

• Map of Morocco

• Lotion

• Bottle of isopropynol, or better yet, ethanol

• Surge protector

Also, why does Arabic think it’s okay to gender everything and gender-neutralize nothing?

Also also, the picture below is a rug that my neighbor's are making. Beautiful, stunning, and precisely innovative (they use old sweaters for yarn).

My thumb is yellow from eating turmeric every night.

Went on a hike today with a handful of other trainees + some host family brothers. Have I mentioned that Morocco is beautiful?

Also, although it’s delicious, I’m not sure my body can handle two years of constant white bread intake.

Bexir? Labas? Alhamdulaah. Things are going well over here in Morocco-land. As I write this post, I’ve been in Morocco for 15 whopping days. Feels more like 15 months though. Most of my time has been spent in my CBT (Community Based Training) site, where I’m learning Darija with 6 other trainees. I’m incredibly thrilled that I’m finally learning Arabic and I’m setting my language proficiency goal quite high. Over the past two weeks, I’ve watched myself transition from making a complete and utter fool of myself in front of my wonderful homestay family to a somewhat coherent oddity that spews out random Arabic words. I wish you could have seen my gestures for “diarrhea” (which luckily has not yet inflicted me). Speaking of bowel movements, I’ve finally reached the point where I can use a squatty potty and wipe without toilet paper. Squatting is not the hard part, wiping without some good ol’ TP is also not the hard part. Squatting while wiping, however, takes a huge toll on my flexibility and maneuverability, though this difficulty is diminishing with time. And with time I am also becoming much more comfortable with my very jovial and very welcoming homestay family. They stare at me a lot, which makes sense given that I readily acknowledge that I’m strange. My strangeness aside, I think they like me. We joke a lot, we laugh a lot. I say funny things in Darija that are not supposed to be funny. I make my young homestay sisters (there are three) call me Monsieur Adam, Mister Adam, Hajj Adam, or Sir Adam; otherwise I will not respond. As for food, it’s a little blander that I was expecting. We eat lots and lots of bread. Unfathomable amounts. Usually with a tajine of potatoes, carrots, and ful beans. There’s usually a chunk of meat in the tajine, but I steer clear of that. Whenever there is bread, there is also tea. Not green tea, not black tea. Absinthe tea, aka winter mint. (Apparently, “Moroccan Mint” tea is green tea with mint, but my family never serves me that). Moroccans like to add tea to their sugar. Adam likes no sugar in his tea. I told my homestay that I prefer my tea without sugar; they said “mashi mushkil,” no problem. They’ve served me one cup of tea without sugar. Since then, they put a little sugar in the teapot before they bring me my tea, hoping that I won’t notice. I guess they’re trying to fool me into thinking I’m drinking sugar-free tea? My family grows the absinthe tea leaves in their small garden next to our house, along with a variety of other herbs, veggies, and fruits. The produce in Morocco is absolutely splendid. My CBT village has copious fields of fruit and vegetables. Figs, olives, almonds, peaches, apricots, pomegranates, apples, dates. All my favorite fruits growing at my doorstep. Most of these fruits are not yet in season, but the minute figs starting sprouting, you better believe I’ll be out in the fields stuffin’ my belly. Whenever I roam through the fields, I usually get invited to someone’s house for tea. The people of my village are incredibly and particularly friendly, and luckily, they don’t treat me like a tourist. I cannot wait until the day when I can fully communicate with these folks. Being Arab will hopefully assist me in integrating into my permanent community. Most people here ask me if I’m Muslim or Moroccan. To avoid explaining my peculiar background – although I don’t have the language skills to do so anyway – I usually simply reply “yes” and proceed to tell them that my father is Egyptian. Life in Morocco has had some rough patches that require adjusting. No contact with friends and family is tough, language overdose is quite draining, and getting acquainted to life without a bathroom sink is offsetting at first. There are days when my brain simply does not want to tackle Arabic; there are nights when my brain forms sentences only in Arabic. For the most part, however, I’m very pleased with my Peace Corps experience so far. Training has been organized well, the staff is friendly, and the country and program directors are extremely personable. Most importantly, training is shaping up to be very effective. I’m so excited to see how the next two years pan out. Every step of Peace Corps – from first applying to sitting in my homestay in rural Morocco – has been full of suspense and the unknown. This is frustrating at times, as I’m often impatient, but the outcomes are always worth waiting for. Bsllamah!

I’ve been in Morocco for three nights now. We landed in the overwhelmingly green and lush Casablanca Wednesday morning and immediately loaded a bus that took us to Marrakesh. Several Peace Corps Morocco staff members greeted us at the airport, as many of us tried hard to look cheerful after a sleepless (although relatively short) flight. Upon arrival in Marrakesh, we immediately checked into our hotel rooms, ate lots of food, had welcomes and introductions, and then slept.

Bussed to Ouarzazate the next day, where I currently am. The drive through the Atlas Mountains was simply beautiful and full of landscape diversity. We passed rugged snow-capped mountains, fields of green agriculture, as well as rocky desert land; I look forward to spending more time with this land. During the last few days, we’ve basically had safety, security, health, logistics, culture, language, etc. training. More of that will follow during the next two months, especially the language training. I was also told today that I’ll be learning Darija, Moroccan Arabic, which is the language I wanted to learn. The bit of Darija I’ve learned so far definitely differs from the bit of Egyptian Arabic I’ve picked up over the years, but it still feels nice to finally get to learn some form of Arabic. I’ll get to put my Arabic to good use as I’ll be living with a Moroccan family that does not speak English. I meet my PST (pre-service training) homestay family tomorrow, with whom I’ll be spending the next two months. Should be interesting, perhaps stressful, will definitely be hilarious and I’m so eager to see what else Morocco has to offer.

Currently too overwhelmed to write anything particularly interesting or funny. I’m attaching some pictures for you to enjoy instead.(Edit: I don't actually know how to upload photos. Still gotta figure that one out.)

Salaam folks!