Folks, you know me. When I travel, it's not always about climbing the highest mountain or taking a photo by the iconic landmarks that are associated with various cities and countries. For me, traveling is about indulging every single one of my five senses in the culture, the environment, and most importantly, the food. To me, the food is a reflection of a culture's creativity, resourcefulness, history, and tradition. Great recipes sometimes develop by accident, but sometimes they're created as a result of a fortuitous meeting between different peoples with different traditions. Sometimes out of the clash something absolutely magical emerges. While the kings, revolutionaries, military generals, and other leaders argue about who gets what territory, the townsfolk are chowing down on a new hybrid concoction of ingredients that restores sanity in the moment of strife. I truly believe food is that powerful.

Now, just recently, I had the fortune of eating an absolutely marvelous Moroccan dish called bastilla. Before I set foot in Morocco for the first in over a year, I had written down a list of must-eat Moroccan dishes and bastilla was in my top 5--yes, I had well over 10 things that I had to both devour and savor. I arrived in Meknes after a short stint in Chefchaouen and on December 31st before the end of the 2011, I saw, met, and most definitely enjoyed a moment of transcendence as I slowly crunched and gave each morsel the 40 chews that it deserved.

So what is this amazing platter and what makes it so special? Christine Benlafquih in About.com goes on to describe it as such: "[It's] a light, crispy warqa pastry shell conceals savory saffron chicken, spicy omelet stuffing, and crunchy topping of fried almonds sweetened and flavored with orange flower water. A garnish of powdered sugar and cinnamon adds to the fabulous blend of flavors."

What is this warqa that conceals such goodness withing? CliffordAWright.com explains:

The pie is surrounded by a very thin pastry leaf called warqa (which means "leaf"), the top of which is sprinkled with powdered sugar and a lattice-work of ground cinnamon. Warqa pastry begins as a spongy dough that is tapped or slapped against a hot convex sheet of pounded metal, a kind of pan called a tubsil set over a hot charcoal brazier, in a series of overlapping concentric circles to form a large film of pastry. This collection of leaves, now forming a whole thin sheet, is carefully but quickly peeled off the metal and set side.

So how did this amazing dish come about? According to CliffordAWright, the etymology of the dish's name may have several different origins. When I first heard bastilla on a trip in Morocco's shamal, I thought it was referring to the Spanish word pasteles or pastries. It could very well be that the dish, like many words that are part of the Spanish language and Moroccan Arabic dialect, is a product of a blend of several cultures including the Jewish cohort, which co-existed together sharing their culinary know-how. There's also a possibility that a similar sounding word was in use in Berber dialects for their chicken with saffron combos.

The history books tell us that the dish or some derivative of it was eaten by both the rulers of the Berber dynasties and even Spain's King Phillip II. The dish somehow disappeared from the Spanish diet perhaps due to the expulsion of the Jews and Muslims, but the Hispano-Jew and Hispano-Muslims who crossed over the Strait of Gilbratar or went further into the Mediterranean took the recipes with them and adapted the dish to the available ingredients in their new homes. Since historically it was a dish for royalty, even in contemporary Morocco the dish has kept its luster as it is generally served only during special occasions. The dish emerged in some shape or form in other parts of the Mediterranean even as far as Turkey as noted by Claudia Roden who munched on pasteles made by some Turkish Jews.

I like to think that as empires, dynasties, and nations quarreld about the politics, taxes, and territorial boundaries, Berber Muslims, Jews, Christians were probably enjoying a nice plate of bastilla. CliffordAWright goes on to say, "Contemporary Moroccan cuisine is essentially an Arab and Hispano-Muslim cuisine set upon the foundation of an older and simpler Berber sustenance diet, with outside influences from sub-Saharan West Africa and colonial-era France." Seems like the best tasting things in life come about when people meet and share recipes.

As such, if you're reading this blog, it's just as if we had stumbled upon one another. I've been fortunate to have had Moroccan bastilla, but there's no reason wherever you may be why you can't munch on this delicious cultural mélangé and its wholesome goodness. Good luck and enjoy!

With teaching responsibilities done for the 2011 trimester, I took advantage of my two week break to head down to one of my former homes: Morocco. Because my incoming and outgoing flights were both out of Tanger, I chilled out in Morocco's shamal (north). As I've mentioned before, the shamal certainly does not fit into the stereotypical image of Morocco with rolling hills of sprouting winter wheat and grass, jagged mountain peaks crowned with snow, and temperatures that chill you to the bone. The shamal offers plenty of beautiful scenery along with the always delicious Moroccan cuisine and famous hospitality.

This time I got to spend more time in Chefchaouen hiking the mountain horns on which the city rests, got to sightsee around Meknes visiting the mausoleums, ancient prisons, granaries, plazas, and their majestic and colossal size gates to the medieval city, got to reminisce with old friends in my old home town of Sefrou sipping coffee and sweet-as-molasses green tea at the all-male cafes, and lastly got to walk around the Tanger medina. All in all, it was a great trip aside from the usual gastric disturbances. Below are a few pics from the trip. Enjoy and safe travels!

Maghrib mrra tnia

It was interesting to see different prices for different people all over Jordan. For instance, for Petra, foreigners were asked to pay 50JD for a one-day visit or 90JD if one's visit would be the only visit in Jordan. I was told that the 90JD rate was aimed at Israelis or Western tourists who crossed the border for the day and went right back to Israel or flew out the following day. Jordanians, on the other hand, paid 1JD per entry.

All of the national parks I visited had prices for both foreigners and for locals. I mentioned earlier that the Dead Sea tourist beach I went to charged me 15JD while my Jordanian counterparts were asked to pay 4JD. Even all the way south in Aqaba, the beach parking required that foreigners pay 4JD while the locals paid just one measly JD.

Some of the travelers I ran into along the way were appalled by this difference in price and thought it was discriminating. They would often say that a policy of that sort would never fly in a Western country. Just across the Mediterranean or on the other side of the North Atlantic, everyone pays the same price no matter who you are and where you come from. Actually, when I thought about it, even Morocco didn't have different price schemes for foreigners.

I had mixed feelings about the issue. On the one hand, I can see why a government would seek to exploit something that is so unique and so in demand to generate revenue for the people. The question then is do the people benefit from the extra revenue or is it eaten up in government bureaucracy? A lot of Jordanians would argue that it's often the latter.

Dionysiac painting in Little PetraAlso, a higher sticker price can stem the flow of tourists thereby reducing the environmental impact of tourist traffic and preserving such fragile historical treasures intact. That's certainly not the case though. In fact, not too long ago, the Jordan Times reported an increase of 42% in the first six months of 2010 in comparison to the same time period in 2009. The Art Newspaper worries that too much traffic may endanger some of the most remarkable sites in Petra like, for instance, the recently restored and conserved Dionysiac wall painting found in the Siq of Little Petra.

Another Jordan Times article goes on to say that the Petra Development and Tourism Region Authority (PDTRA) plans to use some of the funds to rehabilitate sites and upgrade services to enrich visitor experience, and that the new price scheme was setup with those needs in mind as well as the needs of the Kingdom. It then goes on to detail exactly what fees are included in the overall price of entry into Petra. In essence, there is no effort to cap numbers, and when things are going this well, I can't see the authorities putting the brakes on it even if it's for environmental concerns.

Regarding the locals, I think it's wise that the Jordanian government mandate a reduced price for its citizens because the current foreigner price would put many sites out of reach for many. Reducing the price also encourages domestic consumption of tourism-related services thereby boosting the local economy. Not only is it good for the economy, I think it's wise that a country's citizenry be well traveled and that they know their country and their countrymen and women.

For the meantime if you're a foreigner traveling in this foreign land, get ready to pay up. But take it from me, floating on the Dead Sea is an experience like no other and walking through the red-rose city is once again something for which there is no equal. Was it worth it? Totally!

Sometimes when you travel, you set goals for yourself as to what you'd like to accomplish that day. Let's say for example that you're in Paris. In Paris, you must, of course, visit the Tour Eiffel, Sacré Couer, Moulin Rouge, and perhaps other landmarks. Some people get a kick out of going to these historical man-made architectural wonders. I too enjoy taking in the scenery, but other times I like to indulge other senses. So when I woke up in Kerak, already on my third day of what was supposed to be a one-day visit, I got up with only one goal in mind— EATING MAQLOUBA!

The PCV, PCT, and I had a very light breakfast so as not to spoil our hunger. Last time when I was treated to mansef, I was not as hungry as I could have been. I didn't want to make that mistake again. Jordanian families like Moroccans don't just suggest that you eat more; they order you to eat and I was planning to comply.

We arrived at the Christian family's home around 1PM. Immediately, we were engulfed by an assortment of aromas indicating that something good was in the works. Our empty stomachs were ready. The father took us directly to the dining room, seated us, and then called his grand-kids and son to the table. The mother was still rummaging around the kitchen setting the table and giving a large pot its final stir.



Maqlouba or Maklouba  Then came the moment we were all waiting for: the unveiling of maqlouba. The mother brought over a the large pot and a serving tray, placed the serving tray on the pot, and flipped the contents of the pot onto the serving tray in one swoop. In front of us was a mix of Jordanian rice-n-roni, fried cauliflower and eggplant, and what looked like pan-fried chicken. It looked messy, but it smelled delicious.

The mother and father went about filling our plates. I savored every bite trying to take in all the flavors and spices. I ate and ate until I could eat no more. Everything in that dish was so juicy. The cauliflower and eggplant were cooked just right. The chicken had been seared, but it was still tender. It was a wonderful combination of ingredients that produced another Jordanian masterpiece.

Shortly after filling our stomachs to the brim, the mother brought over some pitch black Turkish-style coffee. A sip of that and any desire to lay down quickly dissipates, and perhaps it was given to us for a reason. Any normal person would simply collapse after that meal. We still had to walk a kilometer or two back to the PCV's house.

The father told us that he had private classes starting in a few minutes. That was our cue to go, but not before exchanging hugs with both the father, mother, high-fives with the two young boys, and thanking everyone profusely for the marvelous hospitality they bestowed upon us.

Once again, I thanked my lucky stars and the cosmic forces of the universe for what had just transpired. I didn't see any tall buildings or historical landmarks, but I was fortunate to have been the recipient of some amazing Jordanian hospitality. Muslim or Christian, they both gave me the best that they could offer and did it out of the kindness of their heart. We shared stories, ate together, and sipped a little coffee or sweet tea to cap our encounter. I'll forever remember maqlouba and the folks that made that day a day to remember.

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Maqlouba Recipe

The first time I heard of Kerak (Karak) was throughan email correspondence with a potential couchsurfing host. He told me that the city and its famous crusader castle could also be another day trip from Amman.

Even though I had read Karen Armstrong's Holy War: The Crusades and their Impact in Today's World, I wasn't all that interested in checking outthe sanctuaries and other crusader ruins. I think my indifference stemmed from having read the gory details oftheir slaughter campaign through the Holy Land.

So before arriving in Jordan, I had heardof Kerak, but I had no intention to go until a fellow volunteer living inKerak, who I ran into while traveling Jordan's shamal (north), suggestedthat I crash his place. I thought, “Why not?”

No Change For You!

To get to Kerak, I took a bus from theSouth (janubia) Amman Station and arrived in Kerak about 2 hours later. I think the fare was about 2.5JD. I remember upsetting the money collector whenI gave him a 20JD bill. Small bills andcoins, like in Morocco, are a prized commodity.

I still don't understand why change is sohard to come by. Is it because the centralbank is not minting enough coins or printing only a few small bills? Are the general banks and central bankforgetting to turn in and replace the bills that have lived out theirlife-cycle? For instance, Morocco's 20Dirham (DH) was the greasiest and dirtiest bill of them all probably because itchanged so many hands.

However, before I blame the government orthe bankers, maybe the root of the problem is a lack of planning andcoordination on the part of the local bus companies who forget to keep changein hand? At that moment I wondered ,“Why was it so easy to break large bills in Israel no matter where I went andwhy is it such a huge drama on the other side of the River Jordan?” Fortunately, about halfway through my tripafter collecting money from those that boarded at the station and the straypassengers they picked up on the highway, I got my change back.

The DL on Kerak

The PCV in Kerak told me to get off on theoutskirts of the city near a truck stop. I got out, and he was there a few minutes later. Lining a major street leading to his housewere a few shawarma stands. We went to one that he frequented and were greetedlike family. We had the Jordanianfast-food combo meal of a shawarma sandwich, a small dish of sour vegetables,and Jordan's sweetened black tea.

On our way back to the PCV's home, the PCVshared some tidbits about the make-up of his community. He told that there were two to threeprominent tribes that controled most of the local government and that the familyties were really strong. In addition totribal affiliations, Kerak had a significant number of Christians who activelypracticed their faith. In his community,most of the Christians lived on the north side of the city near their churches,parochial schools, and cemeteries. He saidthat in general both groups respected one another and shared some of the powerin managing community affairs.

He told me that both christians and muslimsmade wise-cracks about each other. Forinstance, when the volunteer visited a christian family once and felt sick thefollowing day, his Muslim neighbors blamed his sickness on what they argued wasthe Christians' notoriously bad hygiene. Christians, on the other hand, would joke that Muslimsmust believe that Allah is deaf so much so that he needs to hear themsay 'Allah u Akbar' (God is Great) so many times during their prayers.

@ the Castle

The following day the volunteer and I wentout to see the crusader's castle. TheCity of Kerak itself is perched up on the same hill as the castle. We took a small transit van that ziz-zaggedit's way up the narrow and congested city streets and dropped us off a fewblocks from the entrance.

I paid anentrance fee, but the volunteer told the attendant that he lived in Kerak, showedhis Jordanian ID, and dropped his host father's tribal last name, whichimmediately brought a smile to the attendant's face. They spoke to each otherfor a bit, exchanged a few God phrases, and soon thereafter the attendant toldhim to proceed without paying.

The views from the castle were quitestunning. Most of the fields in this dryand hilly terrain were plowed waiting for the winter rains to come. Off in thedistance, one could make out the blue of the Dead Sea and the silvery haze thathovered over it.

The castle was a labyrinth of tunnels withall sorts of nooks and crannies. Wesnaked through the tunnels, checked out some of the major halls, rooms, andwells, climbed to the top, and imagined the siege of Saladdin.

Angry Birds in Kerak

I can see why Saladdin had such a hard timeconquering the post. It was nearlyimpossible to scale it without getting shot at, burned by any type of scaldingliquid, or run over by whatever debris was thrown from the top. The narrow windows on the fortress wallsprotected the archers very well. One hadto be quite a marksman to be able to squeeze an arrow through such a narrowopening. Even though I'm no fan of thecrusaders, I had to marvel at the ingenuity of the fortress architecture.

Making Haram Billboards HalalAfter an hour or so walking through thecastle, we made our way down to the city center where we made a small pit stopto refuel on some delicious kenafa--that mozzarella and crunchy filodough drenched in honey confection that just never seemed to get old forme. On the way there, I saw a number ofyoung girls dressed in fairly revealing Western wear. I pointed them out to the volunteer, and heknew that the families of those young girls were Christians and that in generalChristian girls and guys dressed a little more Western than their Muslimcounterparts.

Change of Plans

A few blocks later, the volunteer and Iparted ways. I went to the bus stop inhopes of catching an afternoon bus to Ma'an, which is about 40k from Petra,where I was hoping to crash for the night. Once at the station, I asked about going to Ma'an or Petra. I was told that the only thing available evenat 3PM on a weekday was one last express bus to Aqaba, the southernmost city inJordan. I didn't want to go to Aqaba tothen ride up north again to Petra; so I called the PCV, asked if I could crash,and he obliged. I went north to thetruck stop where I was dropped off the first time and met up with the PCV andwith a Peace Corps Trainee (PCT) who was sent to Kerak to observe aday-in-the-life of a PCV.

Later on that evening, we got an invitefrom a Christian family that the PCV had befriended. Coming from Morocco where 95% or so of thecountry is Muslim, walking through the streets of the Christian neighborhoodand seeing crosses, parochial schools, and Christian cemeteries just feltstrange. At the door, we were met by thefather of the house who greeted the PCV with the same God phrases I had heardearlier when the PCV greeted his Muslim friends and neighbors.

We were escorted to the living room wherehis wife and a couple of young boys greeted us. Even though the volunteer had told me that most Christian families don'tfollow the same protocol that many Muslims do in protecting or some would arguehiding their women from strangers, I still hesitated when greeting his wife,who was dressed in a simple blouse and casual dress pants with noheadscarf. For some reason, I felt asense of relief walking in. I felt thatI could probably be more myself in this home.

The Holy Bible in 3rabia

We had a nice little chat over some coffeeand some cookies. The father spokeEnglish and translated for his wife whenever she had something to say. It was a very open environment. The boys, who happened to be theirgrand-kids, were playing in the living room. One of their younger sons came out of his room to greet us, but thenwent right back to it, which at the time was blaring some techno-house-ravemix. The mother half-smilingly told usthat he worked as a DJ for private parties.

The father shared some stories about some ofthe scuffles some Christians had with their Muslim neighbors, but he said thatfor the most part everyone respected each other. He asked if I and the PCT were Christians towhich we nodded yes. Itold him that I wanted to take a look at his Bible if he would allow me. He brought it over and read a few of thefirst verses of the first chapter of Genesis. Knowing already how these verses read in English, it was easy to makeout the context of the Arabic words in use. He went on to tell us that the Arabic language Bible is a closertranslation than the English version because Aramaic is within the same familyof Semitic languages. He added that the Arabic translation is alsomuch older than the English version having been translated all the way back inthe 5th century. I asked if Icould hold it. I browsed through some ofthe pages and just sat in awe of it.

For the longest time, I had associatedArabic with Islam and the Qur'an. Here Iheld the very book I had read ever since I was a kid, but in Arabic. Here was another book, considered sacred bymany Arab Christians, that was written in the language many Muslims claim to bethe language of God—unlike other faiths, Muslims are strongly encouraged to recite their prayers in Arabic so as not to corrupt or confuse the original intent of their scriptures.

From then on, Arabic took on a moremultifaceted look. Not only could thislanguage be the language of Islam, but also Christianity; of not only Muslims,but also Christians. It was a languagefor all Arabs no matter what one believed. They both prayed to Allah, but in different ways. They both recited scriptures in the samelanguage, but in distinct ways. Sure, I had heard that there were Arab Christians in the Middle East, but once again just like visiting Jerusalem, meeting people and seeing the Holy Scriptures in Arabic makes it that much more real.

More Kerak to Come

Before we left though, the father invitedus to come back for a special lunch treat. He asked his wife if she could cook up some maqlouba, whichsupposedly means upside down, and she smiled and said, “Yes.” The PCV was super excited to hear this. The dish was on my list of must-eat, must-tryJordanian meals, but all I had heard was that it was kind of like mansefwith more vegetables and different spices. If it was anythinglike mansef, it was bound to be delicious.

Because transits to Ma'an only ran in themorning, dining with that family would mean I would have to chill out in Kerakfor another full day. The PCV had noproblem letting me crash so just like that I extended my stay for anothercouple of days. On our way back, wewalked back through the Christian neighborhood and then back onto thesurrounding streets leading to the PCV's home. I thought to myself, “Wow, in just one day I went back in time imaginingthe days of the crusaders, had some mouth-watering kenafa again, learneda little about the community dynamics between some Christians and Muslims inthis small corner of Jordan, and got to see and hear verses from an Arabiclanguage bible.”

I would have to agree with a quote I read awhile back from Saint Augustine that said, "The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page." I probably gota few pages worth that day. Even thoughI was tired, I laid awake in bed as my mind raced to process, categorize, andarchive all of the experiences. Ifinally told myself to get some shut-eye because the following day wouldundoubtedly bring more surprises.

Umm Qais Main StreetSometimes I travel for a change of scenery and other times I travel to be transported in time. The great thing is that in Jordan you can do both or as some animal cruelty perpetrators would say "kill two birds with one stone." On my last blog I wrote about my trip to the Dead Sea, a place with no equal on the planet, certainly a change of scenery. When I took a trip to Umm Qais, one of the ancient cities of the Roman Decapolis (Ten Cities) also known as Gadara in Jesus's days, walking through the ruins was like stepping into another time period. The architecture, the layout, the Corinthian columns, the intricately carved stones, the grand plazas, the remains of their paved roads, and the living quarters were all so different from their present-day surroundings in Jordan.

I presume that their architecture stood out in quite a contrast back then as they do now, and it makes me wonder why the architectural elements of these microcosms of Roman life took little root in this region of the world. For instance, did the people of Palestine have so much pride in their culture and past architectural accomplishments that they saw Roman architecture as inferior or too foreign/western? Or maybe there were building codes that prevented the occupied to emulate the architecture of the occupiers? Or perhaps the most interesting question would be, did adding Roman architectural concepts to your home make you a sellout?

It's interesting that to this day in Morocco (who also had their fair share of Roman ruins), when distinguishing between what is "originally" from the country and what is from the western world, people use the term “beldi” and “roumi(a)” respectively or sometimes gharbi(a) derived from gharb for west. For example, when deciding whether to install a western or turkish toilet, the plumber asks, “Wech bghiti toilette 3adia wlla roumia?” [Do you want a normal or western toilet?]. I didn't find out if Jordan also used roumi, but I'm guessing that it makes a clear distinction between what is Jordanian and what is western.

Personally, I enjoy visiting the ruins of old cities because it reminds me of the transient nature of societies and civilizations--how quickly power comes and goes, how cultures clashed or adapted to one another, how people organized themselves in terms of social hierarchy, and what those individuals way back when valued. One can draw a lot from the architecture. For example, the many theaters, the administrative centers, and the paved roads that facilitated commerce can give you a glimpse of what was important to the Romans. Some of these values were not welcomed by the host country and hence the Romans' control of this strategic and symbolic corner of the world was short-lived.

To me, these relics of the past are a cautionary reminder of how western experiments exporting western values can go wrong. Yet despite these glaring examples, contemporary western powers continue to pry, prod, nudge, and in some cases take complete control through force as the Romans did. I make no judgement on whether one should let things be or work to influence others to one's frame of mind. I think that these interventions and invasions are part of the human experience with one idea replacing another and old ideas re-emerging as novel.

Stone-carved theater seatsTime will tell if our new experiments will be embraced by the host countries. I guess if not, someone else a thousand or so years from now will be writing another reflection about the ruins leftover from our contemporary world and will perhaps wonder if their new endeavors in this region will be successful.

See links on Umm Qais with up to date travel details and historical facts that I didn't feel like repeating:

http://www.kinghussein.gov.jo/tourism3b.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Umm_Qais

http://www.visitjordan.com/default.aspx?tabid=176

Safe travels! Thanks for reading.

In Egypt

My blog stories are still in Jordan, but my pictures are moving ahead to Egypt. In this album, you'll find pictures of Dahab, Mt. Sinai, St. Catherine's Monastery, Cairo, Pyramids of Giza, Aswan, Luxor, the Nile River, and without a doubt some shots of some delicious Egyptian food. Stories are sure to follow. Stay tuned!

After a few days chilling out with Peace Corps volunteers in Jordan's shamal (north), I headed south to Amman for what would be an extended stay filled with a number of memorable day trips and some surprisingly fun nights. When I was scoping out couchsurfing opportunities, most of the couchsurfers recommended using Amman as a base for checking out some of Jordan's most famous tourist attractions like the Dead Sea. Transportation to those destinations was readily available and pretty cheap, and if you wanted to go in comfort, you could always hire a private taxi.

It was kind of strange that almost every other taxi driver no matter where you hopped on in the city was ready and willing to go all the way to the southernmost or northernmost point in the country at a moment's notice. That was in stark contrast to Morocco where most taxi drivers had to get permission from gendarmes (rural police) if they were to transport anyone outside of their assigned route. Moroccan taxi drivers still pitched driving tourists to far-away destinations, but those hagglers were limited to the grand taxi (old-school Mercedes Benz) that generally hung around the airport and train stations. Morocco's city taxi drivers on their miniture Fiats rarely left the city limits. On the other hand, nearly all Jordanian taxis were new model Toyota Corollas equipped with meters, leather seats, power-windows, AC, and totally ideal for those long hauls.

Determined to travel on the cheap, I relied on locals, travel blogs, and a Lonely Planet guidebook appropriately titled Middle East on a Shoestring for information on public transportation, directions to and from stations, and pricing estimates to avoid getting ripped off. Not surprisingly, you got conflicting information wherever you looked or whoever you spoke to.

Getting sugar cane juice in Amman

Asking locals for information was quite entertaining. When I asked one person, another individual perhaps a relative or friend would inch closer as the conversation progressed and then later added his two cents about the information. When one of the individuals thought some of the information was incorrect or could be improved, the other individual began raising his voice until he drowned out the other and then touched my shoulder to direct my gaze towards him. If the other thought that the new information was worse than the original suggestions, he would raise his voice even higher and began flailing his arms to explain his point. Sometimes a collegial Hmar (donkey) name calling was exchanged with smiles and laughter. Naturally, all this commotion attracted other people, nearby shop owners, customers from their shop, and even passersby. Before I knew it, my one-on-one exchange turned into a group counseling session.

Some individuals did want to help while others who expressed a desire to help were also in the business of helping themselves by offering you transportation, hotel stays, and packaged tourist trips for a handsome price. Each one would say that the other didn't know anything, so most often than not you left more confused than when you first started. After the dust settled though, my brain would start to process the info, I'd jot a few notes down, and then proceed to matching some of the advise to the info in the guidebooks and on the blogs. Eventually, I would develop a rather loose outline of what my next few days would look like.

Another memorable taxi ride

As you can imagine, doing all the research and asking the locals got a little tiring, and I was tempted to just hop on a taxi to the next destination. In one instance, one taxi driver proposed taking me to the Dead Sea and back for 15JD (Jordanian Dinar). Not bad a bad price considering that the hostel I was staying at, the Farah Hotel, was charging about the same for a small minibus transit for groups of 5 or more. As we drove to the Sweimeh transit bus station from the hotel, the taxi driver insisted that he take me to the Dead Sea. I conversed with him in a mix of Fusha and Moroccan Arabic. His English was pretty rough so he appreciated my effort to converse in Arabic and said that because of that he would lower his starting price from 30JD to 25JD. He then asked where I had picked up my Arabic. I told him Morocco and he gave me a hearty ahalan wa sahalan fik, a pat in the back, and then said, “Welcome to Jordan”. He said that because I lived in Morocco that he would give me the Arab price of 22JD. I tried to tell the taxi driver that I was not a typical tourist and showed him my knockoff second-hand clothes and tattered plastic bag where I was carrying my swim trunks and towel. I told him that I couldn't afford 22JD. He followed up by asking me where I was from because I looked Arab. I told him Venezuela and he became ecstatic. He told me how much he loved Chavez and because I was from Venezuela he would lower his price from 22JD to 17JD.

He shared that his assl (origins/roots) were Bedouin and that he was not like other Arabs from the city who only care about money. He reiterated as he had done in previous offers that he couldn't go any lower. I told him that 17JD was a good price, but still too expensive for me. As we drove into the Sweimeh transit station, he presented his final offer, “Okay, 15JD, excellent price!” I said, “Thank you, but no thanks.” The meter said .600 pistares or just a little over half a JD. He said that I owed him 2JD. I told him that he was crazy and gave him 1JD and asked for the change. He repeated that I owed him 2JD. I repeated that I wanted my change. He told me to xrrj (get out)! I repeated rather sarcastically and mimicking his accent, “Welcome to Jordan.”

Onto the Dead Sea (Bahar Meillet or Mayit)

I asked a few gentlemen leaning on one of the transits doing their customary chain-smoking if their transit went to Sweimeh. They grunted, which just like in Morocco means yes. The money collector on the transit asked if I was going to the Dead Sea and I grunted back. He then asked me for about .600 pistares, and once the transit was semi-full, we took off. We winded through Amman picking up passengers on the road. We got out of the city limits and went into smaller towns on the outskirts. About 30-45 minutes later, I was dropped off at an intersection with the Dead Sea Highway and not in Sweimeh where supposedly, according to the Lonely Planet book, there would be transportation in the form of private transits or taxis to the Dead Sea. The driver told me to talk to some gentlemen leaning on some other smaller transits and taxis. I told some guys that I wanted to go to the bHar meillet (Dead Sea). They asked me where I was from. I said that that wasn't important. I was trying to use my Moroccan Arabic and several of the gentlemen murmured that I was Arab. Another guy approached me speaking fluent English and said that he could take me in his private car for 5JD. I said I'd go for 2JD. He laughed and said 4JD. I told him 3JD and he finally obliged at 3.5JD.

We were on the Dead Sea Highway for about 10 minutes or so before we swooped into the Amman Beach entrance. I wanted to go to the people's beach that Lonely Planet said would cost 4JD, but the driver said that this was the only option for tourists--another lie. The Amman Beach Resort was super clean, with a sparkling pool, nice tables and lounge chairs, equipment rentals, shops, and food and beverage stalls, but there were very few if any Jordanians. I wanted to go elsewhere, but I had a taxi driver who was probably getting a kickback for taking me to this particular resort telling me that there were no other options and front desk personnel confirming what the driver was saying. By the time I arrived at the resort, the sun was at its peak. Not willing to endure a sun-scorching walk on the Dead Sea Highway, I budged and paid the extravagant 15JD sticker price intended for foreigners; Jordanian citizens paid only 4JD for use of the same facilities. Later on back in Amman, hotel staff later told me that the Jordanian government had just begun to raise prices on all their main tourist attractions and I had arrived on the second wave of increases.

Dropping 15JD hurt, but I was consoled by the fine state of the facilities and the cleanliness of the place. There were no hotties at the pool. In fact, the place felt more like a South Florida retirement community center. Lots of pensioners were basking in the sun soaking up the rays and enjoying the therapeutic benefits of this one of a kind natural wonder. Various waves of tour groups seemed to come and go. There were a few young couples here and there, but in terms of solo travelers, I think I was the only one.

These two are either related or in the same tour groupI quickly changed into my swim trunks, went down the steps leading to the Dead Sea, and parked my belongings next to a plastic lawn chair provided by the resort. It was funny to look out and see people completely covered from head to toe with the dark blue Dead Sea mud. It was as if the Blue Man Group had come to chill out on the beach. A couple of gentlemen were manning a stand next to the on-duty lifeguard that sold the full-body mud treatment for 3JD. Family members and friends helped lather each other up. I went up to get my treatment and paid the 3JD, but I was told to take a dip first and then apply it.

I didn't run into the water because Dead Sea water is not the type that you want running down your face. With roughly 30% salinity, a little drop in your eye could turn things ugly. I had also shaved that morning, something my guidebook advised against. So I walked out treading ever so slowly to a depth of no more than 4 or 5 feet deep. Once I reached a location away from the commotion of the various tour groups, I reclined back slowly and lifted my feet off the ground. As I fell back, it was as if the water pushed back and propped my feet and legs up, a water Lazy-Boy that engulfed me, but held me in suspension. I had read about the amazing buoyancy of the water, but to feel it was like something completely out of this world. The water was warm and the sun's rays were dispersed in the haze that hovered over the water. I took a deep breath, took in the surroundings, relaxed my muscles, and just floated.

Dead Sea mud treatedAfter a good 20 minutes in the water, I went to get my mud treatment. Coming out of the water was really interesting. The water was so thick and slimy that exiting was like emerging from a vat of egg whites. No matter how much you shook, a clear, thin film stuck to your skin, but the slime was exactly what was needed for a smooth application of the Dead Sea mud. I grabbed a couple of handfuls and began applying it making sure every inch of my skin was covered. With no partner in crime on this leg of my journey, one of the attendants applied the rest to my back. I was told to let it dry so I went back to my plastic lawn chair and finished a couple of articles from an Economist magazine a PCV had lent me. Supposedly, Dead Sea mud is highly sought after for its healing mineral properties. The high concentration of calcium, bromine, and potassium are considered to be therapeutic for the skin and other ailments. Consequently, there is no shortage of companies extolling the mud's benefits. What I can say in full confidence about the mud is that after 5-10 minutes when the mud begins to dry various parts of your body will get itchy fast. Perhaps the itchiness is part of the healing process, but as soon as I felt it, I went back to the water. The last thing I wanted was to get some sort of allergic reaction. What's great is that if there is any hidden bacteria in the mud, a trip back to the water will undoubtedly kill it. I took off the mud and then proceeded to recline back to my gravity-defying Dead Sea rocking chair.

I got out of the water when my fingers and toes had turned to raisins. I stepped out for a while, took some more deep breaths, and chilled out on my chair. Within 15 minutes, the transparent film that coated my body turned pasty white. I went straight to the outdoor sprinklers to try to take off some of the salt and sand and then afterwards took a long dip in the resort's pool. It was around 4PM when I decided it was time to leave. The facility had nice showers where I was able to soap it up and take off more salt.

The taxi driver that dropped me off told me to call him when I got out, but as I soon as I walked out, there was a gentlemen chilling by his car that offered to take me to Amman for 10JD. He said he had finished work and was heading back home. I told him I just needed to go to the bus stop to Amman. He said he could take me there for 5JD. I told him 3JD and he agreed.

Now, Lonely Planet and the Rough Guide claim that hitchhiking back to Amman is pretty easy from the Dead Sea. I think that's probably true if you're a white Westerner and more so if you're a female, and I'm guessing most of the travel writers are one or the other or both. Other couchsurfers I spoke to experimented a little by having either a guy or girl flag down cars. Another American traveling through Jordan with ethnic roots from Iran said that people would just honk at him to tell him to scoot off the road. While his travel partner, a tall, blonde female, could have a car stop at will--this may not be just in Jordan, but probably worldwide other than maybe Nordic countries where every other girl is a tall blonde.

If you look Arab, like I do, and wear the same second-hand clothes that the locals wear and carry around a tattered plastic bag like others do, some people just think that you're just another local trying to get a free ride. I got many free rides in Morocco and I figured Jordanians would probably be just as generous. The difference between hitchhiking with a white Westerner or a foreign female rather than alone is that instead of riding shotgun, you're told to jump in the back of the truck with everyone else, sheep and chickens and all. In some cases it's nice to get that star treatment, but in others, it's nice to blend in. Normally, I wouldn't object to riding with sheep and chickens, but I had just showered.

I got to the bus stop on the opposite corner (northbound side of the Dead Sea Highway) from where I was dropped off earlier. I paid the bus driver 1JD, and he gave me .600 pistares back. The bus ride back was no more than 20 or so minutes. On our way to Amman, we rode a pretty scenic four-lane highway overlooking a number of parched valleys with isolated plots of vegetation. By the time I got back, it was already dark. The bus dropped everyone off at the North Station on the outskirts of Amman. From there, the usual scammers were there offering to take people downtown for 7JD. The taxi cab that had overcharged me 5JD to take me to my hotel the first time around recognized me and offered to take me again for 5JD, but I told him I'd go by the meter. He explained to me that the meter is nothing. Another taxi driver walking down from a little snack shop approached me and told me that he would be willing to take me downtown for 2JD. I said, "Yallah (Let's Go)!"

By the time I got into the hotel, I had dried up and felt some white residue behind the ears, around the back, and my hair felt like it was moussed up. I took one last shower, scrubbed well, washed my hair, and then promptly climbed into bed. The next day I would be headed to Kerak to check out the famous Crusader castle and to get another taste of village life with another PCV.

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Before you rush into buying the Dead Sea mud or salt, be mindful that although it is "all-natural", excessive exposure to high levels of certain minerals could be toxic. The National Institutes of Health National Library of Medicine has several research studies on the Dead Sea mud. Some highlight its antimicrobial agents and its effect on alleviating rheumatoid arthritis symptoms, but it also has another study that does not recommend a high percentage of the mud in everyday hand and body lotions. Read them before you buy.

Anti-microbial properties of Dead Sea black mineral mud

Mud pack therapy in rheumatoid arthritis

Low levels of toxic elements in Dead Sea black mud and mud-derived cosmetic products

On a side note, I ran into some Spaniards at the Dead Sea resort who said that they had come from Madaba. The Spaniards had a lot of good things to say about it and it is fairly close, so it's worth doing the day trip to the Dead Sea from there if you prefer a smaller town feel rather than the sprawling Amman metropolis. Plus if you're big into checking out Byzantine-era relics, chapels, and cathedrals, Madaba has a large number of fine mosaics.

Referenced Reads:

I followed both books fairly closely, but bear in mind that the shoestring budget hotel recommendations can land you in some pretty dank places. The regular Jordan guidebook offers accommodation options at varying prices, so it's worth moving up a notch if you can afford it and for a bit of peace of mind. Like any advise, compare and contrast it with other info and then if you want to make it even more interesting, ask the locals :-).

Just recently, Peace Corps released the latest in a string of public service announcements (PSAs) commemorating the agency's 50 years of service to the United States and many parts of the world. One PSA in particular captured my attention because it did an excellent job of portraying the random anecdotes I've been sharing with friends and family when I come across something that reminds me of my time in Morocco.

When greeting people here in the states, I shake people's hands, but then proceed as I did in Morocco to put my right hand to my heart to show my respect or to express how dear that person or that encounter is to me. In Morocco, it was second nature to follow the handshake with a tap to one's heart, and despite being back home with old friends and in a completely different setting, my mind almost involuntarily follows the same process. Sometimes I catch myself in the act or others point it out and explaining it is often a topic of an errant conversation.

As far as language, I miss speaking darija. The Moroccan Arabic dialect was fun to speak. Phonetically, it was a challenge to sound off the "ع" (aain) or "غ" (ghain) or the back of the throat "ق" (qa) or even the emphatic D, T, or to differentiate between the airy "ه" (similar to the 'h' for hello) or the raspy "خ" (similar to the sound you make to check the smell of your breath). During the first few months of service, combining some of these sounds seemed impossible, but after some time my tongue somehow came to accords with the sounds my ear was finally able to recognize and distinguish and began to mimic to them to the T.

Even more challenging was understanding the hidden or indirect messages in Moroccan speech. During training we were told that Moroccans used a ton of what we volunteers call "God phrases" as part of their everyday language. So instead of saying goodbye, they would say 'llah y3nk' (God help you). Or to thank someone for a good deed or to ask for a favor, they could say '3afak' (the equivalent of please), but in most cases they would say 'llah yrHm l-walidin' (God bless your parents) and my favorite, preceding or following any statement calling or mentioning any future action, 'inshallah' (God willing).

When I first arrived in sight all gun-ho about starting a new project and building community support for it, I spoke to a number of people and tried to persuade them to join me in my new endeavors, but towards the end of our meetings, a large number of people would simply finish off our conversations with 'inshallah'. While it is true that we do not know what will happen tomorrow and we have little control over the future, being told that it was all up to God's will seemed a little fatalistic to me. But later on, I learned that the use of 'inshallah' was not only a way to show respect to the all-knowing God, but it was also used to say 'no' or to express that something is unlikely to happen without it offending the other person.

Later on when people recognized that my speaking abilities had improved and had demonstrated some fundraising capacity, some of the same people that had 'inshalla-ed' me began proposing their ideas. Unfortunately, by then I had already made commitments to other groups and had enough work for the rest of service; so, without offending them, I respectfully 'inshalla-ed' them back.

Back in the states, some people have proposed going to such and such an event or organizing something and I've involuntarily blurted out 'inshallah' and I'm not doing it out of respect to God, but mainly because the event or the activity does not appeal to me. Sometimes I catch myself and sometimes others catch me and wonder what the heck came out of my mouth, but then I explain that I do not know if I can or will be able to because it truly is up to God. I can't rule it out, but I defer to God because who knows what the future may bring. Unfortunately, this answer does not fly with most of my friends who still interpret my answer as some sort of newfound religious piety and not as a cordial way to say 'I am really not that interested'. Then again, most U.S. Americans prefer directness, which is a cultural aspect that I've had to get readjusted to and that is often another subject of my errant conversations.

See the minute-long PSA titled "Conversations" below:

Errant Conversation Syndrome (ECS) is common among all RPCVs. Most exhibit symptoms throughout their lifetime. They speak about their projects, language challenges, cultural differences, past bowel movements, pros and cons of Peace Corps, and a host of other service-related experiences in all sorts of different settings. At this time, there is no known "cure" (nor should there be) for this phenomenon, but I hear that active listening and a open-minded, non-judgmental attitude are always welcomed. And who knows? You may learn a thing or two from all these random pieces of information. Thanks for reading.

After a few days in Jerusalem, I made my way back to Jordan. I had to go back the same way I went in by way of the Sheikh Hussein Bridge, but the second time around took a lot less time. Once I arrived in Bayt She'an, I grabbed a falafel sandwich and a kosher beer at a fast-food joint just down the block from the bus stop next to the McDonalds. The kosher beer was a decent pilsen, but nothing too exciting. After swallowing the sandwich and downing the beer, the restaurant manager asked if I needed a cab to go to the crossing. I said, "Yes," and within minutes the same cab driver that brought me to Bayt She'an a couple of days ago was there to take me back to the crossing. Whaddayaknow!

This time around, though, he said less offensive things about his neighbors on the other side of the Jordan and was mainly interested in how I spent my days in Jerusalem. Towards the end of the short trip, he gave me his business card and told me to call him next time I pass through so I can dine with his family. It was a nice gesture to leave on.

At the crossing, I paid my Israeli exit tax (98.50 NIS), and on the other side I paid for another Jordanian visa (10 JD). Knowing that I would now have this visa for the next 30 days, I decided that wasn't going to rush my travels in Jordan. I called up my Peace Corps volunteer friends near Irbid. One of them told me that I could totally crash his pad for another night. Unfortunately, the only way to get out of the crossing station on the Jordanian side was to pay 19JD or a little over $25 for a 12km ride to the Jordan River Crossing taxi service, which in NYC would be a bargain, but in Jordan, it's highway robbery.

The dispatcher was trying to convince me to go all the way to Amman and pay 35JD for the trip, which was even more obscene knowing full well that a bus from Irbid to Amman runs about 2JD, but it was a better value per kilometer nevertheless. This was one instance where traveling with someone else would have made the trip much cheaper. A lot of Jordanians that were at the crossing were already traveling in twos or threes and split the fares to their destinations. The few Israelis that had crossed over got into a tour bus that was waiting for them. Finally, the dispatcher gave up trying to convince me to go to Amman and made the call for a taxi for Irbid and I reluctantly paid the 19JD.

Once in Irbid, my volunteer host told me that he was sightseeing in Umm Qays with another volunteer and some of his Jordanian buddies that I had hung out with on my first visit to his village. So from Irbid, I took a transit to Umm Qays for 1JD. Normally, it's about .500 pistares/half a JD for the 15 minute ride, but because it was still Leid Kbir /Al-Adha or the Grand Holiday Feast weekend, the unlicensed, private transits wanted a little extra.

Upon arrival, they told me that we were going on a little road trip. I hopped onto another passenger van, and instead of going back on the road to Irbid, we went the opposite direction downhill from Umm Qays and towards a military checkpoint. Our driver and Jordanian friend asked us for our passports, they handed them to the guards, and then they went about asking the guards where they were from, what village, family names, and then told them that we were American tourists passing through. The guards took a peek in. Saw all three of us and none of us looked stereotypically American so he asked our guide again if we were indeed American. He confirmed we were, the guard nodded, and then signaled that we could proceed.

We went another mile or so until we reached another checkpoint. Now, I was thinking, "Maybe I should have asked where we were going before jumping onto this van because I'm not particularly enjoying all these checkpoints." For a moment, I thought that maybe we were headed to Syria. Umm Qays is a stone's throw away so it wasn't too far fetched. At the second checkpoint, our Jordanian friend followed the same procedure, but this time one of the guards mentioned a village that one of our friend recognized. From there, they went back and forth dropping names of mutual acquaintances. That guard only glanced at our passports and then handed them back.

Golan Heights and Yarmouk River ValleyAfter that checkpoint, our driver cranked the car into second gear as we climbed a hill overlooking the lush Yarmouk River Valley sandwiched between the towering Golan Heights and the Jordanian east bank hills.

Sea of Galilee from Umm QaysA few families were there picnicking. Our friend asked a gentleman that was laid out on a blanket on the hill's ledge to point out some landmarks for us. The man pointed north to the Golan Heights, which is currently under Israeli control, but that he considered to be part of Syria. He pointed east and said that the olive tree dotted hills were part of Jordan and then pointed west and said that the fertile valley extending towards the Sea of Galilee/Lake Tiberias was Palestine. He then pointed specifically to a certain area in the valley and said that his family had lived there before the war drove them out. He said that he came to that hill often to gaze into Palestine and he hoped that one day he would be able to go back and live there once again.

The sun was setting quickly so our driver and friend told us to get back in the van. We descended down the same hill and got back on the road. We stopped at another military checkpoint. We showed our IDs and were flagged through. We stopped on the side of the road about 2-3K from the last checkpoint to see the Palestinian territory up close and the barbed and razor-wire fences on the other side of the river. We were told that this was the demilitarized zone and that entire stretches on both sides of the river were lined with land mines. One of our guides commented that it was like fillaha (agriculture/farming). Along with the land mine cultivation, there were some fancy irrigation channels with all sorts of tunnels going in and out of hillside.

After getting a few pictures, we began to make our way back to Irbid. It took me a while to process what I had seen. For so long I had heard about the tensions in this region of the world, had read about the Six Day War, and had watched one Al-Jazeera documentary after another about the Israeli occupation while living in Morocco, but now I had met someone, a Jordanian national of Palestinian descent, who was personally affected by the conflict. I had seen first hand how decades of unresolved border disputes had led to a buffer of land mines to prevent further incursions from either party. It was just hard to reconcile the land mines, military checkpoints, razor-wire fencing, and animosity on both sides of the river with the messages of peace and compassion that I had read in the Bible and I wondered whether, if ever, the message to love thy neighbor and to do unto others as you would like to have done unto thyself that is central to all Abrahamic faiths would ever be manifested in the very place where it was preached thousands of years ago.

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I think we all are guilty of dismissing every other beauty queen's wish for world peace. It seems preposterous in the face of the calamities this world has witnessed and the conflict-ridden state of affairs. I also dismiss it because it is hard to imagine what that world would look like. Are we to be holding hands and singing kumbaya? How do you begin? How do you sustain it?

In a follow up to her Charter for Compassion, religious historian Karen Armstrong talks of reviving the Golden Rule. She mentions in the TED talk below how doing so has the potential to turn us from an ego-centric mindset to a transcendent state, "an imaginative act of empathy, putting yourself in the place of another", which has the effect of making us value the life of another as much as we value our own life. Towards the end, she paraphrases a theme in C.S. Lewis's book Four Loves in which the author differentiates between erotic love when one looks deeply into another's eyes and friendship when two people stand side by side gazing out towards a goal. She says, "We don't have to fall in love with each other, but we can become friends....and when people of all different persuasions come together, working side by side, for a common goal, differences melt away. And we learn amity. And we learn to live together and to get to know one another." It's a thoughtful response worthy of some serious consideration. See the full TED Talk below:

Moroccans are proud of their cuisine and they should be; it's some of the most tasty, best seasoned, and diverse in the Mediterranean. Sometimes you need to take a drive to experience the diversity, and if you do, you'll certainly be rewarded.

Aatay b na na (Moroccan Arabic name for their sweet-as-molasses Moroccan mint tea) a.k.a. "Le Whisky Marocain"

A little aatay at the Cascades of OuzoudMoroccans could not be separated from their tea. If the price of tea were to go up or if the government were to impose a rule limiting the consumption of tea, there would surely be a massive revolt. It is a Moroccan staple that is unlikely to change for many years to come.

No matter where you go, there will be countless invitations to share a little tea. In the cold winters, there's nothing better to warm you up or to give your body a sugar jolt. At first, I was really turned off by all the sugar, but then I began to miss the taste of their tea and towards the end I would get on the garçon's case about skimping on the sugar.

The distinct taste is a result of two main factors. Unlike the American or British tradition of pouring hot water over the leafs or herbs and letting it brew in the mug, Moroccans brew green tea leaves for a bit in their ornamental teapots, they then add a brick of sugar and brew it a little longer, and then they turn off the gas and add fresh mint (naa na), verveine (luiza), or other seasonal herbs like chiba. All three varieties are super delicious. I invite you to try them all.

You may also find that many Moroccans don't blow on their tea to cool it; instead, they slurrrp it. I found it rather comical to hear so many people slurping away at your typical cafe so much so that I wrote a blog entry on it (Click here to read it). It took me a while to master the technique, but essentially you breath it in as you drink it and it has the same cooling effect if you do it right. BssHA (To your health) on your tea drinking!

Mountains of Olives

Morocco is blessed with the perfect climate to produce some of the finest olives of the Mediterranean. Their seasonal winter rains and clear, blue summer sky are ideal for the sun-loving olive groves. For someone who was a fan of olives already, arriving in Morocco and seeing mountain peaks of olives at the souq (market) was too much for my poor heart to fathom. What's even more mind-blowing is how great each variety tastes and even more amazing than that is how cheap they are. You can eat olives to your heart's desire and there are so many choices. Your typical U.S. supermarket stocks various sizes of green Spanish olives or bland black ones. In contrast, most Moroccan markets showcase their largess in rows of olive peaks of light and dark green olives mixed with red peppers or lemon, purple olives, and the bitter, but flavorful black olives.

Fortunately, Moroccan diet incorporates olives into their meals quite well. I remember one day during my Community-Based Training my host mother marinated a whole chicken with onions, peppers, lemon rinds, and safron, and other spices, placed it in the oven with all the seasonings and then brought out a golden brown chicken that was then surrounded by a moat of green olives. I had this meal over two years ago and I can remember it as if it was yesterday. What a delicious feast!

Unadulterated Olive Oil

Unfortunately, I don't have a picture of Moroccan olive oil. In terms of appearance, it looks a lot like the olive oil from Spain or Italy. Some oils that are filtered more than others. Personally, I liked the strong bitter taste of some of the country-pressed oil that was less filtered.

A typical breakfast in Morocco consisted of fresh out-of-the-oven bread that was then broken up and dabbed over olive oil. Not what you would typically eat as breakfast in the U.S., but oh was it tasty. The hot, toasty bread dunked in a little oil would simply melt in your mouth and the aroma of the oil was so wonderfully pleasant.

With such a large supply of olives, olive oil can be found everywhere also for much cheaper than you would find at U.S. or European stores. I am surprised that Moroccan olive oil has not made it to U.S. stores yet. According to the latest "Free Trade" deal between the U.S. and Morocco, olives and olive oil was going to be one of the commodities that would start flowing to the U.S. I hope it does, and I hope it does soon.

Ramadan Sweet Treats: Chebekia

Even the bees are crazy for chebekiaWhen I arrived in Morocco back in September of '08, I got in about mid-way through Ramadan, a month characterized by the dawn to dusk no food or drink fast and more religious observance. As you can imagine during the day, most people in the streets deprived of any liquids or food are functioning in slow-motion careful not to exhaust their reserves. When I first heard of Ramadan, I wasn't aware of the liquids ban and thought, "Now that's extreme." Then, later on I was invited to break fast with my host family and tasted my first chebekia and thought, "Now that's extreme flavor."

These golden brown rolled and folded fried cookie dough treats smothered in honey and sprinkled with sesame seeds were a wake-up call to my taste buds. No MSGs necessary to go on a binge. These confections are naturally addicting. Sometimes I think that I should go on an anthropological expedition to find out how different foods came about. Is there a National Geographic show or something on the Food channel on this? Well, if there is, the next episode should focus on these crunchy, sweet confections. Until a show reveals the history and evolution of this Moroccan delicacy, I will thank the culinary God(s) for giving my fellow Moroccans this bit of divine inspiration.

In my old town of Sefrou, I could buy about a quarter kilo for 5DH (less than $1) from a old medina hole-in-the-wall Hlwa hanut (sweets vendor) and I would typically finish it in one night. If I wanted some with real honey instead of syrup or gourmet style, I would shell out about twice as much for about the same at a fancy patisserie. It's a diabetic's worst nightmare. Mountain Dew wouldn't stand a chance against these guys in jacking up your blood sugar so unless you're going to expend the calories, eat responsibly.

Click here if you wish to see a recipe. Fortunately, if you're on your way to Morocco, no need to wait until Ramadan; most patisseries and some old medina Hlwa street vendors will carry them year-round.

Harira

A bowl of harira in the Sefrou medinaWhenever someone uttered the word harira, my mind would escape to my first ever bowl where I learned the art of eating it with bowl in hand, swishing it around in circular motion, and then giving it a hearty slurp. In the cold Moroccan winters, it was a lifesaver. When I was broke, it would stave off a growling stomach without breaking the bank (2DH or 25 cents for a bowl).

Tomato serves as the base, but with cilantro, parsley, ginger, onions, chickpeas, lentils, carrots, celery, and a handful of vermicelli all mixed in, it's much more than a tomato soup; it's bonanza of flavor that is also full of substance.

Harira is also very common during Ramadan. Generally, families break fast with a bowl of it before moving on to other life-reviving foods. Not to worry though, harira can be found year-round at most restaurants, hole-in-the-wall harira vendors, and a lot of families make it to survive the winter. Some will add a bit of harsha (the equivalent of American corn-bread) to it or will break apart a chebekia on top. Others that like the sweet and salty combination will simply eat some dates while slurping a mouthful of harira. There are many ways to experience this hearty soup. If you're unsure how to approach it, try them all!

Do try this at home! Click here for the recipe.

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Before I wrote this entry, I thought about ranking the items, but then I thought about how silly rankings really are. I mean how do you compare chebekia to couscous, which I wrote about earlier but will write more about on my next list. They're in two different playing fields and my rankings were in constant fluctuation as one couscous tasted better or different in someone's home than it did in another's each one adding their region's special combination of ingredients. I still have a whole lot more food items I need to write about. Expect to see this list to grow in the coming weeks.

Thanks for reading and again BssHa (To your health) on your culinary endeavors.

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I found a few bestselling books on Moroccan cuisine on Amazon. I included a few of the best reviewed and bestselling copies. According to one reviewer, Paula Wolfert wrote a textbook-like guide to Moroccan cooking back in the 1970s that is still the authoritative book. Some of the newer ones have better pictures, but may not be as authentic. Check them out. I'm in the market for one so if you have personal experience with one, let me know.

I just had to pass this along. I haven't laughed this hard in I don't know how long. An RPCV put together a brief YouTube video of a conversation between a young man who just finished his Peace Corps application and a parent or friend who is all too aware of the cultural misunderstandings and frustrations and the emotional and physical challenges the young man may encounter during his service.

The various bits on the gastrointestinal issues, picking out "worms like zits", the local, organic foods myth, experiencing what winter is really like without any heating, the occasional hermit phase that we volunteers go through, and the case of the overbearing and bureaucratic supervisors are so spot on. I had first-hand experience with a few of these and others were expressed by fellow volunteers. So many memories flashed through my mind with each exchange.

Some people may feel that this video discourages anyone from joining, but I would beg to differ. I think a dose of reality is necessary, and I think glossing over the difficulties or side effects of serving is worse. I think a lot of young people need this sense of idealism to get through the rough patches, but they shouldn't be naive. Then again, perhaps it is this quixotic idealism that prompts volunteers to help build a school where there was no school, set up a computer lab where there was none, foster the growth of a small business despite its many detractors, or raise the self-esteem of young women in a society that does not value their input.

Let's say hypothetically that I was able to go back to the past on a Back to the Future's DeLorean Time Machine (Wow, this is old) knowing what I know now about my Peace Corps experience to the time when I decided to go, I'd still do it again. I had a blast. I was challenged mentally and even professionally. I'm not sure how you can measure personal growth, but I do agree with French novelist Marcel Proust who said, "The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.”

Living in Morocco and traveling through the Middle East and Europe have exposed me to different ways people have decided to carry out their lives, and the journey has obliterated the notion of what we Americans consider to be the normal, usual, or customary way of life. I think it's difficult to understand another vantage point unless one is fully immersed in another, but it doesn't take a trip or an extended stay overseas to notice differences. The U.S. is fortunate to have little pockets of people from all over the world that have established restaurants, businesses, and places of worship that reflect their values where one can get a taste of that culture. And I guess if one is still wanting more, then of course, one should head out and plunge in to get the full experience.

So you want to join Peace Corps? If you have the time and the financial means to do so, do it. Beware of the hardships. Then, when you've had time to reflect a bit, come back to tell us what you've learned and seen. Enjoy the video and go ahead and finish your application already!

Travel Quotes source: http://thinkexist.com/quotations/travel/

So I got up early in the morning and my couchsurfing hosts in Israel dropped me off at a nearby bus stop where I was then able to take a bus to the central bus station where I was then able to hop on an Egged bus to the Sheikh Hussein Bridge. The bus ride from Jerusalem to the Sheikh Hussein Bridge was 40.50NIS, same as last time, and the trek was about 2 hours or so.

East of the Jordan River ValleyThe environs just north of Jerusalem and towards Bayt She'an are a stark contrast to the city of Jerusalem. In the city, you get the sense that water is not in short supply given the manicured lawns in some parts of town and grassy knolls south of the city, but as I moved north, I realized that much of what I had seen in Jerusalem was far from the norm.

The area north of Jerusalem resembled the dry desert wilderness that I had seen on my trek from Errachidia to Ouarzazate, Morocco. There were many dry river beds and plains scarred by precipitation and flash floods. However, unlike Morocco where the only patches of green could be found in the lush palmeries sprouting from the river beds, the north of Jerusalem had quite a large number of vegetable and fruit plots and maybe an acre or two of neatly lined palm trees in the middle of their pale sun-scorched shrubbery wilderness. There were countless greenhouses and some plots even had black or clear plastic coverings for each row of whatever was growing underneath. The highway we were on was running parallel to the Jordan River Valley and you could see more green in the distance, but it seemed like the farmers were trying to stretch out that green as far as possible and it looked like they were using the latest in irrigation know-how to make that happen. Even with all the technological advancements, it appears that all the countries relying on the Jordan River Valley and Sea of Galilee are headed to another standoff, not so much about the land, but about the lack of water. Here's a brief excerpt from an Inventory of Conflict and Environment(ICE) study from American University titled Jordan River Dispute:

The consequences of unilateral action by each riparian [countries with water sources that feed the Jordan River] has been that both the aquifers and surface waters suffer from overuse use due to the large-scale diversion projects. The National Water Carrier and the East Ghor Canal almost dry out the Sea of Galilee year round. Diversion projects have also lowered the level of both the Sea of Galilee and the Dead Sea. This has caused aquifer levels to drop and has increased their salinity levels. Both Jordan and Israel have also over pumped their fossil (nonrenewable) aquifers. On top of these projects, the population growth in both countries is raising the demand for water. Israel has attempted water conservation in agriculture, where most water is wasted, through introducing the drip irrigation system and recycling of sewage water. This has helped save water in the area while at the same time irrigating more land with less water. It does not make much impact, though, without any joint conservation. Therefore, conflict under these circumstances is highly likely, and these depleting factors have in fact led to conflicts in the past. Source: http://www1.american.edu/ted/ice/westbank.htm

Sea of GalileeI also read that Israel has plans to begin building settlements in the Negev Desert (Here's a short article from Newsweek calling to question David Ben Gurion's dream to see the desert bloom: http://www.newsweek.com/2008/06/28/the-myth-of-water.html). While I sympathize with many Israelis and their desire to move back to the land of their forefathers, after taking that drive up and down from Bayt She'an to Jerusalem and back, I wonder whether they're even considering the environmental impact of their decision.

Israel is a leading innovator in irrigation and water management and with good reason--nearly half the country is semi-arid desert. (Here's an achievements-filled and rather optimistic outlook titled Israeli Agriculture: Coping with Growth) They're also leading the way in building state of the art desalination plants that will hopefully supplement their unreliable and dwindling supply.

Mines are cultivated along the Jordanian and Israeli borderI applaud their efficiency and I think many countries should adapt some of their techniques even those that have ample supplies, but I wonder how far technology can forestall what seems like an inevitable water war much like the ones we're already experiencing in Nevada and Colorado and to some extent in Morocco between the urban and rural farming and cattle ranching communities. At least in Morocco and in our Western states, it appears that people can still gather at the negotiating table. For Israel and its neighbors, setting a date to meet at a table requires an entire diplomatic corps, months of wrangling about preconditions, and then, even if it is set, not all stakeholders are present.

It is presumed that when Moses spoke of a land “flowing with milk and honey” that he was gazing out towards the Jordan River Valley, but I wonder how far can that milk and honey stretch for everyone that wishes to live out their dream of living in the Promised Land.

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Other Reads

Timeline of Water Conflicts in the Levant: http://www.nad-plo.org/nego/permanent/water/related/Howb.pdf

Couchsurf host near PetraA dear friend of mine sent me an interesting TED Talk, which focuses on the need to build upon the speaker's idea of what he calls "The Third Side". Mr. William Ury said that in conflict there are always two sides and the third side is the one that we all share, our common humanity. He speaks of how Abraham exemplified hospitality and the unity of us all and proposes that people retrace the steps of Abraham from cradle to grave to understand and to connect with the people of this region who to this day display the same hospitality that Abraham showed thousands of years ago. Ury adds, "Abraham is not just a figure in a book for these people; he is a living figure."

Couchsurf hosts in IsraelI agree with Mr.Ury and his belief that traveling, touring, and walking alongside others on the Abraham Path or any other corner of the world has the potential to reduce the hostility between us. As Mark Twain once said, "Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness" and in the words of French novelist Marcel Proust, "The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes." I am not sold on the idea that it could resolve the Israeli and Palestinian conflict, but I do think that walking a mile in someone else's shoes and stepping back and looking at the things that bind us is a good first step.

Couchsurfers in AmmanI would take Mr. Ury's idea a bit further and urge people to invest a little time in getting to know the region and the people you plan to visit. Just knowing to say basic phrases like hello, how are you, thank you, and how much you like something in the local language, however choppy or mispronounced it may be, brings smiles to people's faces.

Being treated to mglouba in KerakI've been fortunate to experience the amazing hospitality that Mr. Ury spoke of. Throughout my travels, I couchsurfed with Jordanians, Bedouins, Israelis, Moroccans, Spaniards, Italians, Dominicans, and lots of fellow Americans. Some gave me a place to stay and others I met over some tea or coffee. Those that I stayed with gave me the best that they could offer and made me feel as if I was part of their family or introduced me to their circle of friends. Time after time, I am blown away by this gesture of kindness and goodwill.

Couchsurfing in SpainLate last year, I hosted a number of couchsurfers in Morocco. I had a great time hosting people from around the globe with such different points of view and experiences. I learned a great deal about myself from our exchanges and made great friends in the process. Couchsurfing is a wonderful experiment that falls in line with Mr. Ury's idea that we need to turn "hostility to hospitality" and "terrorism to tourism". I hope that wherever I end up that I can continue to host more couchsurfers. If you've never heard of couchsurfing, take a moment to check it out. Host, couchsurf, or simply meet folks for a little drink. I and other couchsurfers will be eternally grateful, and my hope is that you'll learn from me as much as I hope to learn from you. Hope to see you in my next couchsurf search!

Good luck and bon voyage!

So much could be said about the Holy City and I guess a lot of what has been said is probably framed by one's religious fervor or indifference. When I embarked on this journey to the Holy Land, I did so more out of curiosity rather than to fulfill a religious ritual. For many Christians, going to the Holy City is not a requirement of the faith, but many dream of going there. For Muslims, it is recommended that they perform a hajj (pilgrimage) to al-Quds al-Sharif (Arabic name for the City of Jerusalem meaning “The Holy Sanctuary”) or more specifically to the Al-Aqsa Mosque and Dome of the Rock to pray at the site where the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, ascended to heaven. For many Jews, it is the site of the Holy of Holies. For me, going to the Holy City was more of a anthropological expedition.

I've never been big on visiting museums, monuments, statues, and other still-life objects; instead, I've always found it more interesting to observe how people interact with one another, the power dynamics, the social structure, to learn a bit about the history and the expectations of the people, to understand the meaning behind their choice to attire, and to get a glimpse into what they value the most. So when I walked into the Holy City, I wanted to see what made this city so special, so sought after that epic battles were fought to gain control of it with every group believing that they were in the right, that the city needed to be rescued or saved from the others, and that it needed to cleansed, restored, and revived under their perceived rightly guided leadership. What is it about this city that in the process of reclaiming it from another group drove men to slaughter thousands of others? Was it its geographical location, the surrounding natural resources, or commercial or economic interests? Or was it simply symbolic?

In my reading of The Bible and that of other religious books, I don't recall any passage mentioning how important Jerusalem was in terms of its geographical location. The New Testament does speak of how Jerusalem once was and to some extent still is a major commercial center in the region. As far as natural resources go, Jerusalem doesn't have a large body of water to draw from, is inland about 60km from the nearest port in Tel Aviv, and relies upon the Mediterranean winter rains to restore some green to the countryside after their hot and dry summers. So if I was to launch a campaign to take over the Holy City, I wouldn't have much of an argument if I based it simply on geography or economic data, and I am pretty sure when the Jews, Crusaders, and Muslims alike called out the troops that none yelled out, “Let us march into the city and take over that commercial center and decent, but not all that great geographical location!” Nah, it was all about taking control of a city that was the site of the Holy Temple, the City of King David, and of King Solomon. To Christians, it was the place where the patriarch of their faith preached the gospel truth, and to Muslims the City of All The Prophets. The history and events that had transpired in that small enclosed fortress city and the close affinity people felt to the stories that had served as a guide to their lives and gave their lives an identity and meaning was the thing that motivated them to give up everything and risk their lives.

To this day, I believe that much of that religious zeal still remains. Fortunately, when I visited, the various groups exhibited their passion for their faith peacefully through processions and re-enactments, by reciting holy scriptures at the Wailing/Western Wall, celebrating bar mitzvahs, praying at the Al-Aqsa Mosque, paying tribute to the various saints and prophets, retracing the steps where Jesus walked, preached, and later carried his cross on the Via Dolorosa, and visiting the many sanctuaries, chapels, churches, and synagogues packed within the medieval fortress walls.

I saw Muslims visiting the Holy Sepulcher, the place where Jesus was laid until he was resurrected, alongside Eastern Orthodox priests and believers. I walked through the catacombs of the Holy Sepulcher. There was a lot of bling everywhere that I thought was out of place in this sacred temple, but perhaps the Eastern Orthodox and other Christian groups that share responsibility for the upkeep of the church believe Jesus likes a lot of bling.

I went over to the Wailing/Western Wall and uttered a little prayer along with many who were reciting the Torah. Hassidic Jews with their side burn dreads, black suit coats and pants, and black sombreros and Jews it seemed from all corners of the world were there getting there arms strapped and their heads fitted with a specially-made rubber head bumper before their praying marathon would ensue. The wall's many crevices were stuffed full of snippets of paper.

Opposite of the Wailing/Western Wall, there was singing, clapping, and ululating as young boys and young men carried scrolls to wooden compartments throughout the entire Wailing/Western Wall. Men and women were segregated, but they interacted and celebrated together. Further down the Western Wall inside the tunnel, older gentlemen sat and recited scriptures. There was a small library that had countless volumes of what I presume to be religious scriptures or commentary from prominent rabbis.

I walked from one end of the city to the other, north to south and east to west, going in and out of the Christian, Muslim, Armenian, and Jewish Quarters. Everywhere I went there were boutiques selling all sorts of artisana from the various communities that inhabited the city. I really liked the burgundy and black used by Palestinian weavers and the Armenian ceramics was beautiful and very intricate. I found it odd to see Arabs selling Crusader memorabilia, but maybe they were Christians.

Other stores sold a host of Jewish menorahs, horn trumpets, woodcarvings of the manger, Mary and Baby Jesus were on mugs, t-shirts, and anything imaginable, crosses, Stars of David, and crescent moons of all sizes were everywhere. Most of the bazaars were run by men in pretty much every quarter and most were superb linguists. I heard them switching from one language to another in seamless fashion using Arabic, Hebrew, English, French, Spanish, and even some Russian. The call to prayer was loud and clear and the church bells were also ringing. Pilgrims from every corner of the world were there, but mostly Western tourists it seemed. Some were just walking around like me, a lot were in organized tours, and others were deep into a religious procession stopping at different stages of the Via Dolorosa only to be interrupted by kids and other ambulant vendors attempting to sell them postcards and other memorabilia at every stop.

My only regret in coming to Jerusalem is that I only spent two nights there. While I got to walk through the Holy City and to witness the religious fervor displayed by the many acts of faith from the various groups, I did not have a lot of time to talk to people or to get to experience the culture of the various groups and sub-groups that make Jerusalem their home. I was fortunate, though, to find an Israeli couple on http://www.couchsurfing.org that opened their home and allowed me to stay with them for a couple of nights. They identified themselves as secular Jews. Both of them had traveled to various parts of the world and we shared photos and travel stories, but never spoke about the politics or what being a secular Jew meant.

The couchsurfer and the few locals that I spoke to all had a story to tell about how they or their family had come to Israel. My couchsurfing host was a first generation Israeli whose family had migrated from Argentina. His family had spoken Spanish to him since he was a kid so he had a very good grasp of the language. We spoke in Spanish as much as possible and switched to English from time to time. He showed me around town a bit. He took me to the main market in the new city where we had some coffee (I love it when words like cappuccino can be said nearly everywhere and be understood).

At the market, you could hear a mix of Arabic and Hebrew, salam wa leikums and shaloms were exchanged. The Mediterranean produce was the main supply, but they also had a great variety of imported tropical fruits. My host bought some really stinky fancy cheeses that he was hoping to share with his family later on that night. He then took me to a place that sells all sorts of delicious fruit shakes from a self-professed medicine man. The shakes were awesome. I asked the medicine man if I could take a picture of him and he obliged, but not before spraying my face with one of his all-natural facial rejuvenation toners. It was rather impromptu. He also pulled my host and sprayed his face as well. He told us to massage our face so the potion would be absorbed faster. The spray felt refreshing, but as the liquid seeped into the corner of my eyes, it burned. He told me to keep my eyes shut, he pulled my host next to me, and said that I had good energy and that I had the potential to be a great healer. I thought, “Hmm, I'm unemployed right now. I hadn't thought about being a medicine man...new career path maybe.”

I also met an older gentleman who said he was born near Guercif, Morocco, and that his family had lived there almost their entire life before migrating to Israel. He had a lot of fond childhood memories of the place where grew up in and of Moroccans. He asked me how Morocco was and if I liked it. We communicated in a mix of Moroccan Arabic and English. It was quite a thrill to find another maghribi.

I had a great time in Jerusalem so much so that I hope to return again. I didn't get the chance to couchsurf through the Palestinian territories so I hope to do that next time. I think Jerusalem can mean different things to different people and I think a lot of it depends on how closely people feel to their faith. Those individuals that were in the middle of their processions on the Via Dolorosa would squint or close their eyes as they touched every place where Jesus is said to have fallen or stopped, and those that swayed back and forth in prayer in front of the Wailing/Western Wall would probably have a different take on their visit. Possibly during their prayer and recitations they enter a meditative realm that is perhaps giving life to what seems like inanimate buildings, streets and alleys to me. When I showed some of my Jordanian Muslim friends my pictures of the Dome of the Rock, they gasped in admiration. They certainly would tell a different story had they been there. But even if one does not partake, the energy, the passion, and the devotion of the believers is felt all around. To me, people were the thing that gave the city and all its holy sites their life. Without them, it would be just another city. With them, I felt that I was walking on sacred ground.

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To view my entire photo album of pictures of Jerusalem, please scroll down to my last blog or click here.

There are a few religious books that I was fortunate to read in college and on my own that I strongly recommend:

Here are a number of snapshots of the Holy City. The religious fervor that is felt all around is tough to capture on camera. Even for someone that is not very religious, you can't help but get caught up in the atmosphere. Unfortunately, because I was there on a Friday, I could not enter the Al Aqsa Mosque, but I think this trip to Jerusalem was just one of many to come.

Jerusalem

Sometimes I regret not having researched my travels well, but then other times, I am glad that I don't. The moment I arrived to Jordan I began asking the locals, fellow travellers, volunteers, and anyone in the know about crossing over to Israel. I read a few blogs prior to my trip and every single blog spoke of the tediousness associated with crossing into the hotly contested and disputed land west of the River Jordan. When I asked Jordanians, they gave me a lot of contradictory information. The volunteers I was with had heard of the various crossings, but had not crossed personally as of yet so they weren't really sure what was the best way to go.

Most of the blogs I read spoke of the King Hussein Bridge or Allenby Crossing west of Amman. Lonely Planet and the Rough Guide also had a lot more to say about the King Hussein Bridge than the other two crossings. They all said that crossing through the King Hussein Bridge normally is an entire day ordeal. I personally did not want to throw away an entire day crossing into Israel so I thought I'd go where others don't generally go. Plus, I was only about 15km from the Sheikh Hussein Bridge already so I figured I'd just go through it and hopefully shed some light on the process.

At the time I was staying with a Peace Corps volunteer near Irbid, because it was still L3id Kbir in Jordan, transit options were far fewer so I had to wake up rather early to take a local transit bus into Irbid. The transit dropped us off at the Moujemma Shamal. The volunteer I was with was told that there were taxis that took off from the Moujemma Amman bus station to the border crossing so we headed over there only to find out that indeed there were taxis that would go there, but not legitimate/licensed ones and they were asking for 15JD to go there. We were told that it would be around that amount, but the illegal taxis looked more suspect than usual so we asked a policeman. The policeman told us to head back to the Moujemma Shammal and to take a legit taxi from there to the border. He told us that the price would be from 13-15JD. So we went back to the station, my PCV friend looked up a friend of his, and his friend pointed us to a taxi that was chilling next to a snack shop. He inquired for us about going to the border and the taxi driver offered to take me for 12JD.

The taxi cab ride was rather interesting. For the next 15 minutes or so, the driver went on to talk about all his sexual exploits and his disdain for Israel. Of course, none of this was said in any sort of descriptive way. When speaking of Israel, he would make a spitting sound and he said he prayed for the day when Israel would not exist. When talking about all his sexual encounters, he would simply say how good or bad the sex was with different nationalities from a scale of bad/ugly, good, and to wonderful/beautiful fcuk. He had a lot to say about Russian girls, which kind of took me by surprise, but later on I learned that many Russian girls travel to Jordan to work in strip clubs or to work as escorts. A fellow couchsurfer also pointed out how it is usually Russian girls who are dancing in the disco video recordings that I would see on the street or at various cafes. Supposedly there are other neighboring Arab nationalities that work at these clubs, but usually if they do, the girls are "Christian". During a lull in his sexual expletives, I asked him about his family. He said that he had 3 boys and one wife. He said he wanted another wife, but could not afford it. He did say that he was very happy with his family and his wife and that he no longer smoked marijuana or had sex with other women because he said that doing so would be haram(prohibited)--figures.

At one checkpoint, he handed over my passport to a guard. The guard wanted to ask me something, but the taxi driver yelled at him that I was American and asked him, "what's the problem?" The guard smiled and returned my passport and we were on our way. After driving out for about 12km, the driver made a right turn towards another checkpoint. The guards asked for my passport. He handed it over and then they told the driver to pull over to the side of the road. I thought there was an issue, but there wasn't. That was simply as far as my taxi driver could go.

As he began unloading my baggage, another taxi pulled up with some tags on the sides that said Jordan Border Crossing. I gave my taxi driver the 12JD we agreed upon, shook hands, and said our m3a slamas (Go in safety). I hopped onto the other taxi and we headed towards the next checkpoint. Once there, I had to take my luggage through a huge scanner. This thing was massive. My luggage went through without any problems. I then picked up my luggage and got back on the Jordan Border Crossing taxi. We went another kilometer before I was dropped off at the final checkpoint and customs office. I paid the taxi 1.10JD.

At customs, I told the customs officer that I was coming back to Jordan after a few days. He said, "Good," that I needed to pay an 8JD exit tax, that my Jordanian visa would be "no good", and that I would have to pay for a new one to get back in. I didn't ask about the exit stamp, but a tour group on a pilgrimage through the Holy Land that was ahead of me told me that they were going to have their exit stamp on a separate sheet of paper. They had some cards filled out with their name and other information. As soon as my passport was stamped, I was ready to cross over.

Due to the tight security, I couldn't just walk over to the border. I had to exit the customs building and walk back out to the Trust Intl. Transpo kiosk right behind the Duty Free store and purchase a bus fare for 1.30JD. The distance from the customs building to the border was no more than a couple hundred meters, but it was forbidden to walk to it; you absolutely had to take this bus to get there and the buses only left at certain times. Unfortunately, I had to wait over an hour for the next bus to go out.

Right around 1:30PM, I and a whole bunch of Chinese tourists hopped on the bus. It took about a minute to get to the final gate on the west bank of the River Jordan. Once there, a guard came through to make sure all taxes were paid and everyone was stamped out. He then gave the okay to the driver. We crossed the once mighty River Jordan and then proceeded to the Israeli side.

We were dropped off at the Israeli customs entrance. It was interesting to see such a stark difference in administration. On the Jordanian side, I dealt entirely with older mustachioed gentlemen, some in formal military or police uniforms, and everyone seem to be disgruntled about something. On the Israeli side, I was greeted by a bunch of twenty-something-year-olds, male and female, in polo shirts and cargo pants and had a much more relaxed vibe to it. I walked over to the scanners, handed over my bags, and gave a quite attractive female guard my passport. That guard called over another very attractive female guard. I was hoping for a frisking, but unfortunately they just tagged-team on the questioning. I was asked what was my purpose for coming to Israel, info on my passport, who my parents and grandparents were, and if I had been to any other Arab country besides Jordan. After the quick interview, they smiled and said, "Welcome to Israel." I picked up my bags from the scanners and then walked over to a customs window. I gave my passport to another female guard who was being supervised by another young men. She asked me a similar round of questions and then asked if it was okay to stamp my passport. The same group on the Holy Land tour was also in the customs lines in the process of getting their entry stamps on a separate sheet of paper. After taking care of the stamps, I was given another nice cordial "Welcome to Israel" and just like that I was through.

Now the challenge was how to get to Jerusalem from here. I asked a couple of customs reps if there were any transportation options from this crossing and they said that maybe, just maybe there would be some taxis waiting outside that would go the nearest town called Bayt She'an about 6km away. They also said to ask the tour buses if I could hitchhike with them. I thought I'd give it a try so I went out and asked a number of them if they had room for one more. I asked one driver who said "no" rather frankly. I asked some people who were awaiting to board another bus and their driver gave me the "I'm not in charge" line. Another driver said he could get in trouble. I got tired of the rejections pretty quick so I decided to get a taxi. Outside of the gates, there were a number of cars waiting to get through and a couple of taxi cabs on the curb. I went up to one who told me that there was no transportation available from Bayt She'an to Jerusalem so he offered to take me to Tiberias for 20 shekels(NIS) (about $60) where transportation would be available for sure. Tiberias was a good 40 kilometers away going northwest. I only had about 60NIS, which I had gotten from the last $20 I had on me so paying out 200 something shekels was impossible. So I walked over to the next taxi, I asked him about Bayt Shem and if there was transportation and he said there was and that he would drop me off at the bus stop. When I asked him how much, he told me he would go for 60NIS. I liked that this guy was at least willing to take me to Bayt Shem, but 60 seemed outrageous. After some negotiating, we finally settled on 50. With not a lot of other options and with the sun setting, I still felt I was getting hosed, but I had little choice. I shelled out the 50 and we drove off to Bayt Shem.

The windy road to Bayt She'an was short and sweet. When I told him that the other taxi driver wanted to charge me 200 shekels to go to Tiberias because transportation was not available in Bayt She'an, he made the same spitting gesture that the Jordanian taxi driver had made and said, "Arabi". He said in a choppy English, "Those Arabs all they want is money; they don't care about people." The whole time I was thinking, "...and this is from a guy that wanted to charge me about $17 for a 6km ride. He asked me where I was from and I told him I was from the U.S., but had lived in Venezuela. As soon as I told him Venezuela, he switched to a rough, but less choppy Spanish. We spoke in Spanish for the rest of the trip. He mainly went off about how much he hated Arabs. The taxi driver took me to an ATM to get some cash and then went around a round-about in front of a McDonald's and then he dropped me off at a bus stop on the side of a four-lane road that ran north to south.

At the bus stop, I asked a few young guys in military garb in English if they knew which bus was going to Jerusalem and they said the 966 makes the north to south journey. I went over to the 966 bus stand and put my behemoth bag down and finally took a look at my surroundings. The infrastructure difference from Jordan to Israel was night and day. The roads, the signposts, the paint on the roads, traffic lights, and the buildings were in order and well maintained. Not to say that Jordan does not have things in order; it's just more chaotic and spaces that are well maintained and free of trash are like little oases in the midst of the disorder. Like Morocco, the fancy esplanades and promenades that are meticulously maintained mainly to draw tourists are the exception and not the rule. Just across the river, there was significantly less trash on the street and more trash cans available. It felt a little unsettling to be hopping on a bus to Jerusalem with about 20 uniformed young men carrying automatic rifles, but after a while I got used to it and found it odd when I didn't see some young person with a gun slinging from their neck. They were probably wondering why I wasn't carrying one. As I got on the dark green 966 bus, I told the driver Jerusalem and he said 40.50NIS. I handed him a huge bill and he didn't even flinch; he gladly took my money and gave me the exact change. Even just an instance like this would have caused a heap of drama on most buses on the other side who always seem to be out of change. I thought the 40.50NIS was a little steep, but perhaps that's exactly why the same ride is cheaper on the other side of the river; perhaps the convenience or the proper and functioning administration hasn't been priced into the system.

It was a breath of fresh air to be in Israel and here I was on my way to the city that all three Abrahamic faiths call their own. Soon I would be walking the streets and on my way to witnessing the grandeur and the mystery of this old city. All in all, it was an easy and somewhat entertaining crossing. In the end, all I could say is gracias a Dios, hamdullah, and thanks be to God and/or the cosmic forces of the universe for allowing me to be where I was.

I arrived in a town close to Irbid on November 15 and learned that the following day would be the start of L3id l-Kbir, the grand feast celebrated by the sacrificial slaughtering of a sheep or goat. Because of L3id, I would be spending at least a couple of days in a volunteer's village. I was looking forward to the experience. One of the reasons for traveling through Jordan and Egypt was to get a different taste of the Arab/Muslim World. I was curious to see what if any similarities there were between the peoples of the Maghreb(West) and the Sarq l-Ousad(Middle East). In Morocco, there was no question that they identified themselves with the Muslim World in terms of their faith, but when it came to ethnicity/heritage, some Moroccans were extremely proud of their Amazigh roots and saw the Arabization of the educational system as a continuation of Arab imperialism. I had read in Peter Mansfield's A History of the Middle East that the Arab World was by no means a homogeneous bloc. Political and cultural differences had existed for centuries. Islam had unified the various tribes, but many of the cultural traditions that distinguished one tribe from the other continued. I was hoping to see or experience these small subtleties. I was also hoping to see how much of an impact Turkish rule had on the region.

Attempting to speak with locals

I arrived in Jordan hoping that I could put to use a bit of the Moroccan Colloquial Arabic I had learned. When I arrived, I was happy that I could pick out the numbers, but even the numbers sounded differently. The "t" for "Tom" used in tlata (three) or tlatin was now replaced by the "th" for "think" and was now thlatha or thlathin. The Moroccan juj for the number two was now thenayn. I heard more "g"s in the place of the hard back-of-the-throat "q" sound. Instead of kif dayr for "how are you", I was now being greeted with a kayf f Halk or an even shorter kayfak. Words like nishan for "straight" or aji for "come here" that have Amazigh/Berber roots were completely absent.

At the cafe and restaurant, I wanted to order a ns ns or half and half (Moroccan cappuccino) and some aatay (tea), but Jordanians would ask me what is it that you want half and half of and there is no such thing as aatay, but we do have chay. For coffee, they either had 3adi (regular/normal) or wasit (medium). I had to stick to root words and the few words of Fusha that I knew to get around, but even my pronunciation of those standard words was off. When I asked for sugar (skkar), they would correct me saying sukkar.

When addressing someone, I had used khouya (my brother) or sidi (my dear sir) to get someone's attention. In Jordan, I heard more sadiqi (my loyal friend), sheikh (chief), and the Turkish basha (a title for a distinguished govt.official).

When scoping transportation options, telling someone maHtta (Darija word for station) will get you to the police station not the bus station. For the bus station, I had to use mujemma. And to find out how much anything was, shaHal got me blank stares, but gddesh got me the price. Shnu for "what" was just chu. Sometimes some people noticed my delayed reaction to their price offer and were kind enough to write the price out for me, but they would write it in Arabic numerals, which I never used in Morocco. Saying the French tren for train, tobis for bus, or tomobil for car that are commonplace in Darija had to be replaced with the Fusha equivalents except for bus, which was just bus. I could go on forever on how the dialects differed. It was interesting because I could halfway understand what people were saying, but only a few could understand what was coming out of my mouth. Fortunately, volunteers were there to fill in the gap and I am sure the exchange baffled Jordanians. Here was this Arab-looking guy asking someone who was clearly a foreigner to speak on his behalf.

Torin and I left Amman sometime late morning and took a Hijazi bus for less than 2JD to head over to Irbid where I would be meeting two more Peace Corps volunteers. We got off at Irbid's Amman Station and hopped on one of the many passenger vans/small buses that circled the city. We got off at University St, which was home to a long strip of restaurants, cafes, cybercafes, and shops. It looked like if anything happened in Irbid, it probably took place on this strip. We chilled out at a snack shop while the other volunteers arrived. I tried a few of the snack's specialty mojeena, a baked pastry with a variety of different fillings. I got a cheese one, one with meat, and another with spinach.

Gender Expectations Similar and Different

The volunteers filled me in on their experience. It was nice to a get a female perspective on the topic. I was curious to find out how conservative Jordan was in comparison to Morocco. Attire-wise, I did see more burqas and more niqabs than I had seen in Morocco, but I also saw a great number of ladies strutting their stuff with form-fitting western wear, high heels, full-on makeup, and a classy or flashy color-coordinated headscarf. I told volunteers that I had worked primarily with women during my service and they were surprised that I had that much freedom to interact with the opposite sex. Then I asked them about their service and all of them told me that they were working as TEFL teachers or as Special Education Counselors, but I was surprised to learn that all their classrooms were segregated and that in some cases girls and boys went to different schools. That certainly was not typical of Morocco. Most classrooms were integrated.

What took me most by surprise was our goodbyes. I was ready to shake the hand of the female volunteer that had made all the initial contacts with other volunteers and had given me a wealth of travel tips, but when I extended my hand, she left me hanging and just waived goodbye. Apparently, even a friendly shake could be misinterpreted by the locals. That gesture, though, was indicative of how my experience in Jordan would be. This moment where we exchanged a friendly conversation with a female was a rare moment; most of my time would likely be spent in the company of men.

Mi casa es su casa Jordanian style

So I arrived in a male volunteer's village later on. We were invited to several households to have coffee and tea. In one instance, we were invited to a colossal feast featuring Jordan's famous mansef. The dish has an unleavened bread base that is then covered with a layer of a safron-flavored rice-n-roni that is then topped with a seasoned, baked chicken with roasted peanuts and then doused with a tangy, yougurty broth. I gorged on the food and exhaled a hamdullah(Thanks be to God). It was a feast to remember. I wanted to thank the cooks who had made this fabulous meal, but this was out of the question. Even in Morocco, I sometimes did not meet the female members until the 3rd or 4th meal(Three Meals Later) so I wasn't taken aback by it. It was interesting, however, that in the few days I spent in the shamal (north) and visited a couple of homes,one in particular twice, I had no interaction with females. That in most parts of Morocco would have been rare even for a foreigner.

Our male hosts treated us remarkably well. I felt welcomed and I learned a great deal about the male side of Jordanian culture and etiquette. They shared their love for football and we exchanged tid bits about our respective life experiences. They were curious to hear about my two years in Morocco: if it was nice, how were the people, and if I had enjoyed my time there. They were also eager to learn about Venezuela and my opinion on the controversial Venezuelan President, Mr. Hugo Chavez, a darling of the Middle East. We spoke in a mix of English and Arabic. Fortunately, the volunteer's friends were all sympathetic interlocutors.

I must say that after spending a few days in a village in the shamal when a Jordanian would tell me marhaba (welcome) or ahalan wa sahalan fik (Loosely translated, it means, "May you arrive as part of the family, and tread an easy path (as you enter)*, I felt that they really meant it and they went to lengths to show me that they did. In terms of hospitality, Moroccans and Jordanians are neck and neck.

To some, chilling out in a village may seem like a waste of time given all the amazing sites and natural wonders in the world, but to me, observing the dynamics of village life, tasting the homemade cuisine, and talking with the locals is immensely satisfying and absolutely fascinating. I've been fortunate to be the recipient of some of the finest hospitality imaginable both from Jordanians and from volunteers. Their insight, connections, and assistance in helping me with the rest of my trip has been invaluable. I hope I can one day return to the favor to fellow sojourners.

*Translation source: http://forum.wordreference.com/showthread.php?t=170419

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My journey through the Holy Land continues. Next, I'll share a bit of my experience walking through the Holy City of Jerusalem.

I arrived in Amman, Jordan, on Saturday, November 14, after taking red-eye flight from Casablanca on Egypt Air. Without even planning it, I and three other volunteers were on the same flight out of Casablanca. They were on their way to Cairo; I was making a pit stop in Cairo before heading to Amman. Before our flight, we scoured all the money exchange bureaus at the Mohammed V Casablanca Airport and none had Jordanian Dinars or Egyptian Pounds to exchange. Knowing that I was going to come back to Morocco after my Middle Eastern trek, I kept my funds and hoped that 25 Euros that I had kept stashed from my last trip to Europe would be enough to get through customs and to get to the nearest ATM.

I blogged earlier about my arrival to the Holy Land and the great experience I had with Egypt Air. I was fortunate to get a window seat, which allowed me to take in the scenery as we descended into Cairo and in the departure and arrival to Jordan. I'm a big fan of the window seat. Like the experience I wrote about earlier about the mountains and plateaus making me feel insignificant or being humbled by the sheer breadth and size of nature's wonders, I feel the same when staring out from my tiny window in the sky. Ironically for me, every flight is a grounding experience. It just makes me realize how inconsequential my problems are in the scope of time. What I begin to understand is that many of these landscapes are indifferent. Men and women have come and gone and yet they are still here changing and adapting to the elements. On my way in to Jordan, I saw various shades of sand, the blue of the Nile and the Red Sea, the Sinai Peninsula's mountainous wilderness, dunes, plateaus, rocky hills dotted with olive trees, and a few lush valleys.

The flight from Cairo to Amman was about 40 minutes. Counting our ascent and descent, we probably had about 20 minutes of coasting, and in that brief lull the flight crew scrambled to give everyone their complementary drink. It was a nice surprise to be able to walk directly onto the terminal rather than taking a shuttle or walking to it like you often do when travelling outside of Europe or the U.S. The causeway takes you straight to customs where an Arab Bank money exchange branch is at the center of the hall ready to exchange almost any currency to Jordanian Dinars. I found it interesting that a money exchange branch would be situated in the middle of the customs hall, but I guess a lot of countries do not carry Jordanian Dinars, Morocco being one of them (Actually, I didn't check if they would exchange Moroccan Dirhams so it could very well be that they only exchange major currencies). I exchanged my 25 Euros and got 22 Jordanian Dinars(JD). I knew coming in that the Jordanian Dinar was an expensive currency, but all the blogs I read said that most things are nowhere near U.S. or European prices. So it's little startling at first to get less money for your dollar or euro, but once you get out, you realize that a JD can be stretched out pretty far.

It was 10JD to get the visa. Some of the blogs I had browsed through before coming said that the visitor's visa was for two weeks so I was surprised to hear that the visas were now good for an entire month, which makes a lot of sense. You could traverse the country in two weeks. It's not very big and transportation to the main touristy sites is readily available, but for those who wish to take their time to meet people, taste the cuisine, and ponder the meaning of life in nature as I do, two weeks goes by in a flash.

Once I passed through customs, I went down to pick up my luggage. At the luggage carousels, I found some stands with maps and guides in various languages to the main sites in Jordan. It was a great find since all I had to go by on this trip was a Lonely Planet guide titled Middle East on a Shoestring Budget published in 1997. I was planning to travel on a shoestring budget, but after checking out some of the hotels this guide recommended, I decided to upgrade myself from shoestring to clean. I stayed at one hotel called Jerusalem Hotel in Aqaba, and it literally was the nastiest place I've ever stayed at with roaches crawling around and crummiest bed sheets I'd ever seen, but the guide was spot on with the price. It was the cheapest of all the "budget" options. After one night in that hole, I moved next door and paid 5JD more for a bigger room, hot water, and peace of mind.

The Amman Queen Alia International Airport is about the size of your regional airport in the U.S. Once you get past customs, you walk out into the arrivals waiting hall, which has a number of snack shops, car rental stands, banks and ATMs, and a couple of cell phone boutiques. If you plan to spend some time in Jordan, I strongly encourage purchasing a SIM card from one of the boutiques. They run anywhere from 4-6JD from Orange, Zain, Umniah, and others, and the purchase generally includes 1 to 2JD of credit, which is more than enough to make initial arrangements with friends and hotels. Also at the airport is a bus shuttle company that travels back and forth from the airport to Amman. I forget the name of the bus, but it's something Express and they are big yellow buses or transport vans. They have a stand at the airport and an attendant is outside asking any confused-looking tourist if they're going to Amman. It cost me 3JD and it dropped me off at the North Station also known as either Abdali Station or in Arabic as Moujema Shamal. As the bus begins to park, taxi drivers arise from their slumber and prepare to pounce on the fresh-off the plane tourists. I told one gentleman my destination and he offered to take me for 12JD. I told the guy in all honesty that I did not have 12JD and immediately he lowered the price to 7JD. I told him to lower it some more so he lowered it to 5JD and said in English, "Final price."

The guy took me through a touristy route, which allowed me to see the Roman fortress and auditorium. A ride through Amman is much like your typical roller coaster ride. The taxi drivers go just as fast as they wind up and down the countless hills and valleys of the city. My first impression of Amman was not a memorable one. I thought the city lacked color, but then later I heard that it's by city mandate that the buildings use the local white and beish stone for the exterior. I don't know how legit that statement is, but it certainly seems like most people are adhering to it. The only contrast to the vanilla cream buildings are a few skyscrapers in the new city.

Upon arriving at the hotel, I asked the hotel receptionist about how much it costs to get from the North Station to the hotel to which he said, "Oh about 1.5JD to 2JD." I was hosed, but fortunately it was only for 3 or so dinares. Oh well, it was a lesson learned. From there on, I didn't hop on a taxi unless they had their meter running.

I checked into the Farah Hotel, which I had made a reservation on www.HostelWorld.com. I paid 5JD for a shared accommodation for one night. The rooms were clean, the bed was soft and sturdy, and the bathrooms were well-tended too. The lobby was also nice with plush decent couches, a TV and DVD player, a couple of large dining tables, and a couple of shelves full of board games, books, and bootleg movies.

When I checked in, I saw a guy chilling out on one of the couches. After I dropped my stuff in my room, I asked him about his travel plans. He told me smilingly that he lived in Jordan. Immediately I asked him if he was a Peace Corps Volunteer and he said yes. I told him that I had just COSed a couple of days ago and then he asked me if I was Jonathan and I said yes, and then I followed asking him if he was Torin and he said yes. We had exchanged a few emails prior to arriving. He had said that he was likely going to be busy touring with some friends. It so happened that he was at Farah waiting for his friends to arrive from Palestine. We had exchanged emails earlier and had plans to meet up later on in the week. I was exhausted from the red-eye flight, but I had a lot of questions about travel options and sites and then we spoke for a while about his Peace Corps experience and he gave me his lowdown on Jordan. I also shared a bit of my Peace Corps Morocco experience and gave him my lowdown on travel, food, and culture. I was fortunate to have found him and to have had this exchange on the first day of my trip.

We decided to meet up later on in the evening. I ran into him at a small fast food joint and joined him for a shawarma. The shawarma was not that great, but it was dirt cheap at 1.50JD for the plate. I was more impressed by the size of the meat spikes rotating in the fire. These spikes were probably about a meter and a half long and about half a meter wide. Some of the guys tending to it had to climb a small step ladder to shave off the meat and some used a long knife to cut the meat and others used what looked like industrial size hair clippers.

After the shawarma, we walked over to Habiba, a confectionery shop preparing Jordan's famous kenafa. This delicious sweet treat should rank pretty high in terms of the world's greatest inventions. The scrumptious treat has a mozzarella cheese base, a thin crunchy cake layer or stringy top that is doused in a honey or sugar-based syrup, and topped off with pistachios, cinnamon, and nutmeg on top. Every bite was like reaching taste-bud nirvana.

After the Habiba's kenafa, we moved on to a cafe right on the main strip f King Hussein St. called Eco-Tourism Cafe. It was a scruffy looking place. About the only thing “eco” about it were the plants that the owner had throughout the cafe. There I got my first taste of Jordanian coffee. It was a contrast to Morocco's fancy coffee presses that squeeze out the coffee from the coffee grounds. In Jordan, you get the coffee and the grounds. Moroccan coffee also seems lighter in comparison to the almost syrupy makeup of Jordanian coffee, but as far as sugar is concerned, they're neck and neck. The coffee's bitterness is offset quite well by the generous amounts of sugar in each cup.

It was a nice first night in Amman. The following day I was to head out to Irbid with Torin to meet a couple of other volunteers. Upon arrival I had heard that L3id Kbir would most certainly fall on Tuesday, November 16. When I was drawing up my initial plans, I was hoping to avoid another sheep slaughtering, but it looked like I would be witness to yet another. I felt bad for the sheep, but at the same time I was thinking that I wouldn't object to some slow-cooked or grilled sheep meat. I was looking forward to meeting up with more volunteers and was even more excited about the opportunity to experience village life with one of them.

It had only been two days since I had checked/stamped out of Peace Corps. You would think that I would be running towards the comforts of Western amenities, but here I was wanting to experience village life in Jordan, and here I was in the hands of volunteers that were making it possible for me to do so. I felt blessed and fortunate to be part of this select group of people who have invested so much time and energy to get to know the people around them and their surroundings and who are so willing to share the little bit they know with me.

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Some Travel Details

Farah HotelAmman Al-Hussein Cinema St.Behind Arab BankDowntown+962-6-465-1443Email: farahhotel@hotmail.comwww.farahhotel.com.jo

Hinajen kids with their game face onEarly in service I visited a small primary school about 5 kilometers from the city of Sefrou. The teachers spoke to me about some of the challenges they faced in teaching the kids. They mentioned one problem that is all too common in many rural schools: the lack of plumbing or restroom facilities. For many boys, it's no big deal to water the nearest tree, but for girls it's a whole 'nother issue. The really young ones don't mind to squat out in the bush, but once they reach 4-5th grade, they as well as their parents feel it is inappropriate. They also said that they lacked school supplies and sports equipment. I wrote down their information and said I would look into funding opportunities for building restroom facilities or basic latrines, but also told them that the community would need to contribute at least 20-30 percent of the grant amount. I also told them that they would need to identify an association that I could send the funds to. After that visit, I heard very little from the teachers.

I still remembered the kids and I relayed to my friends some of the information the teachers gave me and most were willing to contribute to the project. I told them to wait until the teachers identified an association, but unfortunately they never did. The teachers were in agreement in terms of what they wanted, but not in how they wanted to carry out the projects. I still remembered the kids and I still wanted to do something for them even if it was just helping out with school supplies.

Over the next year or so, I kept an eye for things that the school could use. Luckily, Peace Corps Morocco got a donation of sport jerseys from the U.S. that our Youth Development(YD) Volunteers began to distribute at various language and summer camps. I asked the YD Program Manager about Hinajen and gave him the approximate number of students and he sent a box full of jerseys. Then, as my sitemate was in the process of getting rid of all his worldly possessions before returning to the U.S., he offered to give me an unused soccer ball and a basketball that was in pretty decent shape. Later on, Peace Corps sent out a notice to volunteers that they had received a donation of reams of printer grade color paper. I petitioned for a few boxes and during one of my program manager visits, they dropped off about 10 reams and several rolls of butcher paper. Then finally, last summer a group of young kids from a gap-year program called Where There Be Dragons led by couple of Morocco RPCVs swung through Sefrou to take part of a number of cultural exchange activities. Towards the end of their visit, they learned about the Islamic tradition of zakat or almsgiving. They decided to take a portion of their travel funds and to donate it to a worthy cause. The volunteers contacted me about their donation and I told them that I would be able to find something to put their money to good use. In total, the group collected about 1,200DH or roughly $160. It was a nice chunk of change.

I spoke to one of the teachers about the donation and he immediately drew up a list of items. We then set up a tentative date for a sort of back-to-school event. We bought a whole bunch of rulers, markers, scissors, notebooks, pencils, pens, etc. We then applied some of the funds towards a purchase of about 40 school uniforms. Together with the school supplies, uniforms, and the in-kind donations from Peace Corps and my sitemate, we had a good trunk full of stuff. I was really excited about the event and told a few volunteers to mark their calendar for the event. I was hoping to have games and a big couscous lunch for the kids.

I left it up to my school contact to arrange the transportation and was hoping that the school district would pitch in for at least that. A number of weeks went by and I heard very little. Then, later on, I learned that the school director said that he would need to be present at the event because they feared that I and the volunteers were perhaps going to give out some Bibles and other Christian paraphernalia along with the gifts. When I visited the school the year before, there was no mention of this. But recently, the schools were on alert given a recent event that received wide media attention that exposed a group of Americans that were running an orphanage in Ain Leuh and were allegedly proselytizing the kids, which is strictly prohibited under Moroccan law. I chuckled when I heard this.

So I had to call off the event and instead scheduled a drop-off for late October. I hired a small pickup truck. My school contact followed me and the driver behind in his clunky moped and when we arrived at the school, we immediately began unloading all the goodies. I made a pit stop at a small shop and bought some candies for the kids. We took a few shots with the school supplies and then I left. Later on, the teacher used his digital camera to take shots of the kids with the jerseys playing a little soccer.

It was disappointing that I couldn't put on the back-to-school event I had hoped for, but regardless, I was happy that the kids got a host of items that will hopefully make their school year a little more enjoyable and make their recess a whole lot more fun. Please take a moment to take a look at the pictures

Rural areas of Morocco are still very much in need of assistance. If you're interested in donating, I encourage you to browse through a list of community-based projects posted on the Peace Corps Partnership Program page or look into projects being funded through the High Atlas Foundation. Once again, thank you for reading and thank you for donating.

Hinajen Elementary School

A fellow RPCV produced an amazing video of six remarkable Moroccan women who have overcome all sorts of odds to succeed and to share their knowledge with other women. One of the women profiled is my counterpart, Amina Yabis, President of the the Cherry Buttons Cooperative. Her story and that of all the other women are truly inspiring. They exemplify grassroots development at its very core. Please share with friends and family and spread the word that women's empowerment, as Amartya Sen would likely say, is one of the many if not the most effective tool for alleviating poverty for women and their children, reducing infant mortality, reducing the number of births, improving the health of women and their children, and creating more accountable and representative governments around the world.

You Can Dream. Stories of Moroccan Women Who Do from cortney healy on Vimeo.

For more stories on Women in the Muslim World, please visit: http://womensvoicesnow.org/

I've been having a great time traveling through Jordan thus far. The couchsurfers I met and the PCVs I've been chilling out with have introduced me to their friends and have taken me to their favorite spots. Fortunately, their friends have been extremely hospitable offering me their best cooking. Other than your irate Amman taxi driver, everyone has been really nice and welcoming. I'm only at the halfway point of my trek. I've yet to hit the two most beautiful sites in the country: Petra and the Wadi Rum. I hear the stone-carved temples are astounding and the Wadi Rum's red sand and stone pillars are enchanting. Stay tuned for an update to this album. Feel free to send to friends. Thanks for reading.

In Jordan @ the Halfway Point

I arrived in Jordan around 10AM local time on November 14th exhausted from a red-eye flight from Casablanca to Cairo and then Cairo to Amman. It's been a while since I flew into the future. Last time I did that was exactly 27 months ago when I swallowed the red pill and began my Peace Corps journey through the land of the far west. Now, curious to see another part of the Arab and Islamic World and to carry out a little pilgrimage of my own, I embarked on a journey through the Holy Land. As I wrote in an earlier blog, I feel that it is extremely important to contextualize the Holy Scriptures. I don't consider myself to be a religious person and it may sound strange to my friends to hear that I am going on a pilgrimage, but truth is that despite not being a pious individual, I find it amazing how the tales and stories, oral traditions, and culture of this region of the world have resonated throughout the world and to some extent are still changing the beliefs and conduct of isolated pockets of the world that are just beginning to hear about the Abrahamic faiths. Why is that?

I find it interesting walking through this Mediterranean landscape that people in the tropics could still relate. The environments are so different. As I flew into Cairo, all I saw was a vast open expanse of sand and arid hills up until one reaches the Nile, but even the mighty Nile looks puny in the midst of the wilderness. From Cairo to Amman, we flew over the Sinai Peninsula and there I saw the wilderness that the Children of Israel supposedly wandered around for 40 years for punishment for not believing in the God of Moses. Well, after flying over it, I would say, "Dang, God, did you have to go that far? I mean, really?" As we flew into Jordan, it was more of the same except perhaps a little more colorful with some red sand hills in the distance. Upon arrival, I thought I would be greeted with a cool winter breeze, but instead I got a big waft of summer. It was such a change from the low-50s temperatures I was already dealing with in Morocco, but a welcomed change. Supposedly according to the locals, the temperatures have been unusually high for the month. We'll see if it cools down at all while I am here. However, even it cools and rains come, it would revive the hills and turn them green but just for a brief moment. Irrigation is helping to create more arable plots, but it still would never resemble the tropics. It's tough to say why the stories stuck, but I believe one way of getting a better understanding is to do as the locals do or as we say "walk a mile in someone else's shoes". That I will do and will soon share those insights.

In one of my last blogs, I spoke about how insignificant I felt walking in the midst of towering mountains and plateaus that have been carved and molded over millennia by the chaotic cosmic forces of the universe. Well, there happens to be something else that has also been around for millennia that has also made feel completely insignificant and powerless, yet their size is microscopic at best, but the havoc they can wreck can render the healthiest and the most fit completely useless. Yet, I don't think they have ever made it into a snazzy National Geographic documentary perhaps because they don't release any venom, have sharp teeth, or strike at lightning speed; nonetheless, they should be given their merit and recognized as a force to be reckoned with. I speak of none other than the tiny, yet almighty amoeba.

On two separate instances, amoebas have invaded my stomach. You would think that with all the gastric acid sloshing around that these little critters would never have a chance to survive, but somehow they do. According to the authoritative Wikipedia, the name amoeba comes from the Greek work amoibe, which means change. Before the word amoibe came about, Wikipedia says, "Early naturalist referred to Amoeba as Protus animalcule after the Greek God Protus who could change his shape." And indeed, they do. They expand, shrink, and form protective sheaths around themselves. These critters are the shadiest of characters lurking in what appears to be refreshingly clean spring water, coasting on the surface of what looks like well-cooked and certainly appetizing street food, or hiding within what seems like healthy looking fruits and veggies. It's impossible to tell when they arrived or from whence they came because they often forgo duplication until the environment is just right. Oh but when they do, be ready for the gastrointestinal fight/purging of the ages.

Within the volunteer community, conversations about our bowel movements are as common as speaking about the weather. We have come to regard a solid stool as something of a novelty and reminds us of better days. Those fond memories help us weather the days when it feels as if all your internal organs are being liquefied and being expelled with the force of a cataclysmic volcanic eruption that is then followed by tremors, murmurs, and subsequent explosions that leave one feeling completely helpless and subject to the will of your stomach.

During these recurrent blasts of liquid fire, your stomach becomes a prima Donna of sorts rejecting anything that it deems unworthy of its peculiar taste, and sometimes it rejects any food or beverage outright. Fortunately for these moments, our Peace Corps med kits are stocked with sodium and electrolyte packets that when mixed with water are the equivalent of chugging a full glass of ocean water. Yum, yum! Naturally, without any food or calories to burn, your body goes into hibernation mode. The common saying ‘I feel empty inside’ voiced by many seeking some sort of spiritual transcendence or satisfaction in their lives takes on a literal meaning.

After a day of violent convulsions and eruptions, your stomach now purged of the foreign invaders begins to tolerate some simple starches. From there, we begin our BRAT diet regime, which includes bananas, rice, apples, and tea. It's a rather bland menu, but flavor is the last thing on your mind. With every bite you take, you utter a prayer in the hopes that your inflamed, hypersensitive, and enzyme depleted stomach will accept the tiniest of morsels.

Little by little, your stomach returns to normalcy, but unless you’ve undergone treatment to eradicate the versitile amoeba, the Hindenburg style bloating, napalm spewing anus, and magma churning stomach are bound to return. The PC Med Team is well versed on amoebas, giardia, food poisoning, and other symptoms of gastrointestinal warfare. Over the course of my service, I’ve been on an intensive three-day as well as a seven-day treatment of Tinidazole and/or Intetrix. Upon taking the drugs, you may think that all will be fine and well from henceforth, but that path to recovery is a long and troublesome road. In some cases, the drugs can be just as debilitating as the amoebas. The medicine kills all bacteria even the good guys leaving your stomach devoid of the normal flora needed to break down food.

In the absence of your normal bacteria, sometimes yeast can multiply uninhibited giving you more gas and other strange symptoms. In such cases, you scrap the BRAT diet and introduce a more complex diet of cooked veggies, proteins, yogurt, and some friendly probiotic treatments like Ultra Levure.

When I get back to the states, I’m totally auditioning for the Bio Activia commercials. My dialogue with that of another volunteer would go something like this:

Jonathan: [Casually with an empathetic smile] Hi, Mary, have you been spewing fire from every orifice again? Mary: [Sighing] Oh, thank goodness that’s over, but I’ve been bedridden for the last few days ever since taking my anti-parasite medicine and my stomach can’t digest worth a crap. [Ha ha] Jonathan: Been there. Have you ever tried Activia? Mary: Activia? Jonathan: Yes, that’s what I said. Mary: Why no? What is it? Jonathan: It’s a magical yogurty concoction that contains Bifidus Regularis. Mary: What the heck is Bifidus Regularis? Jonathan: It’s friendly bacteria that can help in the digestive process after your typical Mt. Saint Helen’s-esque eruptions or whiplash-like convulsions. Mary: Why Jonathan, I’m just gonna have to try it! Jonathan: You won’t regret it, but if you still have excessive gas, constipation, diarrhea, and other abnormal symptoms on a frequent basis. Check with your doctor because the parasites must have really done a number on you and you may be in need of a complete revamp of your diet that may or may not include Activia to avoid the onset of other chronic gastrointestinal disturbances. Mary: Wow, Jonathan. I knew I could count on you to provide me a prolonged explanation that is only slightly comforting. Jonathan: Hey, that’s what I’m here for.

I’m going to pitch it to Danone when I get back. I’m sure it will have to go through legal and their med unit before it’s approved. I’ll keep you posted.

The road to recovery is one that needs to be reassessed on a continuous basis. The PC Med Team has already confirmed that I will have health vouchers so that I can conduct all the necessary tests and trials to ensure that traces of parasites are absent from my fragile and sensitive system, which may entail a government-funded colonoscopy. Bring it on!

Amoeba Action FigureAs you may know, I am all about full disclosure--sometimes full exposure. I knew quite well that coming to Peace Corps inherently carries a number of risks. I think the number one cause of death amongst volunteers is transportation accidents, which to some extent is out of your hands. Amoebas are most often successfully treated, but the after effects of the damage and the side effects of the meds can last for a brief moment or could develop into something else more long-term. But unlike transportation accidents, you can reduce your chances of an epic bout with amoebas to nil. When I first arrived in Morocco, I criticized Moroccan cuisine for their propensity to cook their veggies to a mush. I cried, “Oh where, oh where have all the raw veggies and salads gone?” Now I understand why. They know all about amoebas and wisely pressure-cook their veggies until they resemble a dilapidated, torn, and strewed figure of their once wholesome selves. Now, I say, “Bring on the mush.” I scoffed when other volunteers living in urban sites like mine would boil their water saying, “Why do you waste precious buta gas on treated water?” Now, after learning that even in my own town of Sefrou treatment capacity is compromised after heavy rains, which happens quite often during the winter months, I boil my water religiously. As far as street food is concerned, I said a sorrowful goodbye. Our PC Med Team did share a lot of information at Pre-service Training, but I think my youthful naiveté of infallibility clouded my thinking, and as such, I learned a very important lesson: that even the most fit is no match for the itty-bitty, teeny-weensy yet all powerful amoebas.

Not surprisingly, even poets acknowledged the magnificence of these little creatures. Here’s a beautiful tribute by Arthur Guiterman:

"Ode To The Amoeba"

Recall from Time's abysmal chasmThat piece of primal protoplasmThe First Amoeba, strangely splendid,From whom we're all of us descended.That First Amoeba, weirdly clever,Exists today and shall forever,Because he reproduced by fission;He split himself, and each divisionAnd subdivision deemed it fittingTo keep on splitting, splitting, splitting;So, whatsoe'er their billions be,All, all amoebas still are he.Zoologists discern his featuresIn every sort of breathing creatures,Since all of every living species,No matter how their breed increasesOr how their ranks have been recruited,From him alone were evoluted.King Solomon, the Queen of ShebaAnd Hoover sprang from that amoeba;Columbus, Shakespeare, Darwin, ShelleyDerived from that same bit of jelly.So famed is he and well-connected,His statue ought to be erected,For you and I and William BeebeAre undeniably amoebae!

(http://www.blueridgejournal.com/poems/ag-amoeba.htm)

Camp GLOW 2010 pictures are now available for all to see. Thank you for your patience. I added them to the general Camp GLOW picture file on Picasa. Amina Yabis, the principal organizer, and PCV Rachel took all the photos at the event so a big thanks to them. I want to thank everyone once again for your financial support and for spreading the word. Camp GLOW Morocco is one of the few projects in Peace Corps Morocco that is still ongoing. I was fortunate to be involved in the project. I learned a great deal from it. Based on the feedback from the PCVs that were at the camp and hearing from Amina, there were certainly some highlights and areas of improvement. The camp organizers overcame a huge financial obstacle to put the camp together borrowing from friends and family until the funds from the embassy finally arrived. Also with the main organizer away on travel up until a week prior to the event, a lot of key decisions were put off until she arrived, but fortunately Ms. Yabis's perseverance brought the camp through.

I sat down with Amina to discuss fundraising options for future camps. She will likely pursue funding from the embassy once again, but I'm hoping that she will also pursue opportunities with the Global Fund for Women, African Women's Development Fund, MEPI Small Grant Assistance, USAID's Projet SANAD, and even from Soros's Open Society. She has personal experience with Projet SANAD and has been briefed on others.

Ms. Yabis and I filled out the Projet SANAD grant last year. We did not win financial assistance, but she received an invitation to participate in their capacity building workshops. Unfortunately, those workshops all took place via webcast making it nearly impossible for a lot of semi-urban or rural associations who have unreliable internet or not enough bandwidth or who are not the most tech literate to participate. I'm sure the webcasts were great and I'm sure a lot of people benefited from them, but whoever thought of the idea clearly did not have rural people and their challenges in mind.

We knew going in that it would be tough to win given that Amina's association organizes only one large-scale event per year compared to other associations who have year-round programs. We still gave it a shot. I thought that simply going through the process and drafting the Camp GLOW goals and successes in Standard Arabic was a huge step. She said that this was the first grant she completed on her own and applied to directly. All others have been filled out by PCVs and with assistance from artisana delegation folks. I'm hoping that she will apply again this year and draft a more sound budget with a series of camps and other training sessions that will hopefully get some consideration.

The association needs to apply for other funding outside of embassy funds so that the facilitators and other association personnel can get paid for some of the work they do. All of the last four camps have been volunteer-organized and executed. While it's great that these host country nationals have given of their time free-of-charge, expecting people to volunteer year-in and year-out is simply not sustainable. There needs to be a core group of individuals who can organize and plan. In the past, volunteers have filled this role, but given Peace Corps's two-year rotations and constant change in leadership and priorities, it's not certain that the Peace Corps will be there in the future and it really shouldn't be expected to be there indefinitely. Sources like Global Fund for Women and I believe African Women's Development Fund permit the recipient to allocate a portion of the grant towards labor unlike a lot of other sources that forbid any funds going to labor. Amina has never budgeted for labor so it'll be something new for her, but I think it will be something she and the current facilitators will gladly welcome. Fortunately, the Global Fund for Women provides their grant applications in Arabic and French. A couple of weeks ago when we met, she said she would look over the forms. I'm hoping she does and applies. Even if she doesn't win, she and her association will learn a great deal from the process.

All in all, I'm happy that the camp took place despite the financial hurdles. Amina heard my feedback as well as that of PCV Marian and Rachel who were present at the camp on enhancing the structure of the camp. The young women learned a great deal and made lasting friendships. I do hope that the next wave of volunteers will participate in future camps and that Amina and the Golden Buttons Association will continue to learn from each event.

Once again, thank you to all who donated and for telling everyone and anyone about this great event. Here's a brief photo compilation of what you helped to bring about:



Camp GLOW - Girls Leading Our World

One of my woodcarvers at the Sefrou Artisana finally agreed to have some of his work showcased to a wider audience. He is still a little hesitant about publicizing his work out of fear that others could copy his ideas. I find that some of his work is so unique that it would be very difficult for someone to be able to do that. However, given how Morocco is a hub of pirated material, I can see why he is so reluctant.

Mouhsine is one of the most chill individuals I know. I enjoyed hanging out with him, drinking tea with him in his boutique, and just talking about anything that came to mind. Based on my travels through Morocco, I would have to say that out of the countless thuya-woodcarving shops I walked in and out of in Essaouira, one of the biggest woodcarving centers, his creativity and attention to detail are unparalleled. I have had the chance to watch him create a piece from conception. His careful planning and solid execution are admirable.

Mouhsine finally allowed me to post some of his materials because he would like one day to travel abroad to other woodcarving or contemporary art expos. Off the top of my head, I don't know of any expos in the U.S. or in Europe that would welcome his work. If you do, please send them my way. Like many artisans in Morocco, much of their amazing work goes unnoticed. We hope this site will get Mouhsine a little attention, which will hopefully lead to more opportunities in the near future.

The site was created with the intent to promote his work and not necessarily to sell (an e-portfolio of sorts); however, if you're interested in purchasing one of his sculptures, you can contact him directly if you speak French or Arabic or visit his boutique at the Ensemble Artisanal Bab El Mkam in Sefrou. Please visit the "Contactez-moi" page for more info.

At the moment, we do not have a catalogue available. Some of the pieces in "Mes Sculptures" have names. You could use those names to inquire about a price. If you'd like to have an item shipped, I'd be happy to serve as the fee-free intermediary. DHL and FedEx service is available, but they run about 750DH a kilo or nearly $100 p/kilo. Poste Maroc, the national postal service, is fairly reliable and will run about a third of what DHL and FedEx would cost you. For a list of their rates, please visit and search under the Vos Envois des Messagerie: http://www.bam.net.ma

http://www.wix.com/khadira/sculptures

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P.S. I copied and pasted most of the text on the site from an old brochure that Rose, the previous Sefrou PCV, made for Mouhsine. My French is such that I can understand what the brochure is saying, but I can't tell you if it's grammatically correct. For all you native French speakers, if you see something out of place, please let me know. I and Mouhsine will be extremely grateful and as we say in Morocco for all good deeds done out of the kindness of your heart, llah yrHm l-walidin (May God bless your parents).

It's amazing how even within the same country just 8 or so hours away from my site that the surroundings can be so remarkably different. In some places you feel as if you're walking on the Red Planet. The people also dress a little differently and speak a completely different language. It almost felt like I was starting my Peace Corps tour all over again.

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After the camel ride to the desert and back, I continued my journey by grand taxi from Errachidia going east to Tinejdad, another oasis village with a stunning mud ksar, lots of small vegetable, fruit, and wheat and corn plots, and palm trees all bordering the winter rain stream that snakes through town. The mud ksar is like a little mud piste fortress castle with corner towers with beautiful overlooks molded in classical Amazigh form. Like the mud piste castle out in the middle of the desert, this ksar was also a good 20 degrees cooler.

Tinejdad LaizarsTinejdad is not shy about its Berber/Amazigh history. As I walked up to and through the ksar, the free-man Amazigh insignia was proudly displayed on the ksar walls. The Amazigh pride symbols could also be seen in the laizars that the women wore. These thin sheets of fabric that women wrap around themselves on top of their djellaba or niqab had all sorts Amazigh designs in bright neon threading over usually a black cloth. As far as language, about 45 or so minutes before I arrived in Tinejdad, I was speaking Darija with folks in Errachidia, but in Tinejdad, you best be ready to bust out some Tashelheit - another Amazigh/Berber dialect. Darija is spoken, but I got the feeling that it's mainly done to appease the passersby. Right next to the ksar, I saw some signs for some swanky looking maison d'hôtes and there were plenty of restaurants on the main road. I think if I was looking for a nice pit stop before heading to the desert, Tinejdad would be at the top of my list.

Tinghir KasbahFrom Tinejdad, the next stop was Tinghir and the magnificent Todra Gorge. The sight of mud villages on the fringes of the palmeries sprouting from the Todra River against the backdrop of a dry, barren, and rocky mountainside is something that is indelibly imprinted in my mind.

It is so different from anything I had ever seen.

From Tinghir, we took a grand taxi to the Todra Gorge. We walked around a bit, hiked up the road some, and then headed back. The Todra Gorge is essentially a narrow passageway carved out of a mountain plateau by the Todra River over a millenia.

Todra Gorge Entrance

It's another one of those natural wonders where the sheer size of it makes one feel like an insignificant blip in the space of time. I like this feeling. As I stare at layer upon layer of rock and sediment dating back to who knows when, my preoccupations of daily life seem to wither away and I think to myself how silly it is to be worrying about leaving a legacy or something for people to remember me by.

I was encouraged by the bit of farming at the base of the gorge. The green stood out in such contrast to everything around it. I also found an interesting flower that I think depicts the area well. This spiny, thorny flower is not really inviting; in fact, it's a little harsh and hostile, but nonetheless it's beautiful to look at.

More pictures and stories about the rest of the trip on the next blog.

Trip Essentials:

Lodging

We camped out the night at the Todra River Valley amongst the palm trees in a campsite right on the edge of the river stream. We stayed at the Camping l'Auberge Atlas (ph: 212-524-89-50-46). It was 100DH for their basic room. They also had ponjs out in the terrace for 30DH.

Food

Dinner can be expensive. Clarify the pricing before ordering especially if you order the tagine special. We ordered the special thinking that the 60DH covered the entire tagine; when in fact, it was 60DH per person. Ouch! The place was no hole in the wall. The food was delicious and had a cool ambiance. The whole road from Tinghir to the Todra Gorge is replete with hotels and restaurants catering to foreign tourists. You have a lot of choice so use it to your advantage when bargaining.

Transpo:

Once again, CTM bus service is available leaving out of Errachidia, Marrakech, Ouarzazate, and other locations. From one town to the other, I think I averaged about 25DH per leg.

The other day I was watching an interesting interview on Riz Khan's One on One program that airs on Al-Jazzera English. The guest on the show was Nacer Khemir, a famous Tunisian cinematographer and writer. In the interview, he spoke about the importance of the desert in Arab culture. He says that without the desert there would be no paradise and "this quest for paradise is the true essence of Islam." He adds that the Arab civilizations is "constructed around a void." He goes on to explain that The Kaaba is an empty cube, good calligraphy is judged by the void, not the full, the desert is described as both full and empty, and lastly he says that the word for the number zero also means empty (Now I understand why some people would shout a number of obscenities at me and then finish with the number zero). He ties it all in by saying, "It's the creation of emptiness inside you so that something can come. And if this emptiness is essential, the Divine arrives." See the full length interview below in which he also speaks of other challenges facing Arab culture and identity and Sufism. He provides a wealth of insight in just 20 minutes.

As I write this blog about my travels through the vast, sun-scorched wilderness of the south of Morocco from Erfoud to Ouarzazate, I can't help but think of some of the imagery Khemir mentioned. I often wonder if the Holy Scriptures would have been significantly different if the prophets and apostles had lived in the tropical rainforests of my native Venezuela. Would Moses have relayed the message to the Children of Israel about going to a 'land of milk and honey' if say they were already enjoying sweet and tangy pineapples, fat and juicy mangoes, mouth-watering papayas, just-like-butta avocados, fun-to-munch-on sugar cane, hearty cassava(yuca), and a host of other tropical fruits and veggies? Would Moses have had to strike a rock if say the Amazon and Orinoco River and it's many tributaries were already providing for their water needs? Would there be so many references in the Qur'an about paradise if say they already lived in one? I doubt it.

Prior to coming to Morocco, I would say that I could sympathize with the Children of Israel, but I couldn't really empathize. I just didn't have any real context to go by. Growing up in Venezuela(politics aside), I thought I was already living in the Garden of Eden: rivers flowed, green all around, food was plentiful, animals were prancing in the forest, etc, etc. When our family moved to the U.S., I lived in areas that were also blessed with frequent rains that kept the lawns and the agricultural fields green and in Oklahoma and Indiana deers were literally prancing around in the forest. I had seen some dunes here and there, but they were mostly isolated patches of sand. I once traveled through Arizona and Nevada and saw a bit of their deserts. I was told that the wandering-through-the-wilderness portion of the epic Ten Commandments movie was filmed there, and I can see why they chose that location. When I drove through, it certainly looked dry, rocky, and devoid of life as some parts of the south of Morocco do. However, what the Arizona and Nevada deserts don't have is the striking contrast of a lush, green palmerie against the backdrop of a barren, rocky hillside. Naturally, as you look out your transit taxi window to allow your mind to escape the cramped and smelly confines you find yourself in, your eye gravitates to these clusters of green out on the plain, sprouting from a river bed, or wedged in a mountain ravine. As you reach these oases and palmeries, you do get the urge to say "hamdulillah" (Thanks be to God) or to thank the cosmic forces of the universe for creating this small haven or paradise in middle of this unbearably hot and hostile terrain.

While traveling through the south of Morocco, I guess you could say I experienced somewhat of a revelation or better yet a grand clarification. True, Morocco is really at the fringes of the Sahara and granted I only spent a total of 3 hours on a camel ride and took a bus to jump from one oasis to another, but I think that even this brief exposure gave me more context than I ever had about the realities and the dynamics at play in a harsh desert environment. I can understand why some would be skeptical of people who live out in the desert wilderness and then come to an oasis city yelling that the end is near. I would have probably handed that person a pitcher of water and then asked, "Now, what was it that you were trying to say?" Or, I can empathize somewhat with the Children of Israel's reluctance to leave the fertile Nile Delta for a journey through the desert wilderness in order to reach the Promised Land. I also understand why the Three Kings traveled by night. They used the stars as their compass, but probably and just as important was their desire to avoid the heat. I cannot imagine rocking back and forth on a camel in 100 degree plus heat. Let's just say that after this trip, the stories in the scriptures begin to make a little more sense.

I'm actually heading to Jordan and Egypt after Close-of-Service or as Peace Corps now defines it "Continuation-of-Service". Starting November 14, I'm going to be retracing some of the steps Joshua and Moses took in leading the Children of Israel to the Promised Land, but I'm doing it backwards. I'm going to Jordan, maybe Israel, and then onto Egypt. I first thought of going from the land of bondage to the Promised Land, but my frequent flyer miles and flight deals are forcing me to go the opposite way. Is this a sign? I should know when I reach Mt. Sinai.

I'm going to be visiting some Jordanian volunteers, crashing some hostels, and couchsurfing some of it. I hope my Moroccan Arabic will help get through the trip and allow me to understand a tidbit of what people are saying. The sites I'm visiting are sites that I have read about ever since I was a kid. Perhaps, when I arrive at the various sites I will receive another revelation or grand clarification. Rest assured that if I do, I'll be sure to post it.

Next blog I will expand on the places I visited on my southern trek with hotel stays, travel tips, and all. Thanks for reading.

Last Spring I had the chance to take a week-long excursion through the south of Morocco.  When you visit the south, you get the sense that you're finally in Morocco.  When I left my hometown in April, the temperature was hovering just above 50F.  After a nine hour CTM bus ride from Fes, I arrived in Erfoud early in the morning and immediately began shedding my many layers of clothes to enjoy the

My relationship with organized religion has been a tumultuous one.  I grew up in an evangelical home.  I read my Bible often and I went to Bible school every sunday.  My parents did not dare miss a church service.  When I broke away from organized religion, I didn't walk away from everything I had learned; I simply began to think more for myself rather than saying yea and amen to anything said by

In Morocco, religion is felt and seen everywhere.  The call to prayer is loud and clear five times a day and especially noticeable at 4AM.  Every action it seems is preceded or followed by a God phrase.  If a Moroccan happens to notice that you took a shower, got a haircut, got new clothes, got done exercising, or finished a meal, he or she instinctively blurts out a bssHa (To your health) to

I've been lucky to be able to host a number of RPCVs that have served elsewhere over the last couple of years.  We have had some very enlightening conversations.  One topic that we always bring up is our respective tours of service.  I am always curious to find out what other Peace Corps countries are doing and to hear about any successes and challenges they have had. All of the PCVs I've hosted

There's been an interesting development in what I like to call Morocco's Language and Identity Conundrum.  The U.N's Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination issued a statement calling on Morocco to recognize Tamazight as an official language among other things.  It's a remarkable piece of good news for the Amazigh lobby.  International recognition is sometimes needed to exert

Last week I wrote a bit about my journey through the maze of languages present in Morocco. I wrote about how moving from one language to another or incorporating, for instance, more French in Darija can change people's perception of you. As I reflect even more in these listless days of Ramadan, I realize that Morocco is not alone in this state of flux.  The debate is out on whether encouraging or

Continuing on with the Shamal Series, I'd like to present a few travel options that I think are worth a stop if you have the time.  I write these entries to let people know about other places other than your well-known tourist-magnet cities like Fez, Marrakesh, or Essaouira, in the hopes that you may have the chance to have as good a time as I had visiting these sites. 1) Volubilis (To Moroccans

When I was confirmed for a post in Morocco over two years ago, I thought that I would finally get to put my three years of high school French into practice.  After all, Morocco, according to my old French textbooks, was one of those countries on the world map that was shaded in to show the reach of the French language around the world.  When I applied to Peace Corps, I did state a preference for

This July I embarked on a journey to climb as high as I possibly could in Morocco.  I had already gone to the center of the earth by way of the Grotte Friouato near Taza so it only made sense that I would need to do the exact opposite.  I would have attempted to climb Mt.Everest to say that I had been on top of the world, but it's not in Morocco so I settled for the highest peak in North Africa,

Camp GLOW is ON in full force once again for the 4th time since its inception in 2006 adding as we say in Spanish "leña al fuego", wood to the fire, and that fire is the motivation and desire that many young women across Morocco have to gain some economic independence and have more control over their future. I don't think I mentioned in my previous entries about Camp GLOW about my personal

It's not everyday you get to chill out with the high-ups in our government and much less in an informal setting, but just recently I got the chance to do that.  I can't explain exactly how it all came about.  It could have been that through my email blasting, which I've been doing over the last month, that word got around about my counterpart's trip to the U.S. to participate in the Santa Fe

Last Halloween weekend a few volunteers gathered to celebrate as best as we could one of our most endeared pagan holidays. We weren't able to go trick-or-treating or to wear any of our superhero costumes; so, our host Steven suggested we just do scary stuff the entire weekend.  He suggested we check out a cave near Taza that all the Tazis talk about and then catch a horror flick in the evening.

The Museum of International Folk Art just produced a news release listing the ten cooperatives that will be part of the upcoming exhibition titled Empowering Women: Artisan Cooperatives That Transform Communities. The Cherry Buttons Cooperative of Sefrou, Morocco, is honored to be part of a remarkable group of cooperatives that are having such a huge impact in their communities. Amina Yabis, the

More good news to pass along. On June 29, Amina Yabis heads off to America to take part in the opening of an exhibition on July 4 titled Empowering Women: Artisan Cooperatives That Transform Communities at the Museum of International Folk Art, and then will participate in the 7th annual Santa Fe International Folk Art Market from July 9-11. Over the last couple of months, Amina and I have been

My Dear Friends, Just came across a news release about Camp GLOW happening around the world.  As you'll see, every camp has a specific focus or theme, but they all share the same vision of empowering young girls and young women by instilling confidence, providing them with the self-awareness tools to be able to identify the needs of their community, and passing on the information they need so

When I was first told by my recruiter that I was nominated for an NGO development post in Morocco, I immediately thought of the great desert dunes of the Sahara, oases, camels, and the hot sun.  I was looking forward to this change of scenery.  For most of my life, I had lived with green all around me.  Once I found out that Morocco would be my home for the next two years, I began to do a little

Saving the world is actually easier than it seems.  For I don't know how long, the answer has been staring at me, at us, and itself, but because of tradition, culture, misguided and/or misinterpreted religious doctrine, and perhaps ego from some, the answer has been neglected and in some cases suppressed.  The answer is women.  Women have the power to transform communities, but they need a

Continuing on with my observations and reflections on gender roles and public and private spheres in Moroccan society, I wanted to bring to your attention an interesting article about a movement in Saudi Arabia aimed at replacing male attendants or merchants of women's lingerie with female attendants. A year and a half into my Morocco experience and I was still surprised to hear about this

I want to dedicate this entry to all those sympathetic interlocutors in the world.  You know who you are.  When you've heard someone struggling to spit the right words from his or her mouth, you were there to fill in the blank.  The living thesaurus ready to jump in with the appropriate word for the the appropriate subject matter.  You are there to interject a little bit of context to explain

During my senior year in college, I had to take a number of gender courses not by choice but because they were the only ones I could fit into my full-time work schedule while staying on track for graduation.  In one class I was one of three guys in a class of 30 and in another much bigger class I would estimate that we were a just a little over 10%.  It was a real drag to go to some of the