Rain. Dayupon day of foggy, moist, freezing drizzle. A persistant wet that leaves moldon the walls of my house, ice on my floor, clumps the salt in its shaker, and leavesmy hands constantly and painfully in a state of raw numbness.Rain that,to my utter chagrin, comes with a biting wind that blows up the mountain fromthe north; Cold winter water picked up from the Mediterraneanand condensing on everything I want to keep dry. Clothes, food, books, even myprecious toilet paper. Blowing and blowing, it keeps my house in a perpetualstate of groaning and rattles my plastic roof with such force that I feel likeI’m just waiting for the entire building to implode. One point for the wind.Zero for me. If I needed one more reason to stay in the warmth of my bed in themornings, the wind gives it to me.Rain andwind and fog and mold. These are just a few of my least favorite things. Yet,despite my ill will towards bad weather, these are the very things that drivelife here in the Beni Snassen. They grow the wheat, they keep the orchardsalive through the dry summer, they provide fodder for all the grazing animals,and they replenish the aquifers that give us our “world famous” spring water. But,unfortunately, these are the very things that are painfully missing from Morocco rightnow. No rain. No wind. No fog. No growing season.It’sdifficult to celebrate the fact that I can keep my rain jacket packed away,when the farmers and their families (a majority of my friends and neighbors)are fretting over whether their newly planted wheat crops will survive, grow,and, ultimately provide the much needed income and nutrition that they dependon in the coming months. The king even went so far as to call the nation to arare national day of prayer for rain.As oftoday, the prayers are yet to be answered. They are building and building. I’vebeen told that God punishes his people for their sinfulness. Is that what’shappening now? Will the rain come only with repentance and reform? If that’sthe case, as they continue to send plees to “their” god, I will start sendingmine to “my” god. Because, while I am reveling in not having mold in my corners,rain leaking through my windows, and dampness destroying my very spirit, I hateeven more the idea of my friends and neighbors (people I have grown to love andrespect over my two years here) not meeting the financial and nutritional needsof their families.

Note: Sincewriting this a couple days ago, the rain has COME! That’s not all! So did thewind, fog, and even a dumping of snow. Guess I’ll get that rain jacket outafter all.

Thanksgivinghas always been one of my favorite holidays. It’s a time of family, friends,food, and our annual Gettle family “bog walk.” More importantly, it’s a holidayunencumbered by the frenzy that has totally enveloped our other big holiday,Christmas. In fact, Thanksgiving almost seems like it is as much thecelebration of sanity, a last big breath before the plunge into the Christmaspool of brash spending, stressful baking, and overly dramatic holiday parties,than it is merely a holiday celebrating our history and thankfulness. Like anopposing answer to Lent’s Mardi Gras, Thanksgiving seems to be thecomparatively somber observance before the gluttony of Christmas commences.

Waitthough! Don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas. Ever since I was a child, some ofmy most enduring memories are stirred out of the excitement that I feel aroundChristmas day. Getting up early to open stocking presents. Playing with ourannual Lego sets. Knowing that all of us have nothing else to do for the restof the day besides spend time together. A lot of my excitement, especially now,is due to our family’s slow, but purposeful distancing of itself from theregular Bacchus consumerism that rampages much of American society leading upto the day. We still struggle, sifting through piles of Hammacher Schlemmercatalogs for the most “appropriate” gifts for people we barely know as if doingso is going to offset the fact that we rarely see or speak with them. It’s hardto escape the expectations. And, frankly, giving feels good. But that’s notwhat it’s all about. Waking up on Christmas morning, all that preparing andfrenzy means little. The focus instead turns to family, solace from theevery-day-grind, and, in my family, the birth of Jesus.

I likeChristmas. I like Thanksgiving more. But I’m not writing this post as a lampoonof the direction I see the holidays going or an argument as to which one isbetter. This is, I guess, more an exploration of what Thanksgiving, afundamentally American holiday, has come to mean to me here in this journey ofmy life away from home.

I realize now, maybe most importantly, that the idea behind Thanksgivingas a celebration is, anecdotally at least, a pretty universal thing. A month orso ago I wrote about the Muslim Eid Adha (their big holiday). If you read thatpost, you will recall that I celebrated with my host family at their home.Although the Eid Adha and Thanksgiving/Christmas celebrate entirely differenthistorical events, throughout the day, from the slaughtering of the sheep tothe numerous meals with numerous family members and friends (most new to me), Icouldn’t help feeling that these holidays are all essentially recognizing thesame thing: that there is a lot to be thankful for and that it is good to sitdown with the ones you love and celebrate it. Lots of food doesn’t hurt!

For me there is indeed a lot to be thankful for. At Eid Adha I thoughtabout it in the context of my life in Tafoghalt. I thought how thankful I amfor my wonderful host family, for my beautiful home, and for the new friendsI’ve made and the generosity they and their families have poured on me. I amthankful for the opportunities I’ve been afforded and the every-day-adventuresthat fill my life.

Here inPeace Corps culture, as in America,Thanksgiving is the underdog to Christmas in the importance we place on it.Volunteers tend to stick around, while at Christmas they tend to try and findways out of the country, whether that means back to the USA or justsomeplace else that actually acknowledges the holiday’s existence. In thisalone, I find more reason to like Thanksgiving. The other Peace Corpsvolunteers around me have become my family and to have this chance to cometogether with no other intention but to eat, drink, and be with one another issomething I value with all my heart. No other time of year does it seem like somuch effort is put into doing so.

While Eidwas a time of appreciating my life in its everyday level, Thanksgiving gave mea chance to see the many things I am thankful for in the broader scope of mylife. Sitting in a warm and generously donated chalet style hotel lounge amidthe mud brick houses and snow capped peaks of a rural Moroccan mountain village,and surrounded by a room full of energetic, loud volunteers and Moroccans andtwo tables piled high with freshly made “American” food, I couldn’t helpfeeling a little overwhelmed by appreciation. Appreciation for the moment.Appreciation for the experience at large. And appreciation for the people whonot only got me here, but are continually getting me through. I miss my familyback home without a doubt, but after nearly two years together with thesepeople enduring shared hardships, disappointments, and, less-frequently, thetriumphs that come with this life, I realize that I was in the midst of thenext best thing: an unofficial family galvanized in this shared experience ofPeace Corps Morocco.

Being awayfrom home seems to motivate volunteers into making a compensatingly Hulked outversion of the normal Thanksgiving meal. Bob (pictured) was the headliner ofthis years Thanksgiving meal. At pounds, he was too big, even after slaughtering and feathering, to fitinto one oven. We had to split him in two, cooking one “Moroccan” style and theother “American” style. In holiday tradition there were also breads, rolls,potatoes, veggies, sauces (including a delicious pomegranate “cranberry”sauce), pies, cookies, and relishes.

Beni Snassen 3id Kbir Soccer TournamentToday I want to wish Morocco a happy independence day. After 44 years under Spanish and French occupation, in 1956 Morocco became the independent kingdom that I now live in. I wont proclaim to know much about Moroccan history. Most of my information comes from Lonely Planet and Wikipedia. However, it seems coincidentally interesting that this 55th celebration falls so near one of modern Morocco’s greatest turning points.In a week from now, Morocco will be taking a new step not only towards a more comprehensive democracy as a nation, but also towards a more inclusive, and representative role for its citizens. That’s the theory anyway. I’m no expert on Moroccan politics, but my observations in Tafoghalt show an overall sense of guarded optimism.The Arab Spring that ripped through this part of the world earlier this year and is still happening in parts of the Middle East did not skip Morocco. Although it largely avoided the headlines because it was relatively peaceful, the movement for government reforms spread through Morocco with popular support. In response, the king introduced a round of reforms that include, among other things, a more regionally representative dissemination of power. Similar to congress men (and women [I’ve seen a few campaign fliers for women candidates]), these representatives are the reason that campaign teams have been wandering around town handing out information, politicians are buying tons of tea and cookies, and the streets are littered with piles of fliers full of sullen faced men in their nicest suits.Without disclosing too much of my own opinion (PC rules), I too have some apprehension about the elections. In the year and a half that I have spent here, I have become too well aware of the culture of politics that permeates small town Morocco. In fact it’s not so different from American politics. Just multiply the beurocracy by 5. Often divided by family or proximity, politicians seem as often as not, barriers to progress and reform. The mighty stamp rules the land! If you are not on its good side…well, good luck. But these elections are meant to give the people more national representation, and I have nothing but hope that they will honestly and peacefully accomplish their intentions. The demonstrations that marked the Arab Spring in Morocco were full of discontented young people with few demands other than that someone provide them a job. I don’t see this election a fulfillment to that wish per se. I do see it as a step that falls in line with Peace Corps’ philosophy on handouts. Instead of directly giving people the things they demand, these elections are empowering people so that they can determine their own future.As for myself, I've been having some personal revelations as to my own independence. Maybe I'll write about those next time. In the mean time I found this article to be well written, insightful, and extremely relatable. Its been floating around the Peace Corps world.http://www.huffingtonpost.com/maya-lau/what-the-peace-corp-taugh_b_1099202.html

Its been a long time in coming and full of close calls, but today, finally, I feel like I completely belong here in Tafoghalt and Morocco. When I arrived at my families home this morning, there wasn’t any of the pomp and circumstance that used to mark my arrivals. Just a few quiet, familial greetings and a little surprise at how early I had come. I explained to them that I didn’t want to miss the slaughter of the ram like I did last 3id Kbir. They acknowledged the reply like it made perfect sense, which for me to be understood on the first attempt, is an accomplishment in itself, and continued preparing for the slaughter. For my host father, Ramdan, this meant performing ablution and going to the mosque to pray, for my host mom, Cherifa, it meant getting as much cake and coffee down my throat as possible, and for the my two brothers and sister, it meant waiting patiently. The electric feel in the air pleasantly reminded me of Christmas morning before presents are opened.

I’m not writing this to explain how 3id Kbir (literally translates to “big holiday”) happens, however. The ram was slaughtered, ALL body parts squeezed and cleaned, and lots of fresh meat was eaten. No, I want to shout for joy, to proclaim to the world that this year 3id happened with me not to me! What I mean to say is that I was an active participator. No longer an observer being tiptoed around, I was given tasks, splattered with blood, and had poo exlode out of the intestines all over me. I was in the thick and dirty of it!

This may not sound like a big deal, but in my world where just about every day I get up and am reminded that I’m the Waldo in this picture (one of these people is not like the others), any semblance of being treated like everyone else gives me fortitude like nothing else. It is not a fault that Moroccan’s are so generous, but I am always treated like royalty. I get the most food first. Hosts bring out special treats just for me. I’m almost never allowed to help or do any work in return.

So this morning when Ramdan demanded (not asked) that I grab that ram and help him, I jumped at it like some kid who finally gets to help his father with some new “grownup” task. It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t profusely excused. It was a full on blood and guts job, and for a morning I felt for the first time that language, culture, and everything else that makes me different were put aside and I was, finally, not the guy in the striped shirt.

The summer light is slowly ebbing away. Dying embers of the African sun drop through the incoming Sea clouds and splash on the sides of the mountains sending bright shafts of dusty light sliding back down into the valley. The radiating warmth that only a few weeks ago was suppressing heat is now welcome company in the quickly chilling air. Fall warmth that forces a smile on my face. The red dirt is parched from a very long dry season. Every step I take kicks up a hanging cloud that marks my path on the side of this empty potholed road. Give me a drink! it seems to cry. Give me a drink, and let me begin the messy business of settling down. Striking me as true, I think in agreement, "I’m ready for change too, for the quenching rains of winter, for the unknown that lies beyond Peace Corps, but shwiya b shwiya (little by little). Basking in the sun was fun, and like dry dust, being picked up here and dropped there, it was exciting. But I too am ready to soak up the rain, settle down, and help grow the seeds that have been sown".

These solitary walks through the Beni Snassen Mountains are becoming more contemplative, full of doubt, wonder, and a strong sense of excitement for the things to come. I have six months left in Morocco.Not long ago that would have seemed like a pretty substantial chunk of time. Certainly enough to accomplish projects, see the sights, and develop some meaningful relationships. No longer! Six months now seems like barely enough time to decide what I want to take home with me. And I don’t even need any bureaucratic stamps to figure that out. Yet here I am with 3/4th of my service past, and I am ready, oh so ready, to make something of my service. Over the last six months I have slogged through the sticky muck feeling of Peace Corps worthlessness. I have tried and I have failed at projects. I have been on the verge of calling it quits. But now, as I stagger out of that slog, I see my service for what it really is, and I see my life after for what I want it to be.

My worth as a Peace Corps volunteer in Tafoghalt, Morocco does not lie in physical projects. Fresh water available to all: check. Electricity: check. Education: check. Trash collection: check. Wifi in the school: check. No. I think I always knew that my physical contributions as an unqualified, unskilled, unconnected volunteer with a poor grasp of Arabic would probably not move this community up the general income scale, but it has taken me until now to be able to find professional worth in what I AM doing. Everyone wants to see quantitative results from their hard work. Some people are able to wait for a long time for that. Others, like myself, like to see continual development build upon itself in real time. In the world of individual relationship building this is possible, but in the world of community relationship building results can be agonizingly slow and even when they come to fruition they aren’t always positive.

Here’s an example: Over the last year and a half I have been trying, sometimes hard sometimes not, to build at least some relationship with all the people I see every day. Of course doing that in the States would be a task, but here where the spoken language is often not even the one I’m learning (Arabic. They speak Tarafit), the names of the people are hard to remember, and the nature of friendship is so different from what I’m used to, the task often feels impossible. But slowly I am accomplishing this shallow community wide relationship while, simultaneously chipping away at a few more meaningful individual relationships. Being an American in a highly Arab, Muslim society, however, means that building relationships isn’t always smooth sailing. Whether I agree with American policy or not, I’m often seen as the guy to direct anger against Israel or US foreign policies. As people in my community have become more comfortable with my presence, a few with anti-American sentiments have approached me and directed their anger at me.

As an employee and, therefore, a representative of the United States government, I don’t feel like this anger is wrongly directed nor have I ever felt threatened by it. On a personal level, however, it has become one of the hardest things I deal with. When I try so hard to represent a different side of America, its hard not to resent accusations of violence, manipulation, and greed. I’ve come to a point of acceptance though. Of this, and of all the other rasps that used to grab at me and hold me back. More than anything else I am here to represent the United States, to build relationships, and to show Americans that Morocco, as different from the US as it is, deserves respect and a fair perception.

As my professional life and personal life are so intertwined here, acceptance of the limitations and challenges of the one have led to happiness in the other. Yes, I still resent certain aspects of Moroccan culture. But, I have come to accept these things as they are. It is not my fight to fight.

And just as the dust that follows me will eventually settle back down in its rightful place, so will I. As I follow the paths through the mountains (the same paths that I discovered with such excitement when I first got here), I often dwell on these thoughts. They have not always been good or constructive, but they are the one thing that I can see building off each other. And now, as the sun of my service is hitting its western horizon I am realizing the true value of what I have here and what I want after.

But more on that later.

Red dust explodes under my feet with every step as I walk up the “African” road with my Ramadan promise to fulfill. The heat from the afternoon sun is still lingering here in this lane under tall eucalyptus and cedar trees, and it is drawing from the pine duff a strong smell of familiarity that leaves me a little homesick.

The going is pleasant, but not without difficulty. Despite having cheated on my fasting by drinking early, walking uphill in the hot African sun is work, and by the time I reach the crest, my chest and back are blotched with sweat. It’s all worth it though when I look up and the view over Tegma opens up to me. I’ve seen it 100 times before; the mosque hanging on the edge of a cliff, the simple houses, the gardens spread out through the valley, the plain and sea below in the distance, but every time, without fail, I’m blown away by its beauty. And rarely are days so clear as this one. Usually new viewers have to search through the haze and imagine the coast where it should be, but today I can see the dark blue water out to the horizon and the Spanish islands jutting sharply from the water just off the coast. As I catch my breath I imagine that I see can see Spain’s coast on the other side.

I would sit up here for hours admiring the rare view, but today I’m on a mission and the Mghrib (fast-ending call to prayer) is close at hand. I want to reach Yemeni’s house before that, and I still have a couple of kilometers to go. It’s a race against the sun, but the sun is predictably well paced and I know that I have time for one last lingering glance down the mountain.

As I readjust my sunglasses and shoulder my pack, a scooter roars up behind me. Redoun hops off the back and quickly tries to distance himself from the choking cloud of dust and exhaust that follow him by catching up with me. Redoun is like many of my better friends here: smart, reserved, and expressedly unimpressed with my 3rd grade Arabic vocabulary. He smiles politely as I offer a long overdue congratulation on his recent marriage and we exchange the necessary handshake and greetings.

As usually happens, we quickly run out of formalities and an acute silence follows. “Did you have a honeymoon?” I ask trying my best to piece together something that would communicate the idea of honeymoon since I don’t know the word. “We stayed in Sadia.” “Oh! That sounds fun. Was it nice?” “Yes.” “How long were you there?” “Two weeks.” Uh…what else do I ask?

I am relieved for the end of the awkward conversation when finally he reaches his house and we part each other with a wish for peace and good. I continue down the road alone. Past the cliff mosque I turn down a steep dirt path that winds under the cliff. I could follow the road, but this way is quicker and more beautiful. Speed over beauty? Not in Morocco. Past the precariously draping fig trees, I enter the cool shade of terraced gardens full of olives, pomegranates, figs, and carob trees.

Soon, Yemeni meets me on the road, and after filling his jugs up with water at a nearby spring, we walk together down to his house. Yemeni is one of the few people I have no problem talking to. His personality runs the conversation and I lose all the reservations that usually inhibit my Arabic. He runs a wonderful little bed and breakfast on this quality.

We reach his house just as the sun is hitting the horizon. His family is there and they greet me like I’m an announced guest that they have been anticipating. I don’t know why I’m always a little surprised at the ready unsolicited generosity that many Moroccan’s always seem to have on hand. I was given the standing invitation long ago, but I didn’t precede this visit with an announcement. The fact that families are always ready for one more is a great part of Morocco that I will miss in America.

There is not much lingering before the barely audible Mghrib sounds, and without any pomp we (those of us who didn’t cheat) break our fast. Under the open air of the night we quietly and quickly make our way through the dates, fish, tea, and Harira (Moroccan soup). Afterward, the frisky crickets and swooping bats entertain us as we all lay back, full and satisfied. THIS is the life.

Last week I compared the life of a Peace Corps volunteer to theater. The story is chalk full of adventure, drama, love, tragedy: all the makings of a success. Well we volunteers are not only the protagonists in our own stories, but also the front row audience to everyone else’s. With so much going on, sometimes we need to take a break, stretch, go pee, let off the tension, and remind ourselves of reality outside the playhouse. This weekend, it was intermission time for Socorra, Brian, and I.

I’ve heard Peace Corps Morocco referred to as the Posh Corps. I imagine it’s for many reasons. For one, very few of us live in isolated villages, hours by rickety transportation from the nearest refrigerator or TV and the food, while sometimes weird, is pretty mundane. I can think of a few things that specifically make me feel like I’m in the Posh Corps. 1) I live within an hour of two relatively large cities, 2) I have electricity, water, and internet in my site, 3) there are 3 Marjanes (Walmartish stores) all within 2 easy hours from me, 4) I can see the Mediterranean and its beaches from site, 5) I live within 2 hours from Spain.

Now, at this point, some of you are probably pointing out that Spain is close, but 2 hours? Maybe by plane, but that’s deceiving. In describing this one method of escape, I have to describe where we escape. It is Spain, but its Morocco. I wont go into detail about its history, but about 1497 years ago Spain established and began occupying the city of Melilla on the Moroccan Mediterranean coast. To this day Spain still lays claim to it, much to the dismay and denial of many Moroccans. In order to hold that it is in fact their land, Spain has set up a proper border complete with high, barbed wire fence, guards, and a relatively quiet border crossing. This is the Spain I live 2 hours from. A couple of taxis and a bus and I can be sipping a Sangria, eating pork tapas, and not being judged or harassed for doing any of it. We like to refer to it as our “Vegas.”

Like Vegas, it’s an extravagant place of escape that we can rarely afford. Unlike Vegas, we don’t go there to get hammered and find girls. We go simply to escape what often feels like a stifling, repressing Moroccan culture. It lifts our hearts to see women doing what they want, dressed as they wish, people eating and drinking what they want where they want, different ethnicities, respect for animals and the environment, and not being watched everywhere we go.

This weekend Socorra, Brian, and I made our escape to Melilla: the land of the more familiar. Socorra and I had been there before, but for Brian this was a first time. After trying to describe exactly our status within Morocco’s system, the Moroccan guards let us through and we preceded to timidly squeeze our way past the queue of Moroccans awaiting to see if they would be granted passage into Spain.

I remember the first time passing through the Spanish gates. The change hits you immediately. The air smells differently, there is much less trash on the streets, buildings are in less of a state of disrepair, nobody is waiting there to harass you. It’s so welcoming.

A few blocks of walking and you come to the beach. There you find trash cans, swimmers in all sorts of revealing attire, free/clean bathrooms, a play ground!, and restaurants (of multiple ethnicities) and bars along the beach. Throughout the city there are bars, restaurants, stores, and neighborhoods that seem to exceed all of the variety I’ve yet seen anywhere in Morocco.

In the few times we have been to Melilla we have found a bar that tailors to our limited language abilities (being limited to English and Darija.). Because we speak Darija and so do the bar tenders, we have managed to avoid Europe’s wallet busting prices. So after spending a day wandering around the city, admiring the neoclassical architecture, stopping for a few tapas, and eating our first Asian food in months we headed to our bar. They remembered us and between the cheap drinks and the great Flamenco band it was easy to forget that we were only 2 hours from home and a whole different reality.

The next morning that reality hit us hard though. If the difference crossing the border into Spain was striking, crossing back into Morocco was a solid punch in the face. It seemed like before we even got passed the guards, people were coming up to us harassing us for money or to take their taxis. On the public bus back to the bus station, a group of teenage boys were harassing a sick woman and a fight broke out between two men. The trash was more noticeable and the lack of variety in anything mocking.

It was easy to remember why I wanted to escape as I made my way back into Morocco. It was even more difficult to remember why I wanted to be there in the first place. But, I’m home now and I remember. Like many people, Morocco is not what it appears to be and learning its true nature, while often difficult, is a true joy. A new act begins and I’m ready to tackle it.

Late tonight I watched the most incredible lightening storm of my life over the Mediterranean alone from a perch on a deserted mountain road. Cheesy alert. It reminded me of how beautiful nature and life can be and how lucky I am to be here!

I was thinking about this the other day. Peace Corps is kind of like a theatrical performance. First, we have the protagonist. A naïve, idealist, with a good heart, a good head (sometimes), and the gusto to do something big with his life. In an effort to fulfill his need to put these qualities into practice, he joins an organization known for its rumored idealistic, flip-flop wearing, “lets go native” philosophy: the US Peace Corps. At the beginning motives are unknown by the audience. Perhaps, they think as they watch, the volunteer doesn’t know exactly why he is there either. He’s complex. Slowly revealing who he is through inner dialogues meant to quell his confusion about self and purpose, the audience slowly starts to see who this person really is and why he does what he does. Between these self-analyzing, philosophical musings they see his interactions with the people around him, both other volunteers and neighbors. They see how his ideas about life and self express themselves in his relationships: sometimes triumphantly, sometimes tragically. Most of the time, knowing what they know, the audience will be slightly amused and delighted by how clumsily, and over-seriously the volunteer goes about these interactions.

It would be no performance, of course, without an antagonist. Or, in this case, many. The volunteer, unbeknownst to him at first, has a host of issues set in his way, many there before he even arrives. Apathy, homesickness, cultural differences, the local crazy out to make life miserable, and transportation that sometimes makes him want to die. The odds are against him. The audience can see this from the get-go and it keeps them enthralled, even through the tedium that fills the void between the heart pounding action scenes, intriguing drama, and hilarious comedy. Perhaps, they think, the tedium is his biggest enemy. He’s not doing a great job of combating it though.

Like in most stories, the volunteer is not alone. He has friends and family, some popping in and out, some there throughout its entirety, helping him accomplish, not necessarily the mission he set out for, but his destiny: what (he is slowly discovering) he is meant to accomplish through this ordeal. These people anchor his reality, keeping him in sight of what is most important and helping him avoid getting upset over things that can be dismissed. They don’t always give him warning of impending doom or keep him out of trouble, but they do always come to his rescue when he finds himself in a jam that he cant get out of on his own.

At some point in the story, the volunteer is faced with an obstacle so big and so powerful, that his fundamental idea of the ordeal is remarkably altered. This is the turning point. From here on out the volunteer quickly starts to “get-it.” He sees his enemies for what they really are and he no longer fears them. While twists appear every once and a while and the volunteer relapses into unsuccessful habits on occasion, the story picks up from here with the end in sight.

This story has a happy ending as it turns out. The volunteer finds his purpose and accomplishes it in some fashion or another. Not everything works out as he had hoped, but in the end all that matters is that he made it through. No grand finale. No on stage fireworks. Just a quiet, reflective success.

Ok, I know I wrote yesterday about how projects are just time fillers. Not unimportant, but not the most important. I am holding to that. All the same, I’m now going to write about that work.

People keep asking me what sorts of projects I’m working on or if I’m even doing any “work” at all. In answer to the second question, yes, barely. In answer to the first, here’s a look.

Oh and keep in mind that I go through these project ideas like Tiger Woods goes through mistresses. Yes! One point to me for keeping up with outdated pop culture.

Project #1: One-day celebration of the UN Year of Forests at the local Tafoghalt middle school.

Also known as E Day, this project is the most likely to happen. The idea has been brewing in my mind since last summer, but until about a couple of months ago it was not a perceivable reality. In theory it’s very simple. In weird, new-American-in-Tafoghalt reality, it turns out, it’s actually pretty difficult. It took nearly a year before I even felt comfortable enough with the people and place here to really start foreseeing any potential success or sustainability. Anyway, the premise of the project is this: Bring together local educators and leaders to celebrate forests with local students by doing educational games and activities. Its taken two months, lots of back-and-forth clearing up misunderstandings, and a few date changes, but I think finally things are lined up as well as they are going to be. One local environmental non profit will be showing some short films and having discussions on them, Socorra will be doing some activity of her choosing (pressures on now that everyone who reads this knows), a few Department of Water and Forest representatives will be planting trees and illustrating tree anatomy, and another environmental organization will be doing a drawing contest and painting the winners as murals on the school walls.

Project #2: Environmental Education teacher workshop for rural educators

This project is a little more ethereal. Another idea that’s been a brewin in my head, though this one was little more than a passing thought in our heads a month ago. Socorra and I hope to bring educators and Water and Forest reps from all over the Morocco Orient region together with Moroccan trainers to network and do a two-day hands-on training on how to incorporate environmentally related lessons into their curriculums. We can both attest to its organization being as difficult as you might imagine. To add pressure, we want to do it at the end of the school year which is fast approaching. Right now we are just trying to figure out logistics like a place to stay, who will cook, who will train, who wants to be trained. We haven’t even begun to worry about struggling through the government red tape and finding the money. I think I can safely say that, if it happens, this will be the defining project of my service.

Project #3: Tourism association

We are just going in order from most likely to probably never going to happen. This project falls somewhere in between. A few months ago, there seemed to be a lot of momentum for starting an association to help develop sustainable tourism. Things like creating brochures, hiking maps, advertising, community events, and guide training. It was an idea of the people, they were excited and motivated, and than after the initial woohoo moment and me telling them that they should start organizing the meetings themselves things sort of halted. I have recently discovered that some of the people who want to start it don’t like each other. In a place where personal issues seem to take precedent over business issues, I think this will probably be a project killer. Something, anyway, that I have neither the social standing nor language ability to deal with effectively.

Project #4: Budget training for local women’s associations and cooperatives.

Recently in the “most likely to happen” slot and now in the “probably will never happen” slot is this training for a local women’s association that weaves rugs for added income. Jonathon, the volunteer before me, was passionate about helping these women and I sort of promised him when he left that I would try to keep up with them and help them when they needed it. He had helped buy looms and materials for them to begin weaving in their new building. When I went down to talk with them a few months after I had been in site, I discovered that they (this being the couple of women I talked with) had used all their materials, had no money, and thought the building was too far away to be practical. They got financial help from Jonathon and so, I think, expected it from me. I thought, however, that instead of giving them more money to continue spending ineffectively, I should train them how to more wisely use the money and then, if they thought building another new building was worth THEIR money, they could build it. I should have seen then that it wasn’t really about walking a kilometer that was the issue; there were politics at work here too. Some women didn’t like some of the other women and felt the system that they had been given wasn’t fair. I wanted to give up after discovering this, but I persisted. Recently, however, I’ve been informed that there is longer a legal association and that plans are in the works to restart it with a different leader than the one I have been working with. That is why this one is now at the bottom of the list. Unless I get a huge kick of motivation, I don’t foresee reviving it. But, then again, I don’t foresee a lot of things that end up happening here. Mostly for my, but also for Jonathon’s, sakes I hope some surprising happens and this turns into a success.

One year is a big mark for me. You see, before I came to Morocco I had made a pact with myself that no matter what: if I was burning up in some dusty desert pit, if I was stuck in site with a site mate that drove me crazy, if my neighbors didn’t except me, if I was downright miserable, I would not go home until at least one year was over. At the end of the year, if I was still unhappy and consistently wanting to go home, I would take some time to seriously assess my situation and see if it was worth staying for another year.

So now we’re at a year. Going home is not at all in the picture and, aside from the moments of misery (though at times frequent) and the occasional awful feeling of disdain for this culture, I have been happy. As for feeling like I’m serving a purpose here, I spend a lot of time trying to pick that one apart. Socorra and Joe can attest to that. Sometimes I feel useful, much of the time I feel like I’m just biding my time, drinking tea and bullshitting until my two years are up and I can continue with my “real” life.

This feeling, just as I am, is changing and adapting to the circumstances. I mean, I am finally starting some projects. A year in. But that’s not what is important. What is important is that I’m learning to live with the fact that doing “official” activities, where I have to plan and organize, and “working” in a more official sense of the word is not what is giving me the most purpose here and probably wont ever be what gives me the most purpose. Drinking tea and bullshitting is not a way to pass time until the end, it is a means to that end. It is the purpose.

I suppose every volunteer who finds their service an overall success, aside from those who really do save starving African children, have to come to peace with this at some point, whether its during their service or after. I’m happy that I know this as truth here in the middle of my service. I am still working on it though. Every day I have to remind myself that it’s not about the projects at the school or starting associations. That’s just what I’m doing to kill time in between the tea and bullshitting.

This week, with the passing of our one-year anniversary in country, my mind races back and forth over itself, skimming through the memories, ideas, and thoughts that it has compiled in the last year.

It would be easy to say that success has yet to find me here in the countryside of eastern Morocco. Certainly I have accomplished no projects, I have built no schools, and I don’t think I’ve saved any starving African children from anything. On the surface it’s nothing. I’ve washed away a year drinking tea, watching movies, and learning a language that has little value outside of itself and Morocco. It’s not until I take a moment to assess the fecundity of my situation that I am able to see that there is, in fact, richness in the mundane and success lying deep within the context of my Moroccan life.

While this success is not often measurable, nor even perceivable, I know that my efforts are not in vain. I imagine that every smile I conjure, every cup of tea I drink with someone, every Berber word I learn are all hard earned pennies in a jar. In that context, while no I don’t have a $100 project in the bag, things are adding up to something worthy of my efforts and I need not worry that my time is being wasted.

One year. 365 days of the Moroccan sun rising and setting over me. It is changing me. The person I was leaving my tired-eyed parents in the Minneapolis airport the morning of March 3, 2010 is not the person I am now. Or, I should say, not the same. Like American +, I am Colin+: A new version of the same person. Enhanced in some ways, depleted in others. Different. I’m not expecting to understand the full potential of this change until after I’ve come home.

A year does a lot to ones perception of a place. It enhances it, skews it, and exposes it. I look back to that bus ride from the Casablanca international airport to where we would spend our first night in Morocco and laugh at how excited we were to see shepherds simply hanging out with their flocks of sheep and goats on the side of the highway. Now, I would do anything to find a place away from town where there isn’t one always watching me. I remember my surprise when I found it raining outside the airport. No sand dunes, camels, or hot sun. My perception of Moroccans themselves has changed as well. I am constantly amazed at how generous they can be and disconsoled at how bluntly soliciting they can be. On the same note, I’ve noticed how the perceptions of myself have changed. I am not as openly accepting of difference as I thought I was when I arrived here. My values are much more ethnocentric than I ever thought. I am capable of self-motivation and leadership that I had forgotten was in me.

So, here’s to another year of discovery and success for me and all my fellow one-yearers in whatever way it comes.

For those of you who may not be keeping up with your obscure(ish) Christian holidays, this Wednesday was Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the Lenten season. Although I’m not Catholic I usually find it to be a good excuse to pick up or reestablish good habits. Its like a second chance at New Years resolutions without the year long commitment. In the past I’ve generally given up something, but in light of the fact that this year I don’t have a lot to give up that wont contribute to my slow spiral into insanity, I’ve decided to add something to my life. Why would you care, you may ask yourself. I suppose for the same reason you care about anything else I write here, but more so because what I have decided to add to my life is writing. While I may not/probably wont post everything I write on this blog, I will in all likelihood be posting more. So for those of you devoted readers out there (am I deluding myself in assuming that you exist?) keep your eyes peeled for slightly more frequent and consistent updates.

Although it was warm today (in the 60s), the weather remains cold. Thanks to the meat thermometer sent to me for Christmas I have been able to see just how cold it actually has been getting. I like sounding tough about cold weather but, the temperatures are rarely as low as they feel. There have been a number of frosty mornings, but generally the coldest it gets is in the mid 40s. For those trying to survive the Minnesota winter, I know that you are probably longing for these sorts of balmy days, but hear me out on this (I still want to redeem my reputation of being able to withstand cold). It is almost always at least 5 degrees colder inside than out. There isn’t much chance of escaping the cold. It is everywhere and we do everything we normally would do, like typing this blog, in it. It’s a bit like going camping for 4 months in late fall.

After three weeks of vacation, life is starting to swing back into normalcy. I have gone back to sitting at the cafes hoping for the spark that will bring a random conversation into a full-blown fire of learning. I’m back to hazy meetings with people, after which I’m lucky to have understood half of what was said and done. Back to running in the mornings and not eating chocolate and drinking beer every day. Normalcy is nice and its easy to wrap myself back up in the comfort of it, but I’m now coming to grips with just how little I have gotten done here under its allure.

Every 3 months, each Peace Corps volunteer is supposed to fill out a report describing all work related activities done within the previous reporting period. It was easy to pass the first one off as a freebee. We had been in site for only a couple of months, and I was happy to report that I had not yet done anything of great significance. This second one felt different though. It forced me to rack my brain in pursuit of the smallest, most obscure memories of activities that I could possibly shape to seem like active work. Endless meetings and café bullshitting unfortunately don’t count.

Put into perspective, its not surprising or all that disappointing that I have done so little, but its easy to get lost in the success of others and feel below par compared with them. I know that comparison is a frivolous pursuit without end, but I suppose it is human nature. I have been doing it since I was a kid. When I got an A and someone else got an A+, I wasn’t happy. The competitive spirit seems never to have left me, and as a result I am left feeling behind and lacking.

As it did when I didn’t get the A+ and the other kid did, the perceived lack of success has materialized a new resolve to be more persistant and ambitious. I hope that, as a result, it will ignite the same feelings in the people I am trying to work with. Most of the projects’ successes depend on the success of the local people leading them, and, in turn, my success in this area is entirely dependent on it too.

My biggest fear is not that I wont finish a successful project. I will not have a problem if that happens, because, as I said, so much is independent of me and my own ambition. I came here, in part, to work as hard as I can, not only to help those I'm working with to be successful, but also to help myself be successful. And confident. In order for those things to happen I have to know that I am working as hard as I can. I am through with the sit-back-and-wait approach. It's time for some action!

Although it was warm today (in the 60s), the weather remains cold. Thanks to the meat thermometer sent to me for Christmas I have been able to see just how cold it actually has been getting. I always want to sound tough when it comes to cold, but the temperatures rarely are as low as they feel. There have been a number of frosty mornings, but generally the coldest it gets is in the mid 40s. For those trying to survive the Minnesota winter, I know that you are probably longing for these sorts of balmy days, but hear me out on this (I still want to redeem my reputation of being able to withstand cold). It is almost always at least 5 degrees colder inside than out. There isn’t much chance of escaping it. It is everywhere and we do everything we normally would do, like typing this blog, in it. It’s a bit like going camping for 4 months in late fall.

After three weeks of vacation, life is starting to swing back into normalcy. I have gone back to sitting at the cafes hoping for the spark that will bring a random conversation into a full-blown fire of learning. I’m back to hazy meetings with people, after which I’m lucky to have understood half of what was said and done. Back to running in the mornings and not eating chocolate and drinking beer every day. Normalcy is nice and its easy to wrap myself back up in the comfort of it, but I’m now coming to grips with just how little I have gotten done here under its allure.

Every 3 months, each Peace Corps volunteer is supposed to fill out a report describing all work related activities done within the previous reporting period. It was easy to pass the first one off as a freebee. We had been in site for only a couple of months, and I was happy to report that I had not yet done anything of great significance. This second one felt different though. It forced me to rack my brain in pursuit of the smallest, most obscure memories of activities that I could possibly shape to seem like active work. Endless meetings and café bullshitting unfortunately don’t count.

Put into perspective, its not surprising or all that disappointing that I have done so little, but its easy to get lost in the success of others and feel below par compared with them. I know that comparison is a frivolous pursuit without end, but I suppose it is human nature. I have been doing it since I was a kid. When I got an A and someone else got an A+, I wasn’t happy. The competitive spirit seems never to have left me, and as a result I am left feeling behind and lacking.

As it did when I didn’t get the A+ and the other kid did, the perceived lack of success has materialized a new resolve to be more persistant and ambitious. I hope that, as a result, it will ignite the same feelings in the people I am trying to work with. Most of the projects’ successes depend on the success of the local people leading them, and, in turn, my success in this area is entirely dependent on it too.

My biggest fear is not that I wont finish a successful project. I won't have a problem if that happens, because, as I said, so much is independent of me and my own ambition. I came here, in part, to work as hard as I can, not only to help those I'm working with to be successful, but also to help myself be successful. And confident. In order for those things to happen I have to know that I am working as hard as I can. I am through with the sit-back-and-wait approach. It's time for some action!

Although it was warm today (in the 60s), the weather remains cold. Thanks to the meat thermometer sent to me for Christmas I have been able to see how just how cold it actually has been getting. Unfortunately for my desire to sound tough, the temperatures rarely are as low as they feel. There have been a number of frosty mornings, but generally the coldest it gets is in the mid 40s. For those trying to survive the Minnesota winter, I know that you are probably longing for these sorts of balmy days, but hear me out on this (I still want to redeem my reputation of being able to withstand cold). It is almost always at least 5 degrees colder inside than out. There isn’t much chance of escaping the cold. It is everywhere and we do everything we normally would do, like typing this blog, in it. It’s a bit like going camping for 4 months in late fall.

After three weeks of vacation, life is starting to swing back into normalcy. I have gone back to sitting at the cafes hoping for the spark that will bring a random conversation into a full-blown fire of learning. I’m back to hazy meetings with people, after which I’m lucky to have understood half of what was said and done. Back to running in the mornings and not eating chocolate and drinking beer every day. Normalcy is nice and its easy to wrap myself back up in the comfort of it, but I’m now coming to grips with just how little I have gotten done here under its allure.

Every 3 months, each Peace Corps volunteer is supposed to fill out a report describing all work related activities done within the previous reporting period. It was easy to pass the first one off as a freebee. We had been in site for only a couple of months, and I was happy to report that I had not yet done anything of great significance. This second one felt different though. It forced me to rack my brain in pursuit of the smallest, most obscure memories of activities that I could possibly shape to seem like active work. Endless meetings and café bullshitting unfortunately don’t count.

Put into perspective, its not surprising or all that disappointing that I have done so little, but its easy to get lost in the success of others and feel below par compared with them. I know that comparison is a frivolous pursuit without end, but I suppose it is human nature. I have been doing it since I was a kid. When I got an A and someone else got an A+, I wasn’t happy. The competitive spirit seems never to have left me, and as a result I am left feeling behind and lacking.

As it did when I didn’t get the A+ and the other kid did, the perceived lack of success has materialized a new resolve to be more persistant and ambitious. I hope that, as a result, it will ignite the same feelings in the people I am trying to work with. Most of the projects’ successes depend on the success of the local people leading them, and, in turn, my success in this area is entirely dependent on it too.

My biggest fear is not that I wont finish a successful project. I will not have a problem if that happens, because, as I said, so much is independent of me and my own ambition. I came here, in part, to work as hard as I can, not only to help those I'm working with to be successful, but also to help myself be successful. And confident. In order for those things to happen I have to know that I am working as hard as I can. I am through with the sit-back-and-wait approach. It's time for some action!

I suppose everyone has a memory of their first Christmas away from home and family. They remember where they were and what reason it was that resuluted in their being away. I imagine for some, it was a welcome change and for others sort of, well, devastating. For me it was neither. But it was strange.

In the weeks leading up to Christmas I took comfort in the thought that almost everyone, at some point in their life, for whatever reason, has to venture off on their own, even on a holiday deeply rooted in home and family. I took greater comfort in knowing that everyone who joins Peace Corps signs up to make these sorts of sacrifices.

Normally, by no decision of my own, I am forced into a Christmas “mood.” Musac (sp?) in the grocery store, displays at Target, and lights in the streets all draw forth old memories of Christmases past and force me to think about the Christmas present months before the actual day. Without trying, the holiday bears down on you in the States. But that sort of hysteria doesn’t exist in Morocco. At least not for Christmas. No Santas hohohoing their way through city malls. No shivering bell ringers by all department store doors. Nothing to suggest that the holiday exists outside the confines of our Western, Christian culture.

While, out of habit more than anything, I felt a slight empty space where all the hype was missing, it was almost refreshing to be away from it. Not to say that I didn’t miss my family and home more than usual (I definitely did), but, for me, it was nice to celebrate simply a holiday that originally celebrated the significant, but simple birth of Jesus, and later became a holiday for simple reunification of family and friends. While I didn’t have my blood family with me here, I did have some of my Peace Corps family. With them Christmas was everything it should be: simple, gratifying, and fun.

Many of my Peace Corps “family” went home for the holidays, but I was lucky to coax my neighbor, Socorra and another friend from the other side of Morocco, Isabel into joining me in Tafoghalt to celebrate the day. It was probably the plane tickets for the flight to Belgium from the Oujda airport more than my coaxing that actually brought them this way, but oh well. Anyway, to make up for the lack of Christmas spirit preparation, from the moment they arrived to the moment we left for Brussels, we spent almost all our time locked up inside; our Christmas stronghold against the indifference of the Moroccans outside. With some decorations, a few presents, and shared memories and some traditional foods of past Christmases we bolstered (in my opinion) a respectable amount of “cheer.”

If Christmas was a downsize of what I am accustomed to, New Years was quiet the opposite. The morning of the 26th we left Tafoghalt by taxi to make our way to the Oujda airport, all fostering doubts that the snowstorm in Europe and the general standard of Moroccan transport would allow us to make it successfully to Brussels.

We were forced to depart from the plan even before we got to the airport when the souk bus driver, thinking, as we did that the airport that had been in use for years was the one we were flying out of, dropped us off at that airport. As soon as the trailing exhaust of the bus cleared enough for us to see, we could all sense the eerie stillness of a recently abandoned place. The parking lot was empty, there was no bustle, and the few cars that we saw coming in we soon saw leaving again. Despite these omens, we continued walking from the highway where we had been dropped off to the front doors of the airport. Not until we got there were we informed by a nearby group of lazing gendarmes that this was now the “old” airport and that the new one about a mile and half away was now open. Oh, and no we couldn’t take the shortcut. They of course were too busy to help us further, so we started the long trek to the “new” airport by foot, sticking out our thumbs whenever a car happened by. As luck had it, we finally approached a guy sitting in his car (for the sake of PC it was an official taxi) on the side of the road, who without hesitation took us the rest of the way to the airport. Oh Morocco.

By the providence of God or Allah or whoever, we made it to Brussels with no further hassles aside from a flight delay, and on arriving we were fortunate enough to find our other companion from Fes and have Isabel’s distant uncle pick us up from the airport and take us directly back to his apartment. As it turned out, despite it being his and very nice, he didn’t actually spend many nights there so it was all ours for the week. So after a brief introduction and inauguration into Belgian beers and a tour of the place, he left us alone to our Belgian adventure.

One day we visited one of Belgium’s oldest and most traditional breweries, but, in large, we spent most of the week just wandering around, checking out museums and shops, and eating waffles and drinking beer whenever the whim took hold of us.

Towards the end of the week, after an almost devastating mix-up, my friend from home, Megan, joined us for New Years Eve and Day. No description of these last couple days is necessary. In the end, after having to pay Ryan Air 80 Euros for two forgotten pieces of printer paper (a lovely sendoff), we made it back to Morocco. I was expecting a sort of bitter departing from Europe and an even more bitter return to Moroccan life, but the opposite actually materialized. The 80 Euro fee was one last reminder that, although it is the culture that I am most comfortable with, we in the west let ourselves focus way too much on profit and business. We forget to treat humans like fellow humans. It is one of the most important lessons that Moroccans have been teaching me over the last year. As a culture they live life with a certain amount of pride and selfless humanity that we, in the west, seem to be losing to the pursuit of success and profit. At no time since I have been here has that been clearer than when I came back from Brussels. It’s good to be back!

No! I am not dead! I know that it has been some time since my last entry on this blog, but for those of you have questioned the state of my pulse in the last few weeks, rest assured. It is still beating. No. My AWOL status is due entirely to laziness and maybe a small amount of lacking inspiration. Not, as some seem to think, to freezing in a freakish snowstorm or over consumption of Morocco’s sweet tea (though I have no doubt these things may yet take their toll). I guess I shouldn’t waste too many words or too much of your time in the pursuit of excuses, but instead will get straight to the point of catching you up on the story of my Morocco life.

If I’m not mistaken (and I’m pretty sure I’m not since I can look at it directly below) that my last entry left us off somewhere right before Thanksgiving. That holiday seems almost an eternity behind me. I’m hard-pressed to remember what has happened since then, but I know that, somehow, I have been busy. Or at least I have felt busy. In this is the story of the last couple months regarding my personal development. I can call a day where I had one meeting and made peanut butter a very busy, exhausting day. So when I say that my month was busy, remember the context in which it is being said.

Thanksgiving was an “experience.” Emphasis on experience since I have never celebrated anything like it before and probably won’t ever again. It was my first major family holiday away from home (other than one Easter while I was in Turkey. There aren’t a lot of big Easter celebrations at our house anyway so that wasn’t a big deal) and my first in this country. The celebration we had here was strangely similar to one I would have had at home with most of the same foods, new family, and even some football, but it was definitely different. I say “strangely” because, while we tried to replicate what we were all used to, there were so many constant reminders of where we were, or more appropriately where we were not that it was hard to convince ourselves that this was 100% Thanksgiving. Anyway, I wont repeat what has already been said when its been said so well by my friend and neighbor to the south, Socorra. She has a blog about it on her sight that says almost everything, and might I add, in a more entertaining fashion than I think I’m capable of. Everyone should be reading her blog anyway. www.socorrac.tumblr.com

After I returned home from Jerada Thanksgiving, showed some other volunteers around my site, and devised plans for a massive French colonial style paintball war, I pretty much immediately had to prepare for work. And I mean like REAL work. Like I had to finalize plans for a meeting I was to have with the women in Tegma about the benefits of forming a business cooperative for their rug weaving and about what I realistically could and could not do for them. I didn’t really have to do that much, but the language is still my biggest challenge, and even the simplest task (like calling someone I don’t know) is so much harder than it normally would be. In the end, through the haze of my constant misinterpretations and fear of language failure, the meeting did not happen the way that I had tried to plan. It did happen though, and that fact alone makes it 80% successful. Luckily I had the help of a very motivated Oujdi woman and a representative from the ODOC (The govt department that supports the formation and upkeep of business cooperatives) that we convinced into coming. They were able to carry the meeting and convey much of the message that I couldn’t. And despite my having planned a more active personal role in it than happened, I was happy to let others do it for me. A major tenet of Peace Corps is that I should be more of a cheerleader than anything anyway. The results of the meeting: while it seemed to have gone well to me, it apparently didn’t. All that talking that I thought was constructive conversation was mostly complaining, criticizing, and asking for things that we couldn’t give. Pretty disheartening to find that out afterward, but that’s all part of the job and I will continue to try with them as long as they start taking a more active role in their own future and demanding less of outsiders. Now to figure out how to communicate that.

While this meeting with the women was probably my biggest work related activity of the last couple months, it wasn’t the only one. I’ve filled at least a few hours since talking with people and having meetings, all in an attempt to set the foundations for successful future projects. To many of you at home, this may not seem like much. It certainly seems that way to me most of the time. I often have to sit down and think about it realistic terms to appreciate that I am not wasting my time away here. I work at the pace that my counterparts work, I try to find and cultivate motivation within them before moving on to serious action, and I am trying to stick to the PC mantra that we should only help them do what they themselves are passionate about doing (this being extra difficult as I'm not finding a lot of passion to do anything beyond drink tea). Working under this philosophy means that a lot of my time is spent not actually doing any “work” whatsoever. This is another large challenge, only second to language. I don’t like feeling lazy! But… I really really hope, in the end, that all of this idling and prodding, pushing and waiting lead to successful/sustainable projects.

As most of my time is not spent doing work that can easily be measured, or for that matter, be counted as work at all, I still spend plenty of time idling away the hours. I continue to work on my recorder skills (yes, that is the musical instrument), and until someone has pity on me and sends me a more legitimate instrument (excuse me all legitimate recorder players who are reading thing) I will continue down this path of grating noise. I also continue reading lots of books and watching lots of movies. Thank you to those that helped me out with these sanity savers over Christmas! I have added hikes to my list, visited Oujda a few times, somehow ended up in front of a quite decidedly anti-American crowd with an American flag, decorated random things around my house, drunk far to much tea (need I mention it again?), bought a bbq and an oven, been chased in the dark by wild pigs and gone on vacation. I think I will write about that vacation which includes Christmas separately.

And that’s about it. Or at least that wraps up a lot of the mundane into a short and sweet summary. As I kind of like writing more about the mundane, and maybe some of you like reading about it, I will continue trying hard to avoid laziness and to write more often.

No! I am not dead! I know that it has been some time since my last entry on this blog, but for those of you have questioned the state of my pulse in the last few weeks, rest assured. It is still beating. No. My AWOL status is due entirely to laziness and maybe a small amount of lacking inspiration. Not, as some seem to think, to freezing in a freakish snowstorm or over consumption of Morocco’s sweet tea (though I have no doubt these things may yet take their toll). I guess I shouldn’t waste too many words or too much of your time in the pursuit of excuses, but instead will get straight to the point of catching you up on the story of my Morocco life.

If I’m not mistaken (and I’m pretty sure I’m not since I can look at it directly below) that my last entry left us off somewhere right before Thanksgiving. That holiday seems almost an eternity behind me. I’m hard-pressed to remember what has happened since then, but I know that, somehow, I have been busy. Or at least I have felt busy. In this is the story of the last couple months regarding my personal development. I can call a day where I had one meeting and made peanut butter a very busy, exhausting day. So when I say that my month was busy, remember the context in which it is being said.

Thanksgiving was an “experience.” Emphasis on experience since I have never celebrated anything like it before and probably won’t ever again. It was my first major family holiday away from home (other than one Easter while I was in Turkey. There aren’t a lot of big Easter celebrations at our house anyway so that wasn’t a big deal) and my first in this country. The celebration we had here was strangely similar to one I would have had at home with most of the same foods, new family, and even some football, but it was definitely different. I say “strangely” because, while we tried to replicate what we were all used to, there were so many constant reminders of where we were, or more appropriately where we were not that it was hard to convince ourselves that this was 100% Thanksgiving. Anyway, I wont repeat what has already been said when its been said so well by my friend and neighbor to the south, Socorra. She has a blog about it on her sight that says almost everything, and might I add, in a more entertaining fashion than I think I’m capable of. Everyone should be reading her blog anyway.

After I returned home from Jerada Thanksgiving, showed some other volunteers around my site, and devised plans for a massive French colonial style paintball war, I pretty much immediately had to prepare for work. And I mean like REAL work. Like I had to finalize plans for a meeting I was to have with the women in Tegma about the benefits of forming a business cooperative for their rug weaving and about what I realistically could and could not do for them. I didn’t really have to do that much, but the language is still my biggest challenge, and even the simplest task (like calling someone I don’t know) is so much harder than it normally would be. In the end, through the haze of my constant misinterpretations and fear of language failure, the meeting did not happen the way that I had tried to plan. It did happen though, and that fact alone makes it 80% successful. Luckily I had the help of a very motivated Oujdi woman and a representative from the ODOC (The govt department that supports the formation and upkeep of business cooperatives) that we convinced into coming. They were able to carry the meeting and convey much of the message that I couldn’t. And despite my having planned a more active personal role in it than happened, I was happy to let others do it for me. A major tenet of Peace Corps is that I should be more of a cheerleader than anything anyway. The results of the meeting: while it seemed to have gone well to me, it apparently didn’t. All that talking that I thought was constructive conversation was mostly complaining, criticizing, and asking for things that we couldn’t give. Pretty disheartening to find that out afterward, but that’s all part of the job and I will continue to try with them as long as they start taking a more active role in their own future and demanding less of outsiders. Now to figure out how to communicate that.

While this meeting with the women was probably my biggest work related activity of the last couple months, it wasn’t the only one. I’ve filled at least a few hours since talking with people and having meetings, all in an attempt to set the foundations for successful future projects. To many of you at home, this may not seem like much. It certainly seems that way to me most of the time. I often have to sit down and think about it realistic terms to appreciate that I am not wasting my time away here. I work at the pace that my counterparts work, I try to find and cultivate motivation within them before moving on to serious action, and I am trying to stick to the PC mantra that we should only help them do what they themselves are passionate about doing (this being extra difficult as I'm not finding a lot of passion to do anything beyond drink tea). Working under this philosophy means that a lot of my time is spent not actually doing any “work” whatsoever. This is another large challenge, only second to language. I don’t like feeling lazy! But… I really really hope, in the end, that all of this idling and prodding, pushing and waiting lead to successful/sustainable projects.

As most of my time is not spent doing work that can easily be measured, or for that matter, be counted as work at all, I still spend plenty of time idling away the hours. I continue to work on my recorder skills (yes, that is the musical instrument), and until someone has pity on me and sends me a more legitimate instrument (excuse me all legitimate recorder players who are reading thing) I will continue down this path of grating noise. I also continue reading lots of books and watching lots of movies. Thank you to those that helped me out with these sanity savers over Christmas! I have added hikes to my list, visited Oujda a few times, somehow ended up in front of a quite decidedly anti-American crowd with an American flag, decorated random things around my house, drunk far to much tea (need I mention it again?), bought a bbq and an oven, been chased in the dark by wild pigs and gone on vacation. I think I will write about that vacation which includes Christmas separately.

And that’s about it. Or at least that wraps up a lot of the mundane into a short and sweet summary. As I kind of like writing more about the mundane, and maybe some of you like reading about it, I will continue trying hard to avoid laziness and to write more often.

Mbruk L3id!

For those of you who are not up on your Muslim holidays, today marks the biggest one-day holiday of the Muslim year, 3id Kbir. Literally translated it means “big holiday.” Think Christmas big, but instead of sacrificing a tree, sacrifice a ram. That’s the idea behind it, and the killing is what makes the day what it is (at least for a non-Muslim like myself). All the visiting relatives compare the size and beauty of the carcass just like we do with Christmas trees. Maybe it was my imagination, but it really did feel like Christmas. Everyone goes to mosque in the morning. The streets were as quiet as I had ever seen them. I’m afraid the thought of stringing lights around the bleeding body even crossed my mind at one point.

A little info for the curious. 3id LKbir, or more formally 3id Ladha, is an important religious holiday celebrated by Muslims worldwide to commemorate the willingness of Abraham (Ibrahim) to sacrifice his son Ishmael (Isma’il) as an act of obedience to God, before God intervened to provide him with a ram to sacrifice instead. Two things: Yes, that was copied from Wikipedia and yes, the same story is in the Christian Bible. If I am learning one thing about religion here, it is that Christianity, Islam, and Judaism all share a lot more in common than I previously thought.

The day started with misinformation. When I showed up at my host family’s house the slaughtering had just been finished and the head was just being cut off. No worries though. The killing is symbolically important, and I wasn’t happy that I missed it, but the rest of the day was great.

I think that as soon as I stepped in to help skin the sheep, Ramdan recognized that I had very little clue what I was doing and so relegated me to the symbolic position of making sure the hanging carcass didn’t spin while they peeled the skin. By the time we were done skinning and gutting, Charifa came out with the smoking, charred, and, well, kind of gruesome looking head of the ram. Surrounding it in the bucket were its charred legs. As soon as the assorted body parts came out, the kids went to work on hacking at them with a small hatchet while Charifa sorted through the guts, squeezing the poop out and cleaning them. At one point I looked over and saw Sana gauging out the eyes with a dull knife. Undoubtedly we were going to eat those.

The first thing on the menu (the pre-lunch snack) was barbequed liver wrapped in fat. My mom will be pleased to hear that I downed that liver like a champ. It is actually pretty good. How could it not be? It’s wrapped in salty fat. After an intermission of some pomegranates and further animal parts cleaning and sorting, we had lunch. My fears of eating the head resided as the pressure cooker was brought over and a lovely smell came forth. As Charifa spooned the contents onto the plate, she said to me in darija with her usual amount of gusto, “eat. Guts.” Why thank you! That’s just what I was hoping would appear instead of the chopped up head! I admit that while the pile of assorted stomach, liver, intestine, and heart pieces didn’t look that good and the idea of it certainly was foreign to me, it did smell good. I wish I could say that it tasted as good as it smelled. It did not. But I managed a reasonable amount. Enough that there was little arguing among the family that I had eaten too little.

I guess it is a testament to how far I have come since being a vegetarian that I can say with confidence that a holiday almost entirely devoted to eating meat is a pretty good idea. Meat for lunch, meat for dinner, meat for breakfast. For four days. Bring it on!

Now, if you will please excuse me, I have to go prepare my stomach for my meat breakfast tomorrow.

I arrived home last week after two weeks on the road, and immediately noticed a new sense of how I felt about Tafoghalt, my job, and my neighbors. Maybe my perception had been altered while I was gone or maybe being away, on the road so to speak, had enabled me to put a label on what I was already feeling. I don’t know. Whatever happened, I feel different. Like I’ve entered a new phase.

It was an immediate recognition. I had left with a lot of doubts, but optimism shone over them. Now, upon my return, my mood, like the weather here, has become much more melancholy. My language progression is at a standstill. Work (and this is stretching the meaning of the word) is slow. I feel a certain amount of disappointment and frustration with the people I am living and working with. And, in general, I dislike the culture; the way it treats women, the way it treats animals, the disrespect for personal feelings and beliefs, the general lack of motivation, the underground, unacknowledged “sin”. I know, I know! I sound miserable when I put it like that. Those are just my feelings right now and at their worst.

In Philadelphia, even before we got to country, we were given handouts that charted and described the emotional phases of the average volunteer through her/his service. Two years of inner war; Battles fought on daily, monthly, and yearly terms. The chart claimed that there would be victories and loses and that attitudes would depend on the outcomes. Liking to think myself unique and uncategorizable, I tossed the paper into a folder without much though, and buried it under a pile of books in my apartment.

I ended up pulling the “critical periods” handout out this morning, and every single issue that I just described is listed under the 7-10 month period. It doesn’t do much to help, but it is nice to know that this is normal. I’m not a horrible person for hating where I am right now and, sometimes, the people I have to work with. I know that other volunteers here are feeling this way, but its good to know it’s not just a regional thing.

Right, so I know that some people are curious about where I have been, and, as I’ve mentioned it here, I should probably write a little about it.

Two weeks ago, overly ready to leave and feeling a lot of doubt as to whether Moroccan transportation would get me there, I headed out of Tafoghalt in a mid-morning taxi bound, ultimately for Paris. The plan had been to leave the day before, spend a night alone in Paris, and then meet up with my mom, grandma, and aunt who were just ending a week-long river cruise through France. I had been feeling apprehensive about the whole rendezvous not working out, but was surprised when plans had to be changed, that it was not because of problems in Morocco, but because of the striking French.

I arrived at my mom’s beautiful Paris hotel at midnight on Friday, tired and dirty, but so relieved that I had made it. I think Mama’s relief was double mine. After my first hot bath in eight months, I fell asleep on the carpet floor of the hotel room, realizing as I did, that even the floor of this hotel was nicer than many places that I’ve slept in Morocco.

I will admit right now, much to my own chagrin and knowing that it defaults all the arguments that I made before I left about why I wanted to leave America, that I miss the West. I miss convenience. I miss comfort. I miss English. I miss diversity. I even miss the consumerism that drives us and makes our culture what it is. Most of all, I miss my family and friends. Paris, from the moment I stepped off the plane, felt different. It felt comfortable, and convenient, and all those things that I just mentioned. It felt a lot like home (being America in general). No standing outside hoping for a taxi that might, if you argue enough, use its meter. Water fountains. More than one type of coffee. No assumptions that if you look different you are not from there (and no assuming that just because you look Asian you are from China). Diversity in people, food, buildings.

I know that this is the romanticized view of a home-hungry voyager, but Paris really did blow me away. Not only because it was Paris, but also because it reminded me of all the things that make America great. It reinstilled the sense in me that my home really is there and nowhere else.

I will leave out the details of what I did in Paris because it is probably not much different than what most tourists do there, but I will say this: I had a wonderful time seeing my family and experiencing Paris at such a beautiful time of the year. It was reenergizing.

Unfortunately Paris was only a weekend. Not enough time to see it or to reconnect with family. On the other hand, by the grace of the Peace Corps, I was given a transitional reentry period in Marrakech in the form of an Inter-Service Training. The training itself was marginally interesting overall, but seeing all the other volunteers from my stage again was great. It had been about six months since I had seen the majority of the health volunteers that we swore in with. It was nice to reconnect and to see where other people were in their Peace Corps lives.

A week of Marrakech and the binge lifestyle of Peace Corps Morocco and I was ready to go home (the Morocco one). The transitions from loneliness to crowdedness back to loneliness are exhausting. Before going home though, I joined the rest of my CBT group (remember CBT? Go way back to the beginning of this blog if you don’t) for a reunion south of Marrakech in our training site, Idelsen.

As with Paris, the visit to Idelsen was much too short. We got there on Saturday evening and left Monday morning. In that short amount of time, we basically did nothing but eat, drink tea, and sleep. Socorra and I calculated that we must have drank well over 30 glasses of tea in the time we were there. As the tea is half sugar, that’s about 15 glasses of sugar. Diabetes here we come. Again, maybe this is retrospective romanticizing, but our whole group seemed to agree that the people of Idelsen were much kinder, open, and genuine than the people we currently live with. Whether its true or not, we were all reluctant to leave.

Now I’m home. I’m alone and it’s quite again. In a lot of ways I am thankful for that. In a lot of other ways, I wish it weren’t so. I know that this post is a little overcast, but not to worry. The “critical periods” handout assures me that things do get better. I will not doubt it again.

Before reading further, BEWARE. This entry is long. It is tedious. And frankly, it is maybe quite boring. But that is just, like, my opinion man. That is just a preface; an “I told you so” if you start fading part way through it and want someone to blame. I relinquish myself of the blame.

With that said, I admit that the idea for this post was stolen from other PC bloggers. Their responses to the always asked question, “so…what is it that you do everyday?,” were to write a detailed description of a single, random day. I am taking that idea one step further. One day in the life of a Peace Corps volunteer is not always very representative of the average, if there is such a thing as an average day. I, therefore, will detail one week in my attempt to give all you bold readers a hopefully more representative eyeful of how different and, at the same time, repetitive days in the Peace Corps can be. I would say that the week that I’m about to embark on is perhaps a little more exciting than most, but it is representative of how new and exciting things are always happening, even in the midst of what seems like endless, repetitive boredom.

So, without further delay. The week of October 4th in all its glory. Good luck!

MONDAY

7:00 AM

I have no alarm clock. I like to think that I don’t need one. I have adapted to my circumstances like any good Peace Corps volunteer, and use my natural surroundings to my advantage. More likely, I have no choice. An alarm clock wouldn’t stand a chance against the noises that bombard my house every morning. Noises that rush through every window and door, every crack, the place where my roof should be, even the walls. Children playing, my neighbor yelling…or talking (still not sure which she is doing, though if she is yelling, she sure yells a lot), goats and sheep bleating, the sound of their hooves echoing down the roughly paved streets as they head towards food, towards a new day. There are roosters crowing, and hens doing…well whatever hens do. Gawaking maybe. By this time the dogs have pretty much stopped barking, but the occasional dog, interrupted from sleep, may make his presence known and get me out of bed. No, an alarm clock would be redundant.

I’m up. Sort of. This is still the hardest part of the day. I have to draw every bit of motivation to overpower the thought: what do I have to get up for. I lie back down and try to push this negative thought out of my head, instead pondering the strange dream I had last night. I keep having similar dreams that seem so vivid until I wake up and everything instantly fades out of focus. They always seem to throw my Peace Corps and US worlds together into dizzying places where there are football games in big swimming pools, big islands that float in the air (I know, very Avatarish) where I drink beer with friends, and feelings of isolation and unattainablity; feelings that linger even where the memory wont. The world can wait another half hour.

7:30 AM

Alright, I’m up. The sounds are carrying through the concrete that is my house and vibrating in my ears and body. I think it would be quieter on the street from where they emanate than here in my bed. There is no point in pretending that I can sleep any more anyway. I’m up and have my running shorts, shoes, and i-pod on in a matter of minutes. I grab a quick drink and head downstairs. With a clank the metal door pops open and I am back in Morocco. The bright sun makes me blink and wakes me up instantly, while the chickens cluck merrily around my feet, picking up discarded crumbs, grubs, and bugs here and there. I step off my doorstep and start my jog out of town. What seemed like such a dark, intimidating world only a few minutes ago lying in bed, seems instantly more accessible once I’m out in it. Sometimes anyway. Today the quarter mile through town is not so unintimidating. All along the streets, as if I’m an exotic float in the Macy’s Day Parade, gangs of adolescent boys point and talk excitedly as I pass by. It occasionally seems to me that there is a lot of malice in their laughing. I just turn my i-pod up and smile. I don’t understand them anyway. Mostly I just feel bad that a boring looking white guy running by is the most exciting thing to watch and talk about. Just before I hit the edge of town I have to pass by the middle school. If I didn’t get my share of stares on the streets, I certainly do now. Just boys. The girls, I assume are already in the school or not coming at all. They tend not to linger in the world outside their homes after a certain age.

My run takes me out of town through a valley and up over a pass. It’s mostly scrub and brush so not much shade, but today it’s late enough in the year that the mountains are still casting a shadow over me. This morning, not much exciting. My i-pod is shuffling through some Ingrid Michelson, Eminem, Nickel Creek, Shostakovich, and a Mexican band whose name I forget. I pass by a few men on donkeys, a few more on mopeds, and one or two big trucks full of kids heading to school in Tafoghalt from the countryside. Just before I reach my turnaround point on the pass, I see a feral dog ahead. I know the drill and grab a rock. I’ve never been attacked, but you never know. It’s all downhill on the way back.

When I get back up to my apartment, I try to do some sit-ups and push ups, but even Mr. Mathers cant get me going. Pretty half hearted I would say. Who would appreciate my chiseled abs here even if I had them?

9:00 AM

This morning is a coffee morning so I throw a kettle of water on the gas stove, and eat my bread and butter while I wait. So extravagant I know. I’m excited about the coffee. A precious gift from America that I have to ration out. Like so many things I don’t enjoy that much in America (Eminem, chain stores, Lady Gaga, driving), coffee takes on a whole new meaning here. With its taste and smell, it carries me back, even if just for a few minutes, to a more familiar place. A place where I feel like I belong. A place that empowers and motivates me.

I turn on a recent Talk of the Nation podcast, sit down next to the window, and pour myself a big glass of handkerchief-filtered coffee. So good!

10:00 AM

With the power of coffee and a plan for the day I push on. I grab my box of Darija flash cards; beat up from being carried around Morocco, and sit down to learn my ten words for the day. To organize, to produce, to participate, cooperation, to profit, to share, fabric, ago, some time ago, damn it! I hope to meet with the president of the women’s weaving cooperative later today so I have to learn the important words at least. I will reserve the “damn it” for when I really need it. Xzit! Its time to get back out there.

10:30 AM

I hurry up and throw what I need in my daypack. It’s almost always the same. Notebook, pen, water bottle, and leisure book for when things don’t happen at an American pace. Pretty much always. I have to move quickly because her house is about 5 km away in Tegma, and if I don’t get there soon, she will be busy cooking lunch, and I’m not sure what her rules of men in the kitchen are. I take the back road up to the pass. The volunteer before called it the “Africa road” because it is one of the few places around here that really feels like Africa, or at least the Africa of our western dreams. Red dirt road full of ruts and boulders that runs through tall eucalyptus trees and a tropical looking understory. Emerging from this road, as always, I’m struck with the beauty of the view that greets me as I make my way over the crest of the hill. In front of me is the village of Aunute, built on a small plot of flat ground and perched on a cliff. Just below the cliff is Tegma, and further down the valley is another, Tasserirt. Below Tasserirt the valley opens up into a wide green plain that runs until it hits the Rif Mountains in the west and the Mediterranean in the north. I have to stop here for a breather and to acknowledge that I may just have the most beautiful Peace Corps site in Morocco. For the other volunteers reading this, feel free to argue this one with me.

11:00 AM

I make my way down the steep path into Aunute. Jonathon had suggested I live here instead of Tafoghalt, and I had blown him off thinking that it would be so inconvenient to have to go so far for all my food and for my work. This morning, just as every time I pass through, I wish that I had listened to him. It’s so quiet here and the view is incredible. At the bottom edge of town, I see my friend Mohammad sitting outside his hanut (or general store) staring out over the cliff on which he is perched. No one else is around, and I figure I have time to sit and chat for a few minutes. Sitting with Mohammad talking about my new home, his only home, and my home in America overlooking the world below, I feel so good about what I’m doing. This is 2/3 of my job, talking about my home and learning about theirs, and I right now I can’t think of a better thing to be doing.

But, alas, I still have that third goal of bringing technical assistance to get back to, and so I buy a cheap chocolate bar and continue down the path. The path wanders down under the cliff and into the gardens of Tegma. It seems to me that the Garden of Eden would have a hard time surpassing these. The path winds through olive trees, over streams and irrigation canals, into tunnels of figs and pomegranates, past little shaded plots of assorted veggies, and grazing goats. On my way to Yamina’s (the coop president) house, I have to pass by my friend Yemani’s gite (bed and breakfast complete with organic garden). I knock on his door and a woman and girl answer. I don’t know them so I ask them to pass on my hello. They happily agree and tell me to pick a pomegranate on my way through their garden. Yes please! I find the reddest, most delicious looking one on a nearby tree and sit down to eat it. 15 minutes later, stuffed, and sticky all over, I continue on.

12:00 PM

Finally, I have made it to Yemina and her husband Mohamad’s house. I knock. No one. I knock again, a little louder… Nope. Once more… Xzit! No one home. Mohammad keeps telling me to come by for tea, and when I ask him what time, he always looks at me like it’s the stupidest question in the world. Just come by anytime he says. Well, here I am outside his door, coming by as instructed. I would consider this in the spectrum of anytime. Oh well, dak shi li kayn. That’s life. It was a beautiful walk and there is always tomorrow. The beauty of living on Moroccan time.

1:30 PM

I arrive back in Tafoghalt, hot and sweaty from the uphill climb. Going up the quick way is the opposite of coming down the back way. Steep, dull, and exposed. But it’s quick, and I want to get back. It does mean that I have to pass through the “downtown” equivalent of Tafoghalt, and wanting to just get to my house to eat some food and sit down for a bit, I try to keep a low profile and slip through unnoticed. A hard thing to do when you are the only white guy tromping through town with a backpack and hiking shoes on. I wave off my host father’s invitation to join him for tea as politely as possible and head straight for my house.

1:45 PM

I get back to my apartment, throw together the normal lunch of fried egg sandwich and sink down on a chair. I watch my two new kittens Scout and Ryker wrestle around while thinking about when I should attempt the Tegma meeting again.

2:00 PM

Nap…

3:30 PM

One joy of being a Peace Corps volunteer is the lack of structure and abundance of time. I don’t feel like getting up yet, so I put on a podcast and get comfortable. This time “What You Should Have Learned in History Class.” I close my eyes again and try to absorb some of the fascinating facts of Catherine the Great and her many supposed lovers. A bit of a flusey, but she seemed like a pretty good queen.

4:15 PM

Back out into the world, I try to hurry down to the “village” so I can check my PO box before the post office closes. I get there just in time, greet my friends YahYah and Brahim who work there, and find an envelope from the Peace Corps in Rabat. A new edition of the Peace Corps times, a glossy Saudi Aramco World magazine, good mostly for its nice pictures, and The Forager’s Harvest: A Guide to Identifying, Harvesting, and Preparing Edible Wild Plants. New entertainment! Yes! I flip, through the pages of the plant book. I don’t think that I’ll find any wild rice or goosefoot here, but its all good, entertaining reading anyway.

5:15 PM

I carry my new treasures down to Ramdan’s (my host father) café. Most of the guys there have gotten over the novelty of my reading there, so I don’t draw a lot of attention like I used to when I pull out the magazines. The pictures are entertaining, but my friends go back to what they were doing when they get bored with them. I imagine English is as boring as Darija when you don’t understand it. It’s nice to see what other volunteers are doing around the world, and I quickly finish the Peace Corps paper.

6:30 PM

It seems like just yesterday that I was sitting at this time at my host family’s house waiting anxiously for the call to prayer to mark the setting of the sun and the end to the day’s Ramadan fast. It’s completely dark now, though, as I make my way home.

6:45 PM

I turn on a “Car Talk” podcast (yes I know how nerdy these podcasts are) and, amused, start the arduous task of making this week’s soup. Its only the second week I have done it, but making a big pot of soup once and eating leftovers for a week, albeit a little boring, makes life so much easier. And, I’m sure my mom will be happy to know this; it keeps me from settling for popcorn for dinner. In keeping with the season, this week’s soup is a ginger root stew.

8:00 PM

I carry my new creation to the table on my roof, a copy of Barack Obama’s. Dreams of my Father in hand and two kittens struggling up the stairs after me. It’s colder than it has been for a while and I run back down to grab my sweatshirt. With the stew and cats to keep me warm, and a good book to keep me entertained I sit up here until bedtime.

10:00 PM

Climb into bed, turn on my ipod and sink into sleep. What will I dream tonight?

TUESDAY

9:00 AM

I wake up late this morning, but for the first time in a while, feel excited about getting out of bed. I have no real reason I guess. Maybe the terror and anticipation of trying to fill the coming days with constructive activities is ebbing.

9:15 AM

I’m up and have a pot of water on the stove within 15 minutes. Once I am out of bed and have my day sort of mentally organized by what I need to accomplish and how I might go about accomplishing it, this is my favorite time of day. I turn on one of Minnesota Public Radio’s podcasts, Midday, cut some bread, and throw it on the skillet with some butter for toast. With a little bit of the wild raspberry jam my parents sent, a cup of reheated coffee from yesterday, and the sound of Gary Ichten coming from my computer, I can almost imagine that I am home.

10:05 AM

Study time again. 10 more words plus the words from yesterday. This morning I do a pretty good job of remembering yesterday’s words. 8 out of 10. Stupid “produce” and “share!”

10:45 AM

I decided yesterday that today I needed to do some major cleaning before the rain and cold really takes a hold of my mountain. I take all the blankets off my ponjes (they are kind of like cheap couches) and the sheets off my bed and take them up to the roof. It’s a sunny, warm day. There is a slight breeze, but not many clouds in the sky. As perfect a washing day as it gets, though as much as I dislike doing laundry, that’s not much of a consolation. Even though I don’t like doing laundry, I must admit, I am pretty good at it. I have my buckets all laid out in the shadiest part of the roof, next to the tap. I throw some water and bleach in one and start soaking the sheets. In the others, I put the blankets with soap. I acquired the blankets from the previous volunteer, and while they were being stored before I moved out of my host house, they must have picked up a few bed bugs. Despite washing them a few times already, the little guys seem to want to stick around and bite all my guests. This time I mean business, though. They will not make it out alive! Washing thick blankets is a workout and by the time I lug them up to the drying line, I am beat.

12:40 PM

As promised, soup for lunch with a piece of fresh bread and butter. Talk of the Nation on the ipod. Sitting in the sun at my plastic table on the roof.

1:15 PM

Even when I have things to do in my house, I feel guilty if I don’t get out for at least a few hours every day, so I make my way down the through town to the line of cafes where Ramdan’s café is. On the way, I am called over by my friend Mimoon whose vegetable stand I frequent nearly every day. He orders me to sit down in a rickety lawn chair and offers me some sugary mint tea, as is Moroccan custom. I like Mimoon a lot, though I have a very hard time understanding him. Most people here mix up the local Berber dialect with Moroccan Arabic, which is confusing enough, but Mimoon likes to throw French in there as well, which makes for a pretty one sided conversation. With guys like him though, I can hear the kindness in their voices and see the recognition in their eyes that they know their words are not being understood. I think he continues on, knowing that I just need someone to talk to me. If not for the language practice, than for the company of another human.

2:30 PM

While I am sitting with Mimoon, I see my friend Abdelghani walk by with his father down towards the cafes. I have been trying to get a hold of him for a while, so after my 3rd glass of tea, I politely refuse the 4th, and hurry down to the cafés. Abdelghani and his dad are sitting with other men, whom I can probably assume are family of some sort, at the last café in the line. I take a seat and accept the glass of tea, knowing if I don’t that if will be more trouble than it’s worth. As usual I try to listen to the conversation going on, but soon recognize that, as usual, they are speaking Berber and I don’t understand any of it. I promise myself for the 100th time that I have to start learning at least some.

2:50 PM

I excuse myself from the table of men and run across the street to take care of some business with the chief of the local Water and Forest office. As usual he is not there, and, as usual I tell myself that it can wait until tomorrow.

3:00 PM

I get back to the café just as the men are leaving. I walk with Abdelghani back to his house, where his mother prepares for us some, you guessed it, tea. Abdelghani’s family is one of my favorites here, and I like to go there as often as possible, despite always being described as “mskin” or “poor thing.”

3:40 PM

Back at my house, I lie down for a nap. I am generally out for only several hours a day, but it always exhausts me.

5:00 PM

Refreshed from my nap, but not ready to get up again, I grab Dreams of My Father and read, while my cats wrestle around in my lap.

6:00 PM

I hear the persistent buzzing of my doorbell and know that Abdelghani is back. He tells me that he misses me and wants to go for a walk. I need to get out, and I like walking with him, so I put my shoes on and we go. I usually like our walks. Abelghani practices his English, I practice my Arabic, and we often talk about some unusually deep things. Tonight, however, Abdelghani just wants to talk about screwing girls and the horror of having to guide a couple of gay tourists. I don’t have the patience tonight.

7:00 PM

I collapse on a cushion on my roof with a bowl of soup and my book, and spend the rest of the night reading under the stars.

Wednesday

7:30 AM

Drag myself out of bed for my run. I’m starting to feel my strength come back as I climb the mountain, and decide that next week I will increase the distance.

9:00 AM

After some pushups and sit-ups, I get some water for coffee going. This feels like a special day, so I mix some precious quick oats with a few of the dried blueberries from home and some brown sugar. I wouldn’t trade any of these ingredients for all the couscous in Tafoghalt!

10:00 AM

I pull out 10 new words to study. I’m having a hard time concentrating on them this morning though. The cats seem far more interested in the scrap paper flashcards than I am. I need to stay disciplined though! For my sanity and because the quicker I learn this language, the easier life will be.

11:00 AM

Do some cleaning around the house. With no kitchen, things tend to get messy more quickly and take longer to clean up. Dishes and sweeping take up an hour and a half. It gives me a better idea of what the women might spend their days doing.

12:30 PM

Soup

1:15 PM

Down to the post office to make copies of a form that I need signed by the chief of the Water and Forest. It’s a simple form that gives me permission to go on vacation, but the gregarious bureaucracy here makes even the simplest form hard to get approved. My friend Yahyah, the postman, is working and we talk. As I try to do every day, I give him a few words of English. He seems to be picking up English a lot faster than I’m picking up Darija.

2:00 PM

My friend Muneem greets my as a long lost friend as I approach Ramdan’s café. He works there, and, despite hardly ever understanding him, he continues to treat me like we know each other well. I am very grateful to him for that. We sit down and he watches idly, joint in mouth, as I page through some grammar sections in my ragged Peace Corps issue language book, trying once again to absorb the material.

2:30 PM

Just as a few of the regulars are gathering around trying to distract me with arguments about language, Islam, and girls, I slip away. I need to again try to find the Water and Forest chief. He again is not there. No answer on his phone. This form needs to be turned in soon. It can only wait until a few more tomorrows.

2:40 PM

Resolved to give this day up as a failure, I start home. On my way though, I pass the touristiest restaurant in town where my friend, Tofiq, works. He had told me a few days ago that he would set up a meeting with his boss, a successful businesswoman from Fes, so that I could tell her about a tourism association project that I am trying to establish. He meets me at the entrance, and after a few Moroccan pleasantries, he tells me that the boss is there and I can meet her. I’m as prepared as I ever will be so I agree. We sit out on the patio and I tell her about the idea, the benefits, and the possible timeline. She likes the idea a lot and wants to help, even maybe take a leading role. I need this kind of motivation and she is well qualified for the role, but her expression of distrust and view that all the locals are lazy makes me leery about bringing her on board in a large capacity.

4:15 PM

Nap

5:30 PM

The sun is starting to set early these days, and when I wake the light is low. I try to punch out a few emails and work on this blog, so I can be prepared for an efficient visit to the internet café tonight.

7:00 PM

The buzzing at the door that can only be Abdelghani. He wants me to go to the Hammam with him. I’m tired, but this isn’t an opportunity I should pass up. I want to find out where the Hammam is in Tafoghalt, and, not really knowing what I am doing when it comes to skin sloughing public bathing, I should take advantage of having a friend with me. Compared to the one other Hammam that I went to the first month I was in Morocco, this one is much more relaxed. I foresee myself coming here quite a bit this winter as bucket baths and cold showers become less appealing. I will have to get used to the idea of other men rubbing dead skin and dirt of my body, though.

8:30 PM

Refreshed and clean I head to the cyber café to send some emails, re-up my podcasts, and chat with whoever might be online at that odd US time.

10:15 PM

Soup dinner and bed

THURSDAY

9:00 AM

I’m up and out of bed late this morning. I know that I mentioned before how hard mornings are. Some mornings are worse than others, and for no obvious reason this is one of them. I need a boost bad. Coffee alone wont cut it. In a desperate attempt to change the mood of the day, I again deviate from my rationing system and dig into my precious supply of oatmeal and dried wild blueberries. With a few fried eggs on the plate I have a breakfast.

9:30 AM

With the good breakfast, I feel ready to take on the day’s activities. The main thing I want to accomplish today is to set up internet in my house. After a few months of mental deliberations that have taken on the air of being moral, I have decided that, at the price I suspect, the internet will be a huge benefit to me as long as I can keep from being sucked into its control. My friend Yunis is going to go down to the Moroc Telecom store in Berkane with me to make sure I don’t do something stupid. As my track record has proven, this happens a lot when I’m left on my own. I’m just waiting for his phone call. In the meantime flashcards are out and I’m making a poor attempt at studying.

10:45 AM

I get the call from Yunis and head down to the Café Fiugiug a few blocks from my place. It’s still early, so the place is nearly empty. I spot Yunis there and sit down for some coffee and a discussion of our plan of action. I pull out a bill (one of the period bills I still get for Jonathon’s uncanceled internet), and tell Yunis that I want the exact same thing. Don’t ask me how, but he, along with just about everyone else we talk to, knows the exact price for what I want. It is definitely not the same as Jonathon’s. In fact, it has gone up pretty substantially. Poop! That throws a wrench into my plan. One of Yunis’s friends comes over and offers his advice. He is the town computer nerd, so I trust what he has to say. Internet is good, but the price is really that high. There are cheaper alternatives by getting internet through cell towers, but the reception is not always great in Tafoghalt. We spend about half an hour scribbling some math, and in the end I can spend about 2.5 hours a day at the internet café for as much as I would pay to have it in my house. That’s more than double the time that I already use. No internet for now. Maybe when I’m bored and snowed into my house this winter I will change my mind.

12:00 PM

As Yunis is leaving, Abdelghani stops in. We have tea. Of course.

12:45 PM

I have leftover soup waiting for me, so I head back to my apartment. While I eat I catch up on my news through Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me. No judging me for where I get my news.

1:30 PM

Nap.

3:00 PM

Back out. I walk down to the village to buy some vegetables from Mimoon and end up having tea again. I resisted at first, but I have grown kind of fond of these impromptu tea sessions. I’m not sure my body thinks the same though. The conversation, as usual, is a little slow and revolves around what I know, which is pretty limiting, but Mimoon seems pretty patient and kindly puts up with my bumbling.

3:45 PM

Back in my kitchen, I pull out today’s golden find, fresh apples, and sit down on my living room floor with two bowls and begin the meditative practice of apple peeling. I think that even if I didn’t like the applesauce that came from the work, I would still like doing the peeling. But I do like the applesauce, and this stuff does not disappoint. It fills the kitchen with steamy cinnamon and apple aromas, and I feel someplace comfortable.

5:30 PM

With a Tupperware full of fresh, still warm, apple sauce in hand, I zoom down through town on my bike to my family’s house. It’s been a while since the last time I had tea there and I miss them. I want to see the kids, ask them how school is going, maybe play a game of something or other. At the house, I am greeted by an excited Ramdan, who, after parking my bike, takes me back behind the house to where there are two new cows. A mother and its calf. This is a huge purchase for a poor family and I can see the energy in Ramdan’s eyes as he talks about buying them and building the little outbuilding that shelters them. I am energized by it as well as we sit down to tea. I ask him what his plans are for the cows and the future. He tells me he hopes to build the number of his cows, and then he brings up an idea for a food cooperative. I have not met many of them, but it will be motivated people like Ramdan that make my service, but more importantly, Tafoghalt’s future, a success.

They didn’t serve the applesauce. My past attempts at American food have made them leery I think.

7:00 PM

Can we say “soup!” It’s what’s for dinner!

7:30 PM

Blog time. Here I am writing.

10:00 PM

Nothing like a little time altering wormhole action to settle me down. Star Trek.

10:40 PM

Bed time.

FRIDAY

8:30 AM

Quick charge the Ipod and a few new songs and I’m on the road for my run. This morning I got up without much trouble after I dreamt I was stuck in a movie theater that ran nothing but looping, never-ending B movies. For some reason riot police were shooting adolescent boys with paintguns in the theater as well. Maybe it has something to do with my growing dislike for their real life Moroccan counterparts.

9:45 AM

A few sit-ups a few pushups. The cats don’t get it.

10:00 AM

Whoah! Cold shower!

10:15 AM

Toast, butter, and jam for breakfast. Not bad, but definitely getting old. I miss my Captain Crunch! Being able to listen to a podcast about the Medici family almost makes up for it though.

11:30 AM

It’s Friday, which means the mosque is busy. Like our Sunday. It also means that I have to get down to the post office pronto if I want to check my mail before it closes and YahYah goes to pray. I get there in time and have a brief chat with him. We speak English and he is quickly become quite good. That or I am getting good at piecing together broken English. I have a date to have couscous with my friend Tofiq at the tourist restaurant at 12:00, so I kill some time sitting in the shade of one of the many eucalyptus trees and try to strategize how I am going to fulfill my promise to eat two couscous lunches in one day.

12:00 PM

I get to the restaurant on time, but Tofiq is busy setting up a long fancy table for a group of soon arriving tourists from Belgium. He quickly seats me by myself, and soon I have my own plate of couscous. I will be eating by myself I guess. The couscous is done in the Fesi style and I can’t help but finish it. Bad idea! I walk out of the restaurant stuffed and a little ashamed at having eaten at the one place in town none of the locals eat at.

12:45 PM

Right, so at tea yesterday I promised my family that I would go to their sadaqa the next day. I didn’t have a clue what it was, but I knew that it would probably involve a lot of food. Anyway, after stumbling out of the restaurant I am almost immediately directed to the right place. It seems as if all the men from Tafoghalt are congregating here on rugs under the tree in my uncle Hussein’s yard. I sit where I am directed. The mood is jovial and after some inquisition, I learn that the sadaqa is pretty much just an excuse to get together and have a party. Community members contribute some money and the host buys lots of food. The women cook and the men socialize and eat. Luckily, the meal is nothing formal; just a communal plate of couscous and lamb, and another of chicken. I am able to eat little without rendering chastisement from my hosts. My brother Yassine is serving food and drink, my friend Nordeen is sitting across from me, and I know all the other men I’m sitting with and they all know me. Although there is still a great divide of understanding, I feel, right now, like it is closing. It feels good.

1:15 PM

I stumble back home, full with way too much food. There is a group of kids sitting on my doorstep waiting for me. Among them is Mohammad, Abdelghani’s young brother. I greet them all and ask them what they are doing. I like the kids, but right now I’m not really feeling like doing much other than lying down. Mohammad asks if he can come up with me. I tell him not today. I’ve made the mistake of letting young Moroccan boys into my place before, and I will probably not do it again.

2:00 PM

I lie down in recovery mode for a bit, but I have to finish some emails and get things prepared for my internet run, so I regretfully get back up. Emails, work on blog, prepare a list of things to research and accomplish.

3:00 PM

The internet café is a success. I send off all the necessary emails, do the necessary research and have a nice chat with my good friend from home, Margaret, who may or may not read this blog. If you are out there, it was good to here your voice. Although, it seems to be becoming an increasingly more abrupt and uncomfortable shift from Tafoghalt to “my old world” via internet, I always feel reconnected when I am there. There are a lot of purists PC returnees who talk about their services 30, 40 years ago and brood over the demise of the real Peace Corps experience because of the new ways volunteers of today have to be connected with their real world. I understand the sentiment. We will never be forced to let go of our US lives, for sanity sake, and dive fully into our new temporary worlds. I feel like I am missing something with that, but I also am so grateful for the fact that I can talk with my family and friends every week for little money, that I can see what is happening in the world, and that I can research ways to make my projects and service better.

5:45 PM

Back home after too much time in the internet café. Accomplished everything that I needed to, but also putzed around a little too much. Greet the kitties.

6:00 PM

I finish up this week’s soup. Thank God! For desert I blend up a nice fig/banana smoothie. All while reading up on successful ecotourism projects.

7:30 PM

Dishes. On the roof. In the dark. In Morocco.

8:15 PM

A little blog action. Here I am again.

9:15 PM

For those concerned about my sanity, first of all thank you. Secondly, I do everything that I can to preserve it except come home. This includes establishing some weekly rituals that I can look forward to. Partly because I don’t have many movies, and partly because I want to preserve some of their excitement, I only watch movies on Friday nights. Tonight I sit up late watching Eternal Sunshine on a Spotless Mind for the millionth time, drink a beer (the last of the good beers I hauled back from Melilla), and munch on popcorn as the cats chase each other around me in their never-ending game of tag. I’m glad that I can preserve times like these to make me feel good… and sane.

12:00 AM

Bed.

SATURDAY

9:00 AM

I wake up later than I had wanted this morning, causing me to have to rush through breakfast. A quick piece of pan-fried toast with butter and coffee run through yesterday’s grounds. Sad I know, but you would be surprised at how good it tastes under the circumstances. I stuff the breakfast down, feed the cats, and run out the door. I had meant to get up early so that I could easily catch a taxi out of town towards Oujda. Now at 9:30 there is hardly a car on the road, and I am forced to park myself under a tree to wait. Before long I turn my efforts towards hitching a ride from anyone, but just as the few taxis that are passing by, most of the cars are full or uninterested. Before Ramadan there was a regular bus that came from and went to Oujda on a schedule. At some point during that month of fasting the bus gave out just as many people were giving out, and from what I hear its not coming back any time soon. Too expensive. I now see it parked in a field between here and Oujda every time I go; it’s purple glistening hide sadly reminding me of how easy and cheap it used to be.

10:30 AM

A taxi finally seems to see my hand waving frantically for it to stop and after a quick inquiry of where it’s going (I’ve made the mistake of not asking before), I stuff myself in next to a fairly smelly guy and we are off. We make our stop in the small midpoint of BouHria where I switch taxis easily and continue on my way. Despite now having seen it many times now, I still love to watch the beautiful plains go by outside my window. Now they are starting to green up and fill with wildflowers as a result of the cold fall rains.

11:30 AM

The taxi unceremoniously pulls into the Oujda city taxi stand. I try to reexpand my body after the cramped and contorted ride, and at the same time I give my friend Socorra a ring. The reason I am here is technically to “work” with her on a few joint projects, but of course there might be just a little bit of underlying motivation. I needed to get out of Tafoghalt. It was becoming a little overwhelming… or underwhelming. I needed new faces and sites. Plus I have a mission to check out what kind of Christmas Eve services the church in town might have and to get an outfit for our Peace Corps prom. Soon enough Socorra pulls up with her friend Mo and he takes us back to his house. Mo used to teach English and now he teaches teachers how to teach it. Needless to say he speaks English. He also does a lot of other things that set him apart from the average man in Morocco and its nice to see a little free thinking in a place that seems to lack it, or at least where it is not readily expressed.

1:00 PM

After zigzagging through Oujda’s streets to the other side of town we arrive at Mo’s house. We sit in his living room with his kids watching CNN while his wife (reluctantly and I don’t blame her) makes lunch for her husband’s new friends. I never thought I would say it, but city life is a refreshing change from small town Morocco.

2:30 PM

Another volunteer from Jerada calls to tell us he is also in town for a few hours. Mo instantly loads us into the car so we can go pick him up. I think we are all ready to get out of the house by this point. We drive back across town and find Joe sitting on the curve of the Marjane (like Wal-Mart) looking like he indeed did just come out of the countryside. He hops in and we drive back to Mo’s house.

5:00 PM

Joe’s stay is short. He leaves and Socorra and I take a taxi to the souk near the city center. We were thinking that the evening would be the best time to shop, but as it turns out we barely make it in time.

5:30 PM

In a few weeks we will be heading to Marrakech for a Peace Corps training, and as a cap to that training some volunteers have, of course, volunteered to organize a prom, of which the theme is “clothes you find at souk”. That leaves a lot of room for creativity and interpretation. The Moroccan souk is a thing unique unto itself, and as such, it is hard to describe. Just imagine blocks of winding narrow streets filled with clean vendors selling things like new, brand name clothes to grubby guys who have laid out their smuggled electronics on a blanket in the street. While it seems chaotic, there is a precise order to things, and goods for the most part seem to be organized and placed into categories. A garage sale, mall, grocery store, flea market all thrown into a big mess. As it turns out our taxi drops us off in front a street lined with tables piled high with used clothes. People are crowded around each table picking through the piles and the vendors are yelling prices. Socorra and I look at each other and jump right in. If we are going to find something good, and cheap, this will be the place we find it. Before long we each have horridly wonderful sweatshirts that are sure to be hits at the prom. If you thought the Spice Girls were dead, come to Morocco. They are not.

7:00 PM

We leave the souk, buy some DVDs off a shady vendor, and head down the street to the big church in the center of town. We have both tried to find someone to talk to about it, but it is always closed. This time is no different, but we are bold enough to ask around. The parking lot guard next door points to a door at the back of the church and claims a French woman is always there. She is the one to talk to. We warily approach the door, noticing the 666 spray-painted over it, and knock. No answer. Again. No answer. As we say just about every day here, “mura xra” next time.

7:30 PM

Mo picks us up in front of the church. As one of the few Moroccans that openly (sort of) drinks alcohol, he takes every opportunity he can to do so when he has willing friends. After being in the countryside for weeks, both Socorra and I were willing. After a stop at the shady liquor store where they know Mo buy name and brand, he starts driving. As we reach the edge of the city, he reaches down into the bag and hands both Socorra and I a beer. Ok. We creep out of the city on a back road towards the Algerian border. It is raining and we talk about everything from Algerian smugglers to life in America.

9:00 PM

After we drive back into the city we stop for pizza at a place near the church. Horrible pizza and canned atmosphere. Typical Moroccan café.

10:00 PM

Its still raining when we get back to the house, so we retreat to the stairwell to finish up the beers. It’s a strange feeling, like being a freshman in college, trying to be as quite and secretive in our shameful doings. Mo’s wife is a strict Muslim, and would be beyond unhappy if she found us with beer in the house. It feels wrong and invigoratingly rebellious at the same time.

11:30 PM

I fall asleep on the couch to the quite sound of rain outside. It is more quite here in the middle of the city than it is in Tafoghalt.

SUNDAY

8:15 AM

Socorra and I sneak out of the still sleeping house this morning in hopes that we may somehow catch the Sunday church service that was posted on an old sign nailed to the church door. When we ask the taxi driver to take us to the church, he tells us there are actually two. We tell him to take us to the one that “works.” We make do with the limited language that we have. When we get there the church is as empty.

9:15 AM

If no church, than at least we will get a good breakfast. We walk to a little stand that we know has good Hrsha (a cornbreadish thing) and sit down at the neighboring café for a cup of strong coffee. There is a seemingly lost white couple (pretty unusually for this part of Morocco) and we have fun watching them for a while. When we finally decide that they might need some help, they hop in a car and drive away.

11:00 AM

After breakfast, we walk the few blocks to the bus stop and cram onto the overcrowded bus that will take us out of town to the Marjane. It seems that every time we are in Oujda, we have to make a trip to this department store. In honor of our capitalist roots I suppose. We can’t afford much. We just like to be surrounded by what makes us feel more at home.

12:00 PM

Mo picks us up and we drive to the University where he works. Unlike any university I have seen, there seems to be no university culture surrounding the area. No sports, no unique shops, or restaurants. Just a neighborhood that looks the same as any other in the city. Except that there are respectable looking sub-Saharan African students walking around. A rare departure from the lack of diversity we normally see.

12:45 PM

To avoid any trouble with Mo’s wife we have lunch at one of the countless rotisserie chicken joints in the city. Mo seems antsy to get going so we hurry through the meal.

3:30 PM

Back at the house, Socorra, taking advantage of the internet, downloads some things onto her computer while I watch Courage Under Fire on the Saudi channel. When she is finished we leave quickly feeling like our welcome has expired.

4:15 PM

Back in the taxi to BouHria

5:30 PM

After checking in with my Tafoghalt gendarmes, I head back up to my apartment.

6:00 PM

Dinner of leftover chicken that I hauled back from Oujda.

6:30 PM

I couldn’t go to church this morning, so instead, I listen to a podcast (of course) about religion, and at the same time work on some art projects.

6:45 PM

One of the art projects I was working on was a picture frame, and as I go through the pictures trying to decide which one to put in there, I can’t help but reminisce. Maybe I dwell on the past too much here, but it often really helps me get through the realities of the present.

8:30 PM

I settle down to watch a little Star Trek. The kittens are snoring in the crook of my arm, the rain is pouring down outside (and inside), and I am ready for another week.

10:00 PM

Bed

There is a house on the road between my apartment and Ramdan’s (my host father’s) café. Like many of the houses here it is in the process of being built; a process that for poor Moroccan’s who don’t have the means to take out large loans can take months and years. Rebar sticking out everywhere, rickety stick scaffold, piles of cement and dirt outside. A house in process.

The other day I was walking by this particular house as I so almost every day on my way home from the café. The same old rebar and unpainted cement as everyday, but a familiarity inside caught my eye through the window. She was new or, at least, I had never noticed her gaze before. Hanging on the inside wall of this unfinished cement box in maybe a somewhat less grand gallery than she is used to was the Mona Lisa.

I stopped and caught her gaze. I know, not hard to do since she is always staring. I caught her gaze, and, oddly, instead of thinking how strangely out of place this is or isn’t this funny, they hung a portrait of the Mona Lisa in this bland, unfinished cement box that will one day look exactly the same as all of the rest of them, I thought, “that is exactly how I feel.”

Ok, so who knows what she is thinking in her portrait. I’m sure art majors have been writing papers debating it for years. Is she sad? Does her slight smile convey some sort of irony about her life? Is she just having one of those days? Maybe she is happy, but trying hard to hide it. Maybe she’s practicing some subtle emotion for acting school. Who knows besides the artist and the subject. This is exactly why I instantly felt like this picture in this house was a reflection.

I know, I know! No one wants to hear about the gloomier side of life. First, I have to say that if this blog is to even remotely explain my life, thoughts, and ideas while I’m here in Morocco, it will have to include some questioning, and, well, negativeness. Secondly, you are reading this by choice. At least I assume you are. Finally, as I precursed, we are talking Mona Lisa. I’m not necessarily feeling bad emotions, just kind of mystifying ones.

At the beginning of our service we were given a nice organized sheet of paper illustrating how we would feel from month to month. Gloomy, happy, nervous, happy, gloomy, depressed. This whole array of emotions so pleasantly contained in little Excel boxes and labeled with when we would feel them. I kind of blew it off when I got it. Yes, it’s going to be a “roller coaster” of emotions. Thank you. I know! I’m finding out now both our little guide and I underestimated the extent of emotional flux. This is no “roller coaster.” It’s a power tower.

There is a slow trend of ups and downs, but what I am finding, at least at the moment, is that the way I feel sometimes changes by the hour. Something so small as talking to a friend about a project and getting positive feedback can make me feel so good, and the next moment I’m getting rocks thrown at me by a gang of 13 year olds and being told that I’m going to hell, and I feel like shit. Everyday.

If you are thinking, “that sounds exhausting,” it absolutely is! It’s exhausting and frustrating and scary and sad and happy. Its like this soup we used to make in Boyscouts where each person brought some can of soup and we just threw it all together into the same pot. It was a rule not to bring a cream soup, but inevitably someone always did and it got thrown in with the rest. This is how my emotional world here in Morocco is. All of the flavors that I like and dislike, and always a little something unexpected on top of it all.

Salam,

Colin

“You have to come at seven!,” my host father, Ramdan said eagerly. “You can’t miss it. It’s the 3id! The end of Ramadan! Its important!” “Seven?! In the morning?!” I asked, somewhat in disbelief that after a month of staying up until 3 and waking up at noon or later I would be thrown so precipitously back into reality. “Ok, seven thirty,” my host mom Cherifa conceited, apparently amused at my Muslim holiday ignorance. I got up from the table and mumbled “Waxxa,” trying my Peace Corps hardest to sound excited about it.

Just an hour earlier the actual end of Ramadan had been unknown to all of us. There were speculations of course. Some people were certain that it would be Thursday night, others doubted that, thinking, maybe Thursday, but just as likely Friday. Still others, the fringe people, were way out there predicting that Saturday would be the last day of Ramadan and that everyone else was jumping the gun. Everywhere I went on Thursday people were talking about it and everyone I asked had their opinion. I asked them how we would know, especially if the sky were to be cloudy and we couldn’t see the moon. The TV of course, they answered. “ In Morocco we look out for each other! Everyone will know whether they want to or not.”

As I returned home, winding my way leisurely through the streets, I was greeted everywhere with “mabruk L 3id!” “Happy Holiday!” Yes! I know that one! But wait, how do I respond? Shit! I know there is some cool little phrase that will knock their pants off, but what is it… Nope…Nope… Not coming. When you are in the Peace Corps long enough, you come to realize how imperative it is to quickly pick up on new and time sensitive phrases. It’s a golden chance to show off to people how much language you know and how quickly you can evolve. Oh yeah! “La ibark fik!”

This morning came bright and early just as I had expected it to and I was ready for it. I had set my alarm out of the fear that I would miss all the excitement, but as I locked the door behind me on my way out, I didn’t notice a whole lot of excitement. In fact, there seemed to be a whole lot of nothing. Barely anyone was out. I started down the hill towards the family’s farm, seeing only a few people here and there quietly going their own ways. I was starting to get the uneasy feeling that I had misunderstood my simple instructions. I continued through town anyway. As I hit the dirt rut road that leads to my family’s house and heard voices mixed with the rooster crows coming across the stubble field I knew that I was right. The morning sun was breaking up the early autumn mist that lingered in the valley below the field and I had to stop my bike to let the warmth of it soak into my chilled skin. For a ginger like myself, opportunities to be friends with the sun are so rare. It was glorious. In that moment everything was right. I realized how much I had missed the morning.

It turns out that for a non-Muslim like myself, 3id Sighir, as the holiday marking the end of Ramadan is called, is not much different then any other day of the non-Ramadan calendar. Other then a few more varieties of cookies, and drinking tea even more frequently throughout the day (yes, somehow it is possible), things just sort of abruptly go back to normal. For the Muslims it is the final opportunity of the holiday to put on their Friday best, as you will, and go to the Mosque to pray and worship. I spent the day with my family, my friend Abdelghani’s family, and some new friends at one of the cafés here.

If the final day of Ramadan on Thursday marked the end of this last week, then the beginning started on Saturday in an equally dramatic fashion. I woke up Saturday morning (ok, more like noon) and decided that it would be a good idea to bike down the Zegzel Gorge road to Berkane. Jonathon said that it was a wonderful ride, and I had been meaning to do it for a long time. That I chose the middle of Ramadan when I was not eating and not really drinking a lot to take my first bike ride of any distance in almost a year did not cross my mind as particularly stupid. In fact it was a good idea. It would give me the opportunity to really feel how it is to fast and do physical labor, and anyway, from Tafoghalt to Berkane is all down hill. No need to ride back up. There are taxis for that.

It’s true that the road from Tafoghalt to Berkane is all downhill and I would have been fine had I stopped once I got there. Now I don’t know what it was. Maybe all the beautiful sites and vistas that I got to take in on the way down or maybe my long ago history of distance biking telling me that 10 downhill km didn’t count. I don’t know what, but with the sun burning hot high in the sky and with no food and little water in my system I pulled my bike back onto the road with the intent of making it the 40 km to Sadia and the beach.

To give myself credit, I did have almost a full bottle of water on my bike and the road generally sticks to the downward slope of things. I soon found out that it is mostly too gradual to notice though. I hugged the shoulder of the road, letting the crazy taxi drivers and rumbling trucks pass me. Occasionally a guy or two or three would putt past me on their moped, sometimes barely overtaking me even at my slow speed.

The ride was beautiful! I rode through orange groves, vineyards, olive orchards, and lots and lots of vegetable plots. People were out picking figs and plums. Some kids had set up shop selling cactus fruits next to the guys selling contraband gasoline. All down the road there was the feeling that finally summer had brought its most glorious and delicious goods into fruition.

I did finally ride into Sadia about mid-afternoon triumphant but a little shaky legged. Now Sadia was my ultimately my goal, but I had set my sites on a part of Sadia that I had only heard about but never seen: the golf course. I knew that it was down the coast back west, the direction I had come, so I set off again in that direction. I didn’t figure on it being another 10 km down, but I finally reached a far extending complex of complete or nearly complete condos crowded together on barren, empty streets next to trashy half filled-in wetlands. Knowing what I know about golf courses, especially those in places where they probably shouldn’t be, I had made it to my destination. It didn’t take much exploring to find what I was looking for. Set to the background of the Mediterranean and rows and rows of new, big, and “beautiful” homes, I felt like I was in some sort of alternate reality. A Morocco so new and different to me that it didn’t seem at all like Morocco as I know it. Really, the morocco only about an hour away.

I turned off onto a bike path (a real paved bike path) running between the golf course and the sea. The whole place was like a ghost town. The streets were empty. The houses looked empty. The road leading from real Sadia was empty. And suddenly out of nowhere I saw this little white girl with a little pink helmet riding her bike towards me. She was all alone. A little white girl all alone on a real paved bike path in between a beautiful green golf course and the Mediterranean Sea. Where am I? Maybe not drinking water had been a bad idea after-all.

The girl happily said Bonjur to me and was soon followed by her very French looking parents. I kept riding. Past a beach bar. Past some nice deserted swimming pools and gardens. At the end of the loop I came to the harbor and a shopping center. The harbor was full of big expensive yachts and the shopping center full of designer boutiques, but nowhere did I ever see the people who might ride in those yachts or buy those fancy clothes.

Anyway, being as deserted as it was, there were no taxis back to real Sadia. It looked like I would have to bike the 10 km back. I took a more scenic road and passed a few very expensive, exclusive hotels full of Europeans. Out of curiosity I crept into to check them out. I probably should have asked for water there, as I was pretty much dying of thirst by this time, but in my state, I could tell that security wasn’t buying that I was a paying customer.

I finally made it to town on my last reserves of energy and jetted across town to the taxi stand. I’ve grown accustomed to arguing against extra charges for cargo on both taxis and buses, but the fact that none of the drivers wanted to take my bike back to Berkane even if I did pay, convinced me not to argue the point. Anyway, the sun was getting low in the sky and if I didn’t get to Berkane quickly, I would miss the last taxi out to Tafoghalt. That would mean me being stuck in Berkane for the night. Not only did I not want that, but also I had visions of the food Cherifa was making, and I wasn’t about to miss out on it if I could help it.

We pulled up just in time for the last Tafoghalt taxi, but it being the last, I had no leverage room to work with, and had to concede to being ripped off. The ride back up the mountain was short, but we just made in time for the evening call to prayer/eat. I didn’t even have to time to go change out of my nasties. I walked my bike up the drive to my family’s house (my butt wouldn’t let me ride) dirty, sweaty, achy, and dying of thirst. They all laughed at me and agreed that it probably wasn’t a good idea after-all.

Thanks to those who send me suggestions and encouragement. Its nice to know that there are at least a few people reading this. If anyone has questions, suggestions, critiques, anything, let me know. I like hearing from the people in my small reader land. Thanks for reading.

Salam. Colin

It’s again that time of year when the morning seems to be dark when just last week it wasn’t. The time of year when, as the sun sets, a mysterious shiver, not felt since that last cold spring day, may overtake the body and leave you wondering what’s going on.

I always seem to be caught by surprise by the first chilly day of autumn. One day I’m lying on my bed sweating bullets with the fan, on at number 4, pointed directly at my outstretched body and the next I’m contemplating whether the cold shower is worth the brief feeling of cleanliness before I pull my shivering self under a layer of blankets topped by my winter rated sleeping bag. It always seems to leave me a bit disoriented. But once I’ve checked my calendar and confirmed that, yup, this is supposed to happen in September, I settle into an appreciative mindset that allows me to soak up what I know are dwindling warm rays of the sun.

I love autumn. Everything about it cries, “take me all in and enjoy me because I am a I’m all you have left of summer. Before you know it, my brother winter will drive you inside! I don’t guarantee a smooth transition, but be happy with a transition period!” I don’t know if there is anything better than the glorious fall days when the sun shines a warmth that can only be felt when outside working under it. The earthy smell of the fallen leaves, already starting to rot. They sound they make when you step on them. Crunch! The last days, when, unsure if this will be it, you try to take it all in and appreciate everything about the summer that has passed by so quickly. I even like the cold rain and mud, though in much less quantity than the sun.

I don’t know how autumn or winter play out in Tafoghalt. I’ve inquired a number of my friends about it, but I seem to get only conflicting answers. Everyone tends to agree that the winter is cold. Where they disagree is on severity. It seems to go from “oh its not too bad” to “death would be better.” I like cold, but I’ve never had to endure it for more than a few nights without a warm place to go. I’ve heard less about autumn except that the start of school falls within its seasonal boundaries and that before we know it winter will be on us.

Every year around this time I start waking up suddenly, while the sun has not yet risen, with stirrings that leave my heart beating fast and eyes dilated. Call it an unforgotten instinct or a learned habit that has lost its use, whenever it bangs on my minds door, I suddenly rise expecting to find my mama in the doorway telling me “its time.” Shit! I didn’t realize it was time to start school again already! What classes am I taking this year anyway? How long can I legitimately stay in the warm shower? Should I bother wearing something nice?

Being in rural Morocco seemed to make little difference to my subconscious mind. This year, as always, it caught me by surprise and left me in a panic. When the haze of Monday night’s sleep dissolved and I realized that it wasn’t my mama who had awoken me, but the groggy sounding man who does the morning call to prayer, I was left feeling relieved but also a little empty. I guess I miss the era in my life of first days of school, and my mama’s voice abruptly stomping out my pleasant dreams.

We are still living the Ramadan life in Morocco. I have come to a point of appreciation for it that I had not realized before. Not only has my body caught up to the change in sleep cycles, but also my mind has been able to grasp something of the contemplation that Muslims are able to seek and practice during their free time and under the strain of fasting. Even I have come to a point where I don’t think about food or what I should do next, but I think about, whatever it is that I do do, I should do it fully and without distraction. If for no other reason than that I have the time.

I’m of course among many who have come to this conclusion as a result of the lifestyle change. Point in case. On Monday night (remember this is the same day that I woke up to phantom first day of school angst), I came home to an apartment blazing with light. I knew that I hadn’t left them on when I left so I entered with caution. I wasn’t very concerned because, as I think I’ve mentioned before, I have a man (hence forth mentioned as homeboy) and his child living “temporarily” in my bedroom on the roof. It’s not of huge concern as the bedroom is separate from the rest of the apartment. The only issue is that its window looks down directly into my makeshift kitchen and living room. So not only can he watch me from up there like the guy from that one game show, but we can here each other as if we were in the same corner of a parking garage. Anyway, that’s all beside the point.

I walk in, and seeing the door to the garage (where homeboy is supposed to be staying) open I figured I would go in and say hi. You know, friendly neighbor stuff. What I find when I walk in is a young dude awkwardly standing there in his towel. Blushing, I said hello and left. I noticed someone else there as well, but didn’t see who it was and figured it was another dude. It’s not that unusual for homeboy (that’s what I call my roommate) to bring his friends over.

Anyway, later I went up to my roof to do some reading as I do most nights. I see the dude and awkwardly say hi again. He seems to be going to bed. Turns off the lights and everything. Almost instantly I start hearing the unmistakable sounds that we all know. It starts out quiet and before I know it, it’s echoing around my house and over the edge of my roof into the world below. I only hear the dude though. This is when I thought, “Dear lord! It’s either two dudes or one really loud dude and a girl that I don’t know having sex in my house!” Homosexuality is totally forbidden here, but as men and women don’t interact a lot, there is apparently quite a bit of “not homosexual” experimenting that goes on between dude friends. I thought that’s what was happening. Turns out it was a woman. They proceeded to make noise the whole night. And stuck around for another day and night. Right, I should have gone up there and told them to keep it down, but I’ve gotten so used to sleeping through an array of odd noises that it didn’t bother me too much. Just another animal sound to add to the symphony of dogs howling, roosters crowing, donkeys whinnying (do donkeys whinny?), cats screaming, and mosques blasting. I did tell my landlord the next day that there were two strangers staying in my apartment without mentioning any details of their activities. He replied unsurprised, “yeah, they are my friends.” My landlord is lending “his” pad to his buddies so they can bring girls over. Sweet! The point of the story, I guess, is that that couple was clearly doing what they were doing fully and without distraction.

Ramadan is almost over, but for those of you who are interested in learning more about this most important time of year in the Muslim calendar I will include some links to the Speaking of Faith website where you can download a number of podcasts on the topic. They don’t go into the details of why or how Ramadan works, but instead delve into ways in which different people experience it. I think they are a pretty great way of getting a glimpse into an experience that many of us will never have a chance to be a part of.

Ok, not exactly the direct link, but if you work at it you will get there.

http://speakingoffaith.publicradio.org/podcast/podcasthelp.shtml

bsalama

Still in the thick of Ramadan, so the adventures of Colin Gettle are sort of on hold. Unless that is, you think of Ramadan as an adventure unto itself. I thought that it was going to be, and maybe I may look back on it as such, but right now it has already sort of turned into a daily grind. Get up late, laze around my apartment, break fast with someone, hang out at the café until midnight or so, and then back to the apartment to read or watch a movie until my late bedtime. Same thing every day.

Now that I think about it, it’s strange how quickly things become routine and feel stagnant. Ramadan only started two weeks ago and there are less then to weeks to go. I’ve been trying lately to find a way into a mindset of contentment with the moment. I always seem to be living dreading the future or dreamily dwelling on the past, but rarely enjoying the moment. I know that I join pretty much everyone else in that problem. I have read that smoking pot and meditation both help in bringing a person into their present state of being. I have access to both, but I think meditation is probably the better long-term solution. I think my parents and the Moroccan police would probably agree with me on that too.

To break the routine (and also to try to take care of some personal business) I took a little trip down to Jerada on Monday. Jerada is not the nicest place in Morocco to go to, but as Joe, one of the volunteers who lives there can attest, it’s not the worst place either. Its main employer is the big coal plant just on the outside of town. I know in the US we think of coal plants as dirty dirty places, but I imagine with the environmental standards that they have to comply to, they look a lot better than this place. There are days when it looks like Dante’s Peak with a dusting of ash drifting down from the sky. Anyway, I went there for a change up and some business. The business wasn’t taken care of, but it’s always great to see Joe and Socorra, the nearest volunteers. We always eat well and have fun playing cards, music, or watching the countless hours of movies and TV series on their external hard drives. In this trip also went to see Socorra's site of Gafait about half an hour further from Joe. Her site is beautiful and spread out with a very popular river running through the middle of it. Fasting didn’t make for a pleasant ride back, but in Berkane I saw a group of little old Spanish women who clearly looked like they were having the time of their lives venturing into this part of the country on their own, and that made me happy.

This last week has been tough. One of the tougher of the almost six months that I have been here. Ramadan has, in a sense, trapped me in my own head. A scary thought really. What I thought was unstructured time before this month of fasting started now seems busy in comparison. I truly have very few duties or objectives that I can accomplish as my village, the whole country actually, is on hold until the 10th of September when they can break the final day of fasting. It has become a creative struggle everyday to keep myself going and stay sane.

My biggest challenge has been creating structure and order. Where normally (I say normally meaning the average of my adult life) I would be looking on my calendar for the free time to do whatever I want to do, now I desperately try to think of actual obligations that I have to fulfill so that I can throw it up on the calendar like a little island of scribbled ink hope in a big ocean of blank squares.

I guess, while yes this unstructuring of my life has been and continues to be a huge obstacle, I am increasingly able to see the value of the experience. Not constantly having a barrage of events, obligations, and work to saturate my time, and especially not having English speaking people to be busy with, I have been forced to reduce my speed and enter into the uncomfortable world of reflection, patience, and self discovery. It’s a scary place too! I will tell you that!

In addition to all this wonderful philosophical self-enhancement, I do get to so some other things that are probably good for me. For instance I now read a lot. I cant vouch for the quality of all I’ve read (most of my reading materials are contained on one and a half shelves of my little book case), but its nice to get back into habit that I abandoned along time ago when the calendar started to fill. I’ve tried my hand, to a less successful degree, at painting and yoga as well. Thinking of meditation (perhaps a more fruitful means of introspection than self pity) in the near future. I’m welcome to tips on any of these things as well as suggestions for books to read. Though, if you suggest it with any passion, you might have to send it. I haven’t yet found the Barnes and Noble down the street.

When I think about this new life of undefined time, I imagine that I’m in good company. I probably share this experience of isolation and introspection with prisoners, monks, and the occasional hermit in addition to all the other Peace Corps workers out there. We all know that monks and Peace Corps volunteers generally turn out to be good people, and if Shawshank Redemption has anything to teach us, it’s that prison has its benefits too. I don’t know about hermits, but I’ve met some pretty hermitic volunteers here and they don’t seem worse off for the experience. Maybe a bit more skittish around other foreigners, but not worse off.

I don’t want to make it sound like I’m being to productive though. I still spend plenty of time in empty thought, goofing off or watching Star Trek.

Right. I spend a lot of time in my house by myself finding ways to occupy my time. That’s my life right now. Tafoghalt remains in its Ramadan stupor. One noteworthy thing. It has begun to rain more. This week has seen at least a couple of storms. Fall seems to be on its way. With the rain came a discovery. By discovery, I mean it should have been obvious before, but I never stopped to consider it fully. The discovery was this: when it rains (and if I’m to believe anyone, it rains a lot in the fall and winter), my house floods. Not just a little of it. No, pretty much all of it. The reason is that at some point before I even moved in the wind took part of the roof off. I obviously new that part of my roof was missing; I just never stopped to think of the consequences of it. In my defense there is a drain where the water comes in. It just drains at a rate of molasses. In any case, such is life in Morocco.

This week marked the official start of Ramadan, the Muslim holiday commemorating the 9th month of the Islamic calendar when Muslims believe the first verses of the Qur’an were revealed to the prophet Muhammad. As one of the seven pillars of Islam, fasting during Ramadan is hugely important here in Morocco as in other Muslim countries. It means abstaining from eating, drinking, and sexual activity.

I returned to my site from PPST training on Sunday, and until its start two days ago I tried to gain a sense from my friends here as to what I should expect. I asked how long the fasting was. What do people eat when they break fast? Do people work during the day. How is the time of the Call to Prayer determined? As in so many things though, nothing really prepared me for the actuality of Ramadan. Here’s how it works as I’ve so far experienced it.

By Wednesday, most people were pretty sure that Thursday would be the start, but officially it depends on the moon (it has to be crescent, usually the day after the new moon) and therefore, until it is determined to be the correct moon, Ramadan doesn’t start. The only answer I got when I asked when it started was “probably Thursday, maybe Friday.” Fasting, and thus Ramadan itself, did start at the 3:30 AM morning call to prayer (called fajr) on Thursday. I actually slept through it, and thus didn’t get a chance to gorge myself before the day began and I couldn’t eat or drink. I am fasting with everyone else, so missing my chance was a big mistake for the first day and by 3 in the afternoon with the sun scorching hot, I very much regretted not having set my alarm.

Now I don’t really have to worry about missing “dinner” because there is a Ramadan schedule and, as it seems to be the easiest way to do things, I’ve adopted it. The schedule is pretty similar to the one I was on when I worked night shift. I get up around 11 AM. At this point it’s pretty hot outside, and as I don’t have a lot of work to do (at least not while everyone is fasting), I stay inside to conserve my water. It’s pretty nice. I get a lot of reading and writing done. In the afternoon I take a nap and wander outside for a little, never straying too far from home, and always trying to dart from one cool shadow to another. Some people are out doing the same thing or working and we greet each other, but the conversations are brief in order to conserve what little energy and water we have. We will have time later. At about 5 PM I start to catch the scents of the foods the women are preparing for the nights “breakfast.” These smells seem to awaken the town, and by 6 people are out moving around, talking, buying last minute food, and getting to wherever they are going to break the fast that night. At about 7, the tables are set with food. Almost everyone has made it to their destinations and is eagerly awaiting the evening call to prayer to sound so they can start eating and drinking.

So far I have only broken fast at my host family’s house. I arrive early and wait outside with my “parents” and “siblings” to catch the first “Allahu Akbar.” They live a little ways out of town and on more then one occasion we have gotten excited over the faint start of someone’s car stereo blaring: false alarm. When we do sit down to eat, the table is already full of different things. A hotdog, hardboiled egg salad with ketchup. Bell peppers “tagined” in olive oil. Olives. Dates with M&Ms. Some pastry type things. A very dense cornbreadish thing called Hrsha (one of my favorites by far). Sometimes a small bit of chicken. Bread and sweet tea of course. And as a main dish, a Moroccan soup called harira which is mmm mmm good.

There’s no real formality to it. As soon as the call to prayer is heard, everyone mumbles a quick “bismilla” (their version of grace) and digs in. The eating is over with in a matter of minutes it seems. And then, at least with my family, we sit around for a while talking and picking at nearby leftovers whenever hunger strikes again. It’s a bit like Thanksgiving.

After dinner, the town really comes alive. People awake from their foodless, drinkless stupor and move outside, where the men go to the cafes, and couples walk around town together, taking advantage of the new energy and cool evening air. Since I am a man and I don’t have a nice young lady to walk around town with, I go to the café where I sit with the men of the village and watch TV or talk (mostly I listen because I don’t understand much of what they are saying and wouldn’t know how to say what I wanted to say even if I had something to say). When I take my leave a little after midnight, there are still lots of people out. I go home, eat another snack, and sit out on my roof under the stars listening to the noise in town grow thinner as people make their way back to their homes. At around 2:30 AM I cook up “dinner” and down as much water as I can, aware that my sleep will no doubt be interrupted numerous times because of it. I go to bed around 3.

I’ve had a lot of people ask me why I’m fasting and there is really only one good reason. I want to integrate into my community as quickly as possible, and there are not many better ways of doing so that I can think of than going through a difficult experience with those people. Already I feel like I’ve gained a certain measure of respect. Almost everyone I talk to asks whether I am fasting or not. When I tell them that I am, I get a lot of excited expressions and eager questions about how it’s going. I’m not really sure though, the excitement might actually be because they think I’ve converted. If that’s the case, I will let them believe what they will.

Again, we are only in the 3rd day of the month long “celebration”, but this has been how it has been the last few nights. It’s not too hard for me as I don’t have lots of physical work to do and also I live in a relatively cool place by Moroccan standards. I like the schedule and the relaxed feeling that comes with it (of course if I have to do any traveling, I will have to throw the relaxed feeling out the window), but I will be glad when the final breakfast happens and I can hopefully start working with people on things they want to accomplish here.

I'm going to try something here. In addition to updating what is going on on a weekly basis (which I dont really do anyway), I'm going to write a few blogs about general life here. For instance, the first one is on travel. I know what your probably thinking if you care at all about this blog. I should try to write something period before adding anything. Yeah... I'm going to do it this way. It is my blog after all.

Traveling in Morocco is a challenge. I discovered this almost as soon as I had set foot here. The challenges come in all kinds of forms. Sometimes it’s the vehicle, sometimes the driver, other times it’s the dudes sitting next to you (and by that I mean more like on top of you). Always, though, it is neccesary for one to muster up as much patience as they have, and go expecting nothing less than an adventure.

Being on the far east side of Morocco, I’ve perhaps had to endure more traveling than most of the other volunteers. Almost nothing Peace Corps related happens anywhere near me. The closest place that I would go to for PC is Fes, which is about 7 hours away, and I would only do that in emergencies because its my “consolidation point.” Otherwise, if its PC its usually at least 9 hours away. It takes me 3 days to get some places.

It seems that rarely is any means of transportation ready for what its about to do (i.e. go somewhere) but somehow, sometimes by seemingly miraculous means, they always get me where I want to go, and, at least to this point, I have gotten there alive. Inshah Allah it stays that way!

I think it was the second month that I was in this country; I was coming back to my CBT site with my fellow trainees from some little outing. I think we were trying to catch some lizards to eat for dinner or something. Anyway, we ended up getting a ride with a cousin of somebody in his fire extinguisher truck/car/van thing. It was full of fire extinguishers. The car itself was pretty shady, not really right on its wheels, but it wasn’t until one of the fire extinguishers exploded in the back that we panicked. I think we were all pretty sure someone had just gotten shot like the lady in the movie “Babel”. I don’t think our Arabic could have gotten us very far.

Here’s how traveling with a group of PC volunteers usually goes. We all walk to the station (petit taxis could get us there but they are expensive, and its way more hardcore to lug 60 pounds of stuff on your back) where there are generally grand taxis, souk buses, and sometimes CTM buses. Grand taxis are usually the quickest, as they go from one point to another without stopping. They are, however, a bit expensive and also whoever chooses this option generally gets the honor of sharing the car with 6 other dudes. To say the least it’s cozy. In the summer, you usually get out of the taxi covered in the sweat of the two guys sitting on your lap. If this is not appealing, then there is the souk bus, but beware, although the souk bus may be the cheapest, what you save in money you lose in time, patience, and body water. The last option is for the xans flus (the dirty rich). It’s called CTM and it’s definitely the nicest option other than train travel. Almost always you get your own seat, there is air conditioning, and there is no having to endure the 200 random stops along the way to pick up and drop off people. But, as mentioned before its for the xans flus, which is not usually us. Ok, so we get to the station and these are the options we are looking at. We stop, dripping with sweat, in the middle of the taxi lot. What now? Do we pay the money for comfort and reliability? Or do we bite the bullet and risk the souk bus? Oh CTM… if only. The discussion is almost always the same (the merits of one, the problems with the other), and when we get on the souk bus, we wonder what the point of having it was.

Just a couple of days ago we had this exact chat. Milling around the taxi lot in Azrou, we surveyed our options to get home from Post PST Training. There was a taxi with 3 open spots. There were 4 of us. Buying out a whole taxi would be expensive, and also we are above being ripped off in any way. CTM would be nice… of course. In the end, as always, we ended up lugging our stuff into the adjacent bus station to look at the souk bus times. One in 10 minutes!? Perfect. We went outside to wait. 10 minutes, 20, 30. The bus wasn’t even in the lot. Finally, it showed up and we got on. From the outside, as we loaded our bags, we could already see that it was full. Oh well. We got on and grabbed the few remaining open seats. We were off… sort of. We hadn’t even gotten out of town when the bus stopped. It couldn’t get up the hill. Every time the driver tried to shift, the bus stalled and started drifting backward. Luckily, the quick thinking assistant guy threw some rocks behind the wheels and tried coxing the bus up the hill. No luck. For every 5 feet we gained, we drifted 30 back down the hill. And each time the bus went backward, a group of women on board sent out a dramatic scream that stirred the bus into a pandemonium of panic and crazed discussion.

Now the assistant guy had a better idea. Lets get a running start up this thing. Not a bad idea and to give him credit, we made it about 10 feet passed our previous record before the bus couldn’t go any further. Right. Lets get everyone off the bus and then try it again. We walked up the hill, while the bus slowly struggled along beside us. It was working, but the hill was at least a couple of km long and I don’t think any one of the paying customers was keen on walking the whole way to Fes. Soon the driver thought it would be a good idea to get everyone back on. He honked his horn impatiently as if we were wasting his time sitting outside the bus. As soon as we got back on, we started back down the hill. We got off again, and started it all over. Nope. Not this time either. Finally, the driver called somebody at the station and said a new bus was coming. The bus arrived, but when we saw it, we all laughed. It was about half the size of the previous bus. We unloaded and then reloaded our bags onto the new bus and climbed on. Of course, being half the size as the previously full bus, there were not enough seats. Not a huge problem, considering we had just spent over an hour trying to get up a hill 6 blocks from the bus station. We finally got on our way, but as souk buses usually do, we were forced to keep stopping to let new people on. Before long, the aisles were full, people were sitting on the stairs, and someone was on my lap. Also, there was a good chance we were not going to make it in time for our train. Then, having caught glimpse of the whities the assistant guy of the new bus climbed over dozens of people to get to the back of the bus where we sat. He wanted more money for our luggage. We had already paid extra on the last bus. We laughed. We knew if we didn’t pay, he would probably pester us for the rest of the trip or until we did. Pestering is pretty easy to ignore, though, if you don’t understand most of what’s being said.

If that story wasn’t fun enough, here’s another. This happened a little over a month ago. Two friends from the states came to visit. Hi Katie and Ashley if your reading this. It’s about you. I had just picked them up and we were on our way back to Tafoghalt on the souk bus. About an hour into the uneventful, even pleasant, drive, I heard a scream and then loud commotion from the back of the bus where Katie and Ashley were sitting. I couldn’t see what was going on, only that people were getting up and crowding around the girls’ seat. I craned my neck to get a glimpse. I saw the girls. They seemed fine. Whatever had happened happened in the seat ahead of them. I could see a woman in that seat. She was crying frantically. The woman besides her seemed to be asleep on her shoulder. Some people were kind of nudging the sleeping woman, but no one was really doing anything other then crowding. The bus pulled over and I finally caught what had happened. There are shelves above the seats in souk buses like in airplanes, except without doors. And like in airplanes stuff can fall from them. This time, what fell happened to be a bulk pack of canned corn and it fell smack onto the woman’s unsuspecting head. We sat on the side of the road waiting for the police, the woman left to her unconsciousness and her friend left to her frantic crying. The police finally arrived, but instead of helping the woman, they went straight to questioning the owner of the cans, trying to determine what he was doing with them, why he had put them up there, etc. This went on for over an hour while the woman drifted in and out of consciousness. Finally she was moved off the bus, but had to continue to wait for the police, who were now going through the bus reenacting what had happened and searching for other dangerous canned corn. We ended up leaving two hours later. The woman and her friend were still there on the side of the road.

I’m not sure why so little attention was paid to her. It might have been strictly due to beaurocracy or maybe it was because she was a woman. I’m not sure. Katie and Ashley were surprised and outraged. I guess it was here that I realized how accustomed to the ways of Morocco I had become. I was outraged, but not surprised. Things like this happen, and where there would almost certainly be a lawsuit in the States, here people just carry on, only now with something exciting to talk to their buddies about at the café.

So, that’s just a little glimpse into some of the more exciting moments of travel that I’ve had so far here in Morocco. Most of the time, while crowded and hot, it is at least usually reliable and comprehensive. I’ve met some of the most interesting people and had some of my best conversations in taxis, buses, and trains. Even though it’s always exhausting and almost never predictable, in the end, what kind of adventure would this be without it.

I have been meaning to write this for a long time, but, you know, excuses are easy to come by when you have all the time in the world to think about them. For those of you who care, I’m sorry and hope this makes up for all the unwritten entries. For those of you who don’t care, I hope this entry is amazing enough to make you care next time I neglect to write.

Current location: on the “patio” of my host family’s house. It is a Thursday, which means that most of the tourists are back home for the week and town has gone back to its sleepy self. The sun is out, but up here on the mountain the weather rarely gets excruciatingly hot. Not like the south. Anyway, I am in the shade of a fig and cedar tree and under a trellis of ripening grapes. The patio overlooks the small family garden that is terraced down the beginning of the Zegzal valley. Just down the hill is a steep cliff over which a waterfall tumbles and at the bottom of which is the cave of Pigeons.

If this sounds too good, I think the same thoughts every morning. Well…maybe not EVERY morning, but a lot of them. The beauty that surrounds me is pretty astounding. Where my house sits, I can look down the valley at the towering Zegzel cliffs or if I go down the road a little, I can see the Mediterranean on clear days. No doubt that, if this were in America, there would be a hotel, rest stop, or some sort of scenic overlook where my house is.

It’s a lucky thing that this post is being written. I was just on my way to my host father’s café, when I realized I had some battery left in my computer. As we don’t have electricity at the house, this is sort of a big deal and I wanted to celebrate. So here it is, my celebration of electricity.

I tend to spend most of my time at the Café. My host-father, Ramdan, owns it, and it seems to be a popular place. Especially now, with the World Cup in full swing. It doesn’t have a name and it looks exactly like all the other hole-in-the-wall cafes in Morocco, but when I become a star volunteer and write a book about this, the café will get its own chapter. I might even dedicate the book to it. It’s where I do most of my learning and, since at the moment I have lots of time and not lots to do, I spend a considerable chunk of every day there. I will admit that most of it is spent staring into space or at the tourists passing by. Most of the people have lost interest in me already and just count me as the white guy who doesn’t talk much and who is there way too much (they all know by know how bad at Darija I am, so most don’t have the energy to bother trying).

I could go on about how much of a struggle the boredom and rejection and language are, but really, I still feel like this is a bit of a vacation. Just one where there is little to do and even littler money to do it with. When I say little, I only mean that in the scope of my situation. I have two years and lots of time. If I were on vacation I would not have enough time. I’ve set up a system of rationing (I try do this with some foods as well i.e. Mike and Ikes with less success) so that, at least for the first few months, I can have new things to do and new places to go when I need them.

Examples of ways I pass my time outside of sitting around:

1) I spend a lot of time looking for and figuring out how I’m going to find a place to live. I actually just signed a contract for a very nice place today, but until I have all my stuff there and I’m soundly sleeping in my own bed, I’m going to be skeptical. When I have it, though, welcome to anyone who wants to stop by.

2) I look through the previous volunteer’s donation to me, sifting through the junk in search of useful things. I have found a bed, stove, playing cards, coffee, plunger, and two seasons of Star Trek: Deep Space 9. There were a lot of dirty clothes and dishes to go through to get to them, but I am very thankful to Jonathon for it all.

3) I take trips out of site once in a while for varying activities. I have now been to Fez, the national park outside of Taza, the beach near me, and Rabat. I also spend quite a bit of time in Oujda and Jerada, where the nearest volunteers to me live. It is about 2-3 hours away depending on how many people want to get on and off the bus on the way there.

4) Another way I pass the time is at home with the family. Mostly I play with the kids, because it’s an easy way to have fun without talking. Sometimes, when I’m very lucky, I get to help with the manual labor. I mean that. I really appreciate now doing real work. Ramdan, again, is my host father. In addition to owning a café, he works for the Kied (or local mayor type person), and farms. He is a kind man and clearly cares about the future of his children. He has been very patient with me. His wife Cherifa is also very kind and patient. In addition, she is an amazing cook and, it appears, has quite the sense of humor. Their kids are 3li (17), Sana (13), and Yassine (11). Yassine is a handful and both him and Sana always want to play some game or other, but they are polite and helpful when I need anything. 3li just got home for the summer from high school in Berkane, and now he spends most of his time working at the café. I get along with him very well.

5) Finally, I do a lot of hiking around. There are some established trails around the mountains outside of town. I also make my own way once in a while. Today we actually had a large group of students from colleges around the country hike into town. The nice forested area around my mountains is relatively small, but I’m lucky to have it.

Right now I have a few things that I am looking forward to. First being the World Cup. It’s quite an event here even though Morocco’s team sucks (not my words, theirs). Secondly I will be moving out of my home stay soon. While it has been a good experience, four months was plenty and I’m ready for some privacy again. I’m also ready to stop living out of my bags finally. Around this time, I have some friends coming to visit from the States. They are stopping here for a week as part of their Euro trip. After that a Fourth of July celebration on the beach. A few weeks later some more training in the Atlas Mountains. And then a weekend in Rabat for work.

Wow, looking at it. I actually have a lot to do!

Anyway, that was way too much to write, so I’m going to try to do this more regularly. But, you know, no promises.

Ok. I know, I know. I havent written anything since the beginning of April. I promise I have reasonable excuses. One being that Im in the Peace Corps. That is my excuse for everything now. Anyway, in the month and half that has transpired since the last post, basically everything has happened. I found out my post, was sworn in, and moved to my post. I cant say exactly where for my personal safety, but Im in the Berkane region, in the mountains south of Berkane. Its a beautiful town in the mountains, near the sea. The people are very nice. There is great hiking. Its hard being in a new town, especially when one doesnt know anybody, cant speak to anyone in English, and is living with a local family in a tiny little farm house. Anyway, right now my days dont consist of much beyond reading books, writing, playing with my brother and sister and hanging out at the cafe.

Yup, this post is not much of a consolation for all the time missed, but if anyone is still out there reading it, its a brief update. Hopefully, when internet is more easily accessible I will be able to do a solid job of this. Or again, maybe not. We will see. In the meantime, if anyone wants to know more, they will have to send me personal emails or mail. Email is gettle.colin@gmail.com.

Im in Ourzazate, our “hub” site and we only get a small amount of time to use the spotty internet at the hotel. I don’t have much time to write right now, so I apologize in advance if this email is littered with mistakes. I will hopefully be able to put more into them in the future.

April 1st. One month since leaving my waving parents in the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport. On most days since then it seems like time has gone slow-mo. Maybe its because we have been going non-stop or maybe its because there is no solid routine. I would imagine it is both, but this last month has been a long one. That’s not to say that it hasn’t been good though.

I live in a village with 5 other volunteers, a trainer, and hundreds of Moroccans, and I’m happy to already call a lot of them my friends. It is definetly hard being around the same people all the time, but it does force me to build relationships that might not have otherwise happened. The five of us do most things together, even when we are not in school. This weekend our mission is to procure some tire tubes so we can go floating down the river near Idlesen.

I also feel like in the last month I have gained pretty tremendous ground on Darija. Already I feel more confindent in it than I ever did in any of the other languages I’ve studied. There really isn’t anything better for learning a language than being emmersed in it to the point where you are forced to use it for daily needs and wants. Im already able to have simple conversations with my teacher and even once in a while with my host family. Context definetly works to my advantage in most of these conversations.

Additionally, my perspective is constantly in a state of alteration. I learn new things everyday about Moraccans, the culture, and my village of Idelsen. All my preconceived ideas are being flipped around. There is no way, as I see it right now, that I wont come away fromt his experience not having learned more than I can teach. This last week we have been planning for an Earth Day Celebration for our village. In accessing what Idelsen needs and wants, we have discovered that they would be a model for any US town. Its easy to be distracted by the trash and plastic bags strewn around (and that is a real issue for them which they are aware of), but they don’t create a lot of trash, they use most of their water very wisely, they reuse, they compost. This is more than likely an issue of saving money, but since when in the US have we not been concerned with saving money. Im really excited about what the people here already do, and look forward to conspiring with them on ways that they can improve.

I guess it is not surprising that I am posting my first blog almost a week into my time here in Morocco. Being a natural procrastinator doesn't help when there is very little time for writing anyway. Maybe, whoever may be reading this will appreciate that I have been trying to get out and do and see what I can instead. So when I do write, it will be interesting. Inshallah. God willing. Today we will leave the safety of our 71 large American group for the relative peace of our community based training, where we will live with host families in small village near Ourzazat. I meet them today as well. Here is how it works as I know it. We had nearly a week as a whole group when we first got here. One night in Marakesh, and three nights here in Ourzazat. Quick fact: Ourzazat is the "Hollywood" of Morocco. Remember Gladiator, The Kingdom of Heaven, Babel? All here. Plus others that I can't remember. I even met a guy last night who had met Jackie Chan and Jean Claud Van Dam here. Today marks the end of that. Then we move to our CBT sites for about two months, returning to Ourzazat once in a while for debriefing type activities. After the CBT, we will be sworn in as volunteers and be assigned to our permanent sites. My training village is just south of here. My time is short so I will wrap this first one up. Hopefully I will get a chance to write more about my CBT in the next post.