Drifting (Final Episode: Rabat and home again)

Rabat is not, like almost ever other major city in Morocco, a tourist destination. Rather, since it is the capitol, it is a place of work for most local and international governmental and non-governmental agencies. It is therefore, a city that takes itself seriously, and has no time to bother with impressing it's guest (which in itself is very impressive). Meanwhile, it boasts what must be the largest collection of pizzerias and ice cream shops in all of Morocco. Additionally, it possesses one of the liveliest, most diverse souq markets, a small but impressive flower market, an unexpected array of architecture, and of course, the ocean.

One day while wondering the streets of Rabat, Amber and I came across our friend Jack, who works in the mountains north of us in one of the coldest sites in Morocco. He had befriended some Fulbright scholars who are researching Morocco and who live in Rabat in a sweet condo overlooking the ocean. As it happened, he was headed to see them, and having never seen Rabat's shoreline, we asked permission to tag along. A short taxi ride took us from downtown Rabat to an intersection on a steep incline obscuring our view of the ocean just over the hill. We crossed it diagonally, passed a towering set of historic wooden doors, and entered into the most irresistible neighborhood of curving cobblestone alleyways. It was a quiet old adobe medina, whitewashed except for a strip of cerulean blue paint from floor to waist level. Turning a corner, we followed an undulating stone path, which forked into two dead-ends, one bowing of to the right and narrowing to the width of a thin human, and the other widening and dropping down a few stone steps, before terminating at a stout aged wooden door. Along this amusing trail we found our destination and stepped into the surprisingly modern interior of a condo- not unlike what you might expect to find in any American suburb -except for a flight of stairs which took us to a rooftop patio surrounded by other rooftops of staggered height, and overlooking the beach. There we lounged in the sun, watching the crashing waves and the surfers that road them preparing on the sand.

That place, so different from the high desert Berber village that I try hard to inhabit, was the other side of Morocco. And in it, I could see not only the differences between these two divergent pieces of Morocco, but also the similarities- the characteristics that define this country - diversity, conviviality, effortless beauty, and contentment (which I admit that I have sometimes mistaken for naivety or indolence). Seeing these familiar traits in an unfamiliar setting, invigorated my love of Morocco. As we sat and enjoyed the view, the warm sun, and the light breezes, a calm came over me. We chatted with Jack about the idiosyncrasies of Peace Corps living, and laughing about our unusual existence. Suddenly we came to an important realization; that a PCV was inevitably the first person to utter the age-old question, "Why did the chicken cross the road". First of all, you must acknowledge that in the majority of PCV sites, chicken road-crossings or a daily if not hourly occurrence. Pair that with the inexorable inquisitiveness and boredom of most PCV, and add to that the limited language skills of learning an obscure second language, and what do you get? An obvious and simple, yet elusive question, "Why did that chicken cross the road"? Actually, its a fair question. I see chickens cross the road all the time for no apparent reason. I mean why are they even near the road in the first place. Many times they just end up crossing back after a short time, and there are rarely more dangers to evade or more pebbles to peck at on one on side than another. So why did the chicken cross the road? Maybe in order to befriend and assist a previously unknown culture. Or to get to know another part of the world. Or to discover more about herself and enrich her soul. Or maybe she just saw something shiny...

Eventually we walked down to the beach, passing a sign that said in French "Hazardous Area" and had an arrow pointing down a steep trail, daring people, rather than dissuading them, to go down the path towards a stone lookout built up over the rocks and rolling waves. Then we walked down along the beach to a boardwalk dotted with fishermen, smitten couples, and men boiling water with portable propane tanks. We walked out to the end and lingered until we were drenched by an overreaching wave and decided to head back. Back at the condo we split ways with Jack and took our time walking back to our hotel through the evening souq. Along the way we ate some pizza, enjoyed some outstanding date flavored gelato with freshly made waffle cones, and bartered for a nice pair of leather shoes with some salesboys that spoke TaslHite. All the while we marveled at the general lack of attention we received as foreigners; a welcome change of pace.

We spent three days enjoying the no-hassle, no-hustle atmosphere of Rabat, and then we got back on the train to Marrakech (actually we got on the wrong train and were told by the friendly ticket-checker to get off and wait for the our intended train at the next stop). But we made it back to Marrakech without further incident, spent the night in an inexpensive Peace Corps-friendly hotel, and were up early the next morning catching a bus back home. When we arrived home and picked up our house keys from the neighbors, their enthusiasm reassured us that we had not lost much ground with our community during our absence. What ground we did lose and more would soon be made up with our participation in the upcoming celebration of one of the most important Moroccan holidays, "L3id Kbir" (literally "big holiday").

Drifting (Episode Two: Tiznit, Home, and Rabat)

One evening in crowded center of Marrakech will enchant you, leaving you exhausted and wanting more. A second day will break the spell. Spending any more time than that will only irritate you. We took full advantage of our time in the magical city- buying handcrafted goods, visiting the obligatory souqs and stalls, making friends and drinking tea with vendors, and even crossing the path of a well-known actress currently filming the "Sex in the City" sequel movie- but when the time came to say goodbye, we were ready. And though it was fun to experience the more extravagant and free-spirited tourist lifestyle in Morocco, by far the most rewarding moments in Marrakech occurred when I connected to the local people in ways that only a PCV can. Seeing people's eyes light up when they realized we were speaking to them in TashlHite was priceless. And I was fascinated to find myself in arguments with people whose racism ferments deep hatred for the Berbers of Morocco, a people they insist are irreligious and barbaric. I may not have changed their minds, but I felt more like a local, and more like a Berber than ever before, arguing for the equal rights and respect of Morocco's indigenous inhabitants. So, while it was hard to say goodbye to Denise and Amber who were headed to Fez for more fun-filled city exploration, it was with pleasure that I put my volunteer hat back on, and headed back to the bled.

From Marrakech I took a bus to Agadir, where I met Jess and Marge from my CBT group. Together we took a taxi a bit further south down the coast, to their stomping grounds of Tiznit.

The Tiznit Provence is known for its vast silver market, its exotic argan nuts (supposedly grown nowhere else in the world), its conservative religious tendencies, and its lack of work (which correlates directly to a lack of males, most of whom travel elsewhere for employment). As result, only female Peace Corps volunteers are sent to the region and the area is affectionately referred to as "the convent". It was, therefore, with great caution and stealth that I smuggled myself into Jess's house, where we spent the evening making Thai food and watching movies. Early the next morning we exited Jess's village with equal surreptitiousness, returning to the casual, sunny city of Tiznit (Tiznit's sleepy beach community atmosphere reminds me of a very young San Diego). There we spent hours wandering the bright dusty streets witnessing what seemed like miles of silver shops. We ate delicious harsha (like flat corn bread) with honey and melted butter, in a cafe whose impressive display of pastries was improved by the constant buzzing of bees attracted by sugary glazes. We visited the two major Tiznit tourist attractions; the iconic adobe mosque spiked with logs, which supposedly help spirits climb to heaven; and the original city spring, steeped in legend and sadly mistreated. And before I left, we played Marge's recently purchased "Moroccan Monopoly", with property names, train stations and utility companies that we recognized from around Morocco! My only complaint was that the all-important "souq" was not represented on the board.... oh and the "chance" cards, sadly, were in French.

The next morning I left Tiznit on an early bus, and arrived home, just before dark, to a bitter-sweet homecoming. I felt homesick and missed my community, but I also sensed that my extended absence had distanced me from my neighbors and friends. Also, my language was out of practice, and Amber's absence (she was still away in Fez), made the house lonely and complicated my ability to reengage friendships with community members, particularly women (As you may have gathered, Moroccan culture does not openly accept friendships between people of the opposite sex. Any relationship between a man and a woman who are not related is assumed to be sexual. Of course, this varies from region to region, and is much less true in bigger cities. In our town it is okay to have mixed friendships if you are married, as long as the married couple is together. I doubt that I could even have a tutoring lesson with our female tutor without Amber present).

I moped around the house without direction, making very little contact with the community and inadvertently addicting myself to episodes of "Mad Men" (more on this later hopefully), before finally deciding to focus. By the time Amber returned, I had mentally reinvented my approach to working, and I was redoubling my efforts to assimilate in the community. Soon things started looking up. We had some really great interactions with people in the community, our language was seemingly on the rise again, and we were encouraged. Together we decided that the best thing for us to do, both for our sanity and for the sake of our work, was to stay firmly planted in our community for a length of time, and avoid further travel. I don't know if this is a Morocco thing or a Peace Corps thing, but the life we lead here is one of constant contradiction. Within days of our resolution to remain stationary, we were told that we would need to travel, with only one days notice, to Rabat for the weekend.

Entrusting keys and cat to our lovely neighbors, we begrudgingly made our way back to Marrakech, where we quickly caught a train to Rabat. Despite our misgivings about traveling, I was excited for the opportunity to take the train, which seem to be an elusive and luxurious form of travel compared to the souq buses we normally employ to traverse the countryside. At the very least, the path of a train promised less severe curves and was therefore less likely to cause nausea. Also, I discovered the added benefit that you can get up and wonder the halls when you are bored or need to stretch your legs. By the time we arrived in Rabat, although still plagued by the guilt of impermanent progress in my site, my ire had dissolved to mild indignation, which over the course of the weekend, would be overcome by the soothings of Rabat.

(learn what makes Rabat such a great city and why the chicken crossed the road in the next riveting installment soon to come)

Drifting (Episode One: Marrakech)

Life in small town Morocco has recently expanded it boarders. I fall in and out of sleep pondering where I am. A hotel in Rabat? A fellow PVC's living room floor? A kasbah in Taznght? Marrakech? Tiznit? A train?
The blurring of time and space began about a month ago when Amber and I left for training in Marrakech. We met up with a gaggle of volunteers for an evening in the city of Ourzazate before splintering into various travel groups heading to different Halloween parties scattered about southern Morocco. Amber and I attended a party held at a breathtaking, meandering casbah, with a beautiful garden entrance, candles lining the stairs, tasteful painted trim around doors and windows, and hanging plants adorning the multi-level courtyard. As the sun set on the adobe village, the din of costumed Americans, chatting, dancing, and preparing refreshments, echoed off the ancient mud walls.
The next morning we woke early, and walked the mile or so across low fields to the main road where we caught a transit to a bus station. Soon, we were making our way up one of the most difficult passes in Morocco winding through the Middle Atlas Mts. towards Marrekech. We arrived in Kech some 5 hours later and chose the least pushy of the taxi drivers accosting us as we exited the bus station to take us to our training hotel. The hotel was a bit outside the central tourist sections of Marrekech, surrounded by newly built suburban complexes and mellow streets. And since I didn't really venture further than the neighborhood pizzeria for the first week, this was my first, albeit naive, impression of Marrakech.
Training flew by. We told stories, exchanged ideas, problem-solved, worked in groups, listened to presentations and enjoyed the quality food and company. In the evenings, nightly potlucks formed in the shared bungalows, complete with kitchen, where unmarried volunteers stayed (married couples were accommodated in tradition hotel rooms). After dinner, people hung out around music circles, caught up with their email in the lobby, grabbed taxis to the city, or took advantage of the hotel's showers and hot water. All in all, a very relaxing and rejuvenating week- much needed for the weeks to come.
We checked out of our hotel Saturday morning and headed to the Kech airport where we picked up Amber's mother. We dropped our bags at a fun riyad buried in the winding alleys sprouting from the edges of the famous Jmaa Al'Fna. And there, for the first time, we hung up our volunteer hats, instead donning tourist hats, and walked out to the busy square. As promised by tourist magazines and travel books, Jmaa Al'Fna was bursting at its mortar seams with rich foods, extravagant spectacles, and unique scents and sounds. Lined stalls of nuts, and dried fruits sold by the kilo. Orange juicers shouting invites in numerous languages from behind their carefully stacked citrus pyramids. Tea vendors standing next to karts with large copper kettles steaming in the cool night air, pouring glass after glass of piping hot spiced tea, sweet and pungent, like liquid cinnamon. Women sitting on wooden crates offering to paint intricate henna designs on the hands and feet of passers-by. Whirling dancers accompanied by drummers and men playing long droning brass trumpets, high-pitched but hollow, as if muffled by history. Snake charmers blowing penny whistles and prodding hissing snakes, putting cigarettes between their long fangs. One man brought his thick snake and hung it around my neck. "You take picture! You have camera?" I told him in TashlHite, "Excuse me, but I don't have a camera". He gingerly removed the snake suggesting I come back later. "Encha'llah"(god willing), I said.

(Check soon for the next evocative installment of "Drifting" in which I part ways with Amber and Denise and head south to the beaches of Tiznit)

Holy Hillary!

In an amazing stroke of luck, not only did we find ourselves training in Marrakesh at the same time as Hillary Clinton, but she actually found the time to meet with us between sharing copious glasses of tea with leaders from around the world. In fact, thanks to our friend Muriel (the oldest currently serving Peace Corps volunteer in the world), the story was picked up by CNN and other news organizations. Check out the story at http://www.cnn.com/2009/WORLD/africa/11/03/morocco.us.peace.corp.senior/index.html . I'll try to post a more expansive explanation of time here in Marrakesh, as time allows.

Pictures!

So you may have noticed that you recognize some of the people on the slide show to the right. That is because I finally got round to uploading all the pictures we've taken in Morocco. You can sit back and enjoy the show here on my blog page, or if you click on it, you will be brought to my picasa web page so that you can browse all the pictures at your leisure. Happy viewing!

Additional Blog Notes...

First of all, I would like to introduce you to Igli, our angsty and entertaining adolescent cat. Also, I want to point out that I have been behind on my posts so below are three posts which I added at the same time. Just didn't want anyone to miss them. Finally, I'm happy to report more recordings being showcased on the MySpace account: http://www.myspace.com/moroccansean . This time its all sounds from the field as it were. There are two good examples of the "target language" of TashlHite in use; one of me practicing with my tutor, and one of a typical conversation around the tea table. Then there is "The Afternoon Drum Session", in which some neighborhood children get together and start a drum circle, which is later accompanied by the afternoon call to prayer. Then there is " Pious Bleach Delivery Service", a recording of the our local version of an ice cream truck, except that this truck sells home-made bleach for house cleaning and they blast Arabic readings of the Koran instead of cute melodies. Finally, there is "Banjo on the Hill"; a bit hard to hear, but this is a recording of a pretty decent banjo player, belting out a tune up on the hill overlooking the fields I happened to be walking through. Enjoy!

International Hand Washing Day

Yesterday, October 15th, was "International Hand Washing Day", which by the way is not an easy concept to convey to people who are not familiar with attributing days to the celebration of random healthful activities, especially in a second language. Nonetheless, after reading about the significance of hand washing (regular/proper hand washing can prevent as many as 50% of deaths caused by diarrhea among children, and a quarter of all respiratory illness among children, as well as many skin and eye infections), I decided to use the day as a personal motivator to get out and do some grassroots health training. Luckily for me, "Hand Washing Day" fell on a Thursday this year, which happens to be souq day. And what better place than a popular souq attracting many men, children, and some women from all over the area to disseminate healthy hand washing tips? You might be thinking, "But isn't it awkward to go up to a bunch of strangers and try to teach grown men how to wash their hands"? The answer, is "Yes. Extremely awkward". That is why I took advantage of a traditional cultural practice to help me break the ice. If you have ever been a guest in a Moroccan household and eaten a meal, or even at Moroccan restaurants in America, you have probably seen what we call "lmaxsl". This is basically a kettle of water and a basin to catch the water in. As a guest, you are presented with the "lmaxsl" and somebody will offer to pour water from the kettle into the basin so that you can wash your hands. This portable hand washing device, which Moroccans are very comfortable with, seemed like a great way to open dialogue. My idea was to walk around souq with the "lmaxsl" and offer to wash peoples hands in hopes that they would ask me what I was doing. I also made some fliers with all the necessary hand washing information in transliterated TashlHite as well as in Arabic, in case people wanted a reminder later, or in case my language was failing me.
Amber and I woke up a bit earlier than usual Thursday morning, and practiced telling each other how and when to wash our hands in TashlHite, over breakfast of barley couscous, coffee, and tea. Then we gathered our things, wrote down a quick shopping list, and headed out the door. Souq was already bustling when we came over the hill into the center of town. Knowing that the best fruits and vegetables go fast, we did our souq shopping first thing. Just in from the front gate and to the right, I visited my spice guy. He has a beautiful array of colorful spices, beans, pastas, and grains. This day I just asked for 2dhs worth of cinnamon, and a bar of soap to offer to people washing their hands. Then I headed all the way back to the far right corner of the market where I found my veggie seller, busy as usual. I bagged up all the fruit and veggies I thought I would need for the week and handed them to him to weigh. Some quick stops at the wholesale onion pile, an apple dealer, and a friendly banana salesman, and then it was time to buy the "lmaxsl". We found an appropriate size an price at our neighbors shop, paid the man, and we were off to teach health. We walked across the street to the "sbitar" (rural hospital), and filled up the kettle with water. In a moment of clarity, Amber remembered that we did not have a drying towel. As she prepared in the sbitar, I ran back outside and bought a hand-towel. When I returned, everything was ready except for our nerves. Up until that moment, the idea had seemed so exciting and fun; but as we walked out of the sbitar and down the busy street, I felt more than a little nervous that things wouldn't go as I had hoped. We both looked around anxiously for friendly faces, but most people were just busy doing there shopping. In fact we made it all the way to the back of the souq without washing a single hand or talking to anybody. In the back of the souq, there were some small cafes. Knowing how important hand washing is before eating, I asked the owner if we could hang out around the cafe and offer to wash people's hands, to which he agreed. This was a cafe full of aging men much more concerned with their tea and their socializing than with what we had to say, so we took it in stride when we were awkwardly turned away by the first few people we asked. Perhaps out of pity, of just in the spirit of the quirkiness of the moment, eventually some men did agree to wash their hands. And to my surprise, they even asked us the right questions so that we could have a fairly natural discussion about hand washing. After the discussion, we gave them some fliers in Arabic. When the other men in the small cafe saw this, many of them wanted to read the flier, so that soon many of the men were sitting around reading the fliers and discussing them among themselves. Having affected all the people we could at the cafe, we decided to move on. Outside, not far from the cafe, there were a few kids looking at us curiously. We convinced them to wash their hands, and then gave then the fliers and told them what the fliers said. When two of the boys still seemed interested, we asked them if they would be interested in helping, to which they said yes. We went over the information with them one more time and then gave them a handful of fliers to pass out and discuss. Another lull in participation followed, but emboldened by some success, we carried on. Anyone who saw the "lmaxsl" and gave us a funny look, we would ask if they wanted us to wash their hands. Children proved to be more curious and therefore more participatory. At one point, near the entrance of the souq, we ran into our imam friend. We greeted each other and he asked us what we were doing. We explained it to him, and asked if he would like to wash his hands, which he reluctantly did. Somehow, this became the tipping point for a mass of interest. Soon we had a line of people waiting to get their hands washed, and we were passing out fliers and talking about hand washing as fast as we could. Eventually, the crowd of people got so thick that people were grabbing for fliers without even being able to see what they were. It was a feeding frenzy until we were out of fliers. Luckily we still had the original, so we went and made another 80 copies and refilled the kettle. When we returned, we had figured out the system, so once again near the souq entrance we quickly amassed a circle of curious people wanting to get their hands washed and hear what we were talking about. All in all we washed probably 30 peoples hands, and gave away over 200 fliers, although probably only about 150 should actually be counted. In addition, we thoroughly trained two kids who turned around and taught others. In fact, I noticed this effect happening a lot among the grown men as well. When the big groups would form around me, I would talk to one man about the importance of hand washing, and then hear him explaining it to other people around the group. So as Amber and I walked back home in the afternoon with bags full of our vegetables, some soap, and a well used "Lmaxsl", it was with a sense of accomplishment that I have rarely felt since coming to Morocco. Don't forget to wash your hands!

Desert Dessert

We are maybe an hour up a deceptively steep desert path. It winds out of the ravine where our quiet neighborhood rests, and then aligns at the top of the hill where a vast flat desert stretches on into infinite. Eventually a triangular intersection in the dirt leads it north following a riverbed snaking into the majestic foothills. The long flat desert hills fall away replaced by ever-steeper, wind-chiseled rock faces. We have just crossed the deep sandy bed of the parched river. Our bikes cast oblong, slender shadows rippling along the rocks and pebbles. To our left, a beautiful sculpture of deep red dirt and rock cleaves up into the sky framing the moon still visible in bright daylight. To our right, a bit further off, a wide round mountain pulls away from the riverbed, curving around towards the taller purple mountains behind it. A herd of sheep and goats numbering in the hundreds trot across its face like water pouring sideways, separating and rejoining around outcropped boulders, always finding the path of least resistance. A shepherd wearing a green turban scrambles up the rocks directing the animals and staring down the valley at a pair of tourists on bikes. There's something unusual about them he can't place. They seem more at home than they should. Way up ahead, we will encounter a single fig tree carefully propped up by a stick. It grows from an unlikely babbling stone well at the top of a desolate hill. But that will be later. We are still near the riverbed being watched by the shepherd. Bumping down the road ahead of us is a large green truck with colorful yellow and red decorations and a white grill. We have pulled our bikes off into the brush to let the truck pass. We are waiting, watching the sheep and goats flow by. The truck trundles to a stop at our side, still loud and chugging. The driver asks us where we are going. We ask him where he has been, and say we are going there. He smiles, reaches across to the far end of his dashboard, and then stretches his hands down to us. His hand opens to reveal a collection of golden dates. Amber takes the handful and he repeats this action offering another handful to me. "Llah yrhm welidin", we chant (God bless your parents). The truck lets out a squeak and a long grunt and is off again on the bumpy road, dust and diesel rolling on after it. A breeze blows down the mountain cooling the sweat on our temples. We watch the shepherd watching us. We turn and look at the moon. We eat our dates.

Agadir

It has been said that Agadir is a city without a soul. Devastated by an earthquake in 1960, which buried the waning port town along with 18,000 of its unfortunate inhabitants, Agadir was quickly rebuilt in the modern, preplanned grid style for which it is now recognized. Its subsequent lack of chaos and organic growth evident in most other Moroccan cities may be superficial evidence of soullessness, however, a closer look at the city revealed to me depth and personality which discredits Agadir's regrettable nickname, "the LA of Morocco". It is true that Agadir is modern and organized compared to other Moroccan cities, but I found the inhabitants to be equally, if not more welcoming than their Moroccan peers.
We arrived later than we had hoped to the ever-bustling transport hub of the outer suburb of Inezgane. Climbing down from our bus, we traversed pushy ticket salesman yelling out common destinations, food cart workers fanning glowing embers with torn squares of cardboard beneath bright spiced meats , and children wandering between the buses with boxes of Kleenex, gum, travel medicine, fans, and other trinkets for the tourists and departing travelers. Just around the wall of the station, across from an vast souq market, down an alley that smelled of urine, we found the entrance to our towering hotel. At the front desk was a smart and vivacious, well dressed Moroccan. Short, broad shouldered, and with an unusually long gait, he quickly prepared our paperwork and promptly lost us behind him in the cavernous halls as he galloped up the stairs to inspect our room. Soon we were settling in to a pleasant room overlooking the busy street below, with fresh towels and hot showers.
The next morning we woke to the sound of horns and squeaking brakes from the street below. We were visiting Agadir to meet some friends from our old training group back in Azilal, Marge and Jess; and also to pick up and meet Marge's parents, who were flying in from the states the following day. Soon enough we got a call from our friends, who had just arrived from their homes south of Agadir. I rushed down the three flights of stairs to find them already talking with the jovial hotel staff, which had multiplied to three gentlemen. I brought them up to see the view from the room as we finished packing our belongings, and then, after paying at the front desk and bantering in TashlHite about sleeping and dreaming, we bid farewell to the kind men at the hotel and walked back around the wall to the station where we had arrived the night before. In the morning sun, were row after row of hundreds of sky blue grand taxis (Major cities in Morocco, like in America, have "petite" taxis, which transport passengers within the city. All across Morocco, however, there are also "grand" taxis, which are perhaps the most common form of transportation between cities. Each region of Morocco has a different color scheme for its taxis. In the Agadir region, taxis are a smile-invoking, retro, sky blue. In my region of Ouarzazate, the taxis are a similarly retro, but far less smile-invoking, yucca beige. Unlike a petite taxi which will take 1-3 passengers at any time, grand taxis will only leave for their destination once they have at least 6 passengers. Occasionally, this number may grow to as many as 10 passengers. In these cases, passengers may sit between the driver and his door, or even in the trunk!) The friendly blue sea of taxis sparkling in the morning sun was enough to renew my faith in the "grand" taxi experience, which had been severely tested the previous day upon trying to arrive in Agadir.
The previous day: We had, as usual, had no problem getting into the city of Ouarzazate, however, once we arrived there, we found our intended bus already full. Usually this is not an issue because there is always the option to take a grand taxi. We headed to the taxi stand, still confident things would go smoothly, but that was not our destiny. Instead we found a group of scheming "kurtis" (the men that sell taxi seats). First, they insisted that because there were no taxis from the region we were going to, we would have to pay double for the "round trip" price. To this we responded that we would gladly wait for a taxi from the intended region to arrive. When one such taxi did arrive, they preceded to fill it with people who arrived after us in line, so that there was no seats left for us. For nearly a half an hour, with the taxi full and waiting to leave, we stood fervently behind it, arguing with the "kurtis" in TashlHite, and blocking the taxi from leaving. When it was clear that we could not change there mind, we said that if we could not take that taxi, we would surely not give them the pleasure of taking any of their other taxis, and with that we walked to a nearby bus station and bought tickets on the next bus. This gave us some time to relax in Ouarzazate and eat lunch. Oddly enough, as we walked back towards the bus station from lunch, we came across one of the more sleazy "kurtis". Half-joking, I gave him a full and pleasant Moroccan greeting, to which he replied unexpectedly, (in tashlHite) "Please don't take what happened at the taxi stand personally. It's just business. You have to understand that people here in Morocco are not honest and trustworthy like they are where you come from. Forgive us and have a good day." And with that he was off with a wave and a smile. As it turned out, the bus we took ended up being a much nicer and (as always) cheaper option, and it was worth the stress of the argument to have experienced the event, and I suppose, to practice arguing in the "target language".
Back in Agadir: After taking in the view of the taxis, we grabbed some delicious avocado-banana smoothies and pastries to fuel us for the day ahead. From there we headed to a new hotel in downtown Agadir and dropped off our stuff. The hotel was downright fancy, despite a very decent price tag, and was just a short walk from the famous sandy Agadir beach and surrounding boardwalk. As we left the hotel, I got a call from a Moroccan friend, who lives in Agadir, but grew up in our town. He was working not far from the hotel so we made our way down the hill to meet him. As we walked, I was a bit surprised, by the none-Moroccans that I saw. Although, I was expecting to see lots of tourists, we happened to visit during a lull in the tourist season, so what I saw instead, was a surprising number of expats living in the city; fair skinned Americans and Europeans, with cargo shorts and worn t-shirts ambling down side-streets with strollers or pets on leashes. I later discovered that there are whole neighborhoods dedicated to these expats living in Agadir. In fact, our next stop would bring me to Marjon, the epicenter of these foreigners.
As you may know by now, Marjon is a large department/grocery store that exports goods from around the world and therefore provides volunteers and expats with many of those basic things that they used to take for granted while begrudgingly walking up and down the well lit grocery isles of America as just another chore to check off the "to do list". This being our second visit to Marjon since arriving in Morocco, Amber and I were much more controlled with our purchases than last time, and I felt proud to have largely overcome my urge to splurge. At least in my buying habits, I have taken one more step towards assimilating with the Moroccans that I live among. In fact, I spent the majority of my time at Marjon talking with a group of employees who decided I was the coolest thing since white bread because I knew some TashlHite. They even invited me up to the employee lounge for lunch, but I had to take a rain check. This actually proved to be a common theme in Agadir. Everywhere that we went, we were approached as tourists, but after a few words of TashlHite were spoken, we were embraced as friends. Wide grins spread across the faces of salesmen, waitors, and passersby, when they discovered that we were speaking their original language (not, mind you, the languages they speak most of the time, Arabic or sometimes French; but the language that their parents speak with them back in the adobe homes of their childhood). In true Moroccan fashion, many of these startled new friends would invite us to their homes for tea or a meal, and many even gave us their phone number or email address. Even for Morocco, the people of Agadir were over-the-top hospitable and friendly. When we visited the famous, vast markets of souq Lhed, we were given free fruit, dates, or in one instance, a key chain with a painted seashell. At one DVD shop, when they discovered that we spoke TashlHite, they asked if we were interested in the latest TashlHite version of the animated movie "Ratatouille". "Yes of course", was our immediate response. Entertainment and language study in one sweet Pixar package, and all for just 10 dhs!
Eventually we made our way to the beach to watch the sunset. This was my first time seeing the ocean since we flew over it and landed in Africa almost 8 months ago. We walked around barefoot in the fine sand and savored the views of the sun setting over the water. To the right, framing the sunset, was the tall mountain where ruins still stand of the original 16th century kasbah from which Agadir gets its name ("agadir" is the Tashlhite word for wall, but it also refers to a walled fortress). On the steep face of the mountain below the kasbah "God, King, and Country" are written in large Arabic script which lights up each night after the sun set. Under the green glow of the script on the mountain, we wandered around the boardwalk enjoying the cool air of early fall days. After a while, we decided it was time to go to bed, but all the roads back to our hotel were now blocked for what we were about to find was a huge street parade. We joined the crowds gathering on the sidewalks just as the parade began, and watched as float after energetic float pasted us by. In addition to floats representing most of the regions of Morocco, there were also camels, jugglers, stilt-walkers, skate-boarders, free-style bikers, a float depicting the famous food of Morocco (tagine and couscous), and even a float blasting the classics of the late Michael Jackson while Moroccan youth took turns break dancing under a disco ball. When the parade finally passed, we crossed the street and continued to the hotel. Before going to bed however, we decided to get a late-night snack. Most of the cafes and hanuts around the hotel were closed, but after rounding one street corner we observed a bright yellow and white neon sign coupled with the delicious smell of a well used grill. I can't remember the exactly name of the place, but it was something like, "The Brooklyn Diner". Buzzing with activity and smelling better and better the closer we came, this little swarma deli was exactly what we were looking for. In fact, it was beginning to seem like Agadir knew my desires better than I did. My final desire, to get a good nights sleep, was also met by the accommodating city, so it was with bright eyes and rested body that I awoke the next morning to another beautiful day.

Ishqqa welakin iHla yak? (Difficult but good right?)

The daily greeting, which are so important to socialization in Morocco, have changed a bit during Ramadan. This makes sense in this holy month, given that the Koran contains numerous passages referring to the suitable greeting to and from good Muslims. For example, while in general it is sufficient to utter the truncated "Slm" or "sbah" (translates to "mornin'"), many people are now inclined to carefully administer the entire "salaam u walaikum", and will expect the proper "walaikum asalaam" in return. This is usually followed with the typical obligatory quarries about family and health; but now, included in the questionnaire, is the deceptively intrusive question, "Is tazzumt" (Are you fasting)? If you are fasting, the result is a second, much more fervent, handshake. It has been explained to me that if two people are fasting, then their handshake will come directly from their hearts, where as it is otherwise derived from their pinky fingers. This is then followed up with the inquiry "iHla Ramadan nghd oho?" (Is Ramadan good or not), to which the proper response is, "iHla, welakin ishqqa" (It is good, but its difficult). Some will play cavalier and tell you "Oho, ishqqa walo" (No, there's nothing hard about it), but there is a sense of community that comes from collectively sharing the weakness and discomfort of fasting on long summer days, and most people are more than willing to admit these discomforts. Do not however, mistake these descriptions of Ramadan as complaining. People here would not complain about such a holy experience, and in fact, will usual punctuate any descriptions of difficulty with the appreciative, "humduilla" (thanks be to god)! For example, "Ramadan is hard. It's very hot and I'm so thirst. The days are very long in the summer...Thanks be to god! Ramadan is good". Many will also expound on the healthful virtues of fasting. The more believable of these arguments include; that it is good for your body to have a break from constantly digesting, and that people actually gain weight during Ramadan (which is very possible despite the fact that they are eating less, because they have slowed their metabolism to a screeching halt, but still bombard their stomachs with massive daily doses of food each night before bed). I fasted completely for four days. The headaches, constipation, and extreme exhaustion I experienced didn't feel like my body getting healthier. It did get easier as the days stretched on, but I didn't start noticing health benefits until I reintroduced fluids into my diet. After that, I continued to fast from food for two more weeks, and with a little water in my system, this practice actually felt pretty good. I felt light and energized, and I had a surprising sense of clarity. Still, I was not able to exercise beyond getting to and from town, and after two weeks I began to notice a significant deterioration of muscle strength. Aware of my muscle atrophy, and facing five days alone in my house while Amber went away for a training, I decided the time had come to reunite with my old friend gastronomy.

The problem with eating during Ramadan is that you begin to feel like a social outcast; like a villain, secretive and mischievous. Even if you admit to people that you are not fasting, it is highly impolite to eat or drink under the public eye. As a result, I found myself reclusive. More than that though, when I did leave the house, I felt tinges of guilt. Occasionally I would visit friends for the delicious breaking of the fast in the evening, with warm breads and cakes, tea and coffee, huge bowls of fresh figs and peaches, mnsinmin (flaky flat bread), sfenj (sugarless fried donuts), bghrirt (half way between a crumpet and a crepe), shbekia (glistening honey and saffron infused mini-funnel cakes), slilu (a flavorful mixture of spices, flour, oil, and every available seed and nut, all pulverized and mixed into a powder and eaten with a spoon), and much more; but I felt like an imposture sharing their LiFdoer (breakfast). As if I was dulling the significance of the important meal for the fasters among me. Soon I began to look forward to that dark moonless night (Islamic time is lunar so that Ramadan is one full cycle of the moon, from one moonless night to the next). Last night, that night arrived. Today is "l-Eid l-fdr", a holiday marking the end of Ramadan. In practice, it resembles Christmas morning. Families all over the Muslim world will gather together today and enjoy extravagant meals. Their houses will have been cleaned up and perhaps decorated for the occasion. Everybody will wear elegant new clothes, and children will be given small sums of money. While they celebrate their successful completion of Ramadan, I am reflecting on the experiences of the last month with affection. I, of course, will miss the amazing evening meals and the spruced up calls to prayer; but most of all, I will miss the solidarity that came with the holy month. Morocco is already a highly communal society (especially compared to the individuality of American society), but this is never more true than in the month of Ramadan. As everybody fasts, they all suddenly have something in common which is so basic and so important that they seem to understand and interact with each other on a more fundamental level. Peoples differences wane when matched against the unmistakable similarities they all share. A bit like living in an ant farm, but heartwarming none-the-less. Goodbye Ramadan. A fond farewell until next year. You will be missed.

The Sounds of Morocco

Well before I left the comfort of the USA, there was a request that I record some of my songs for people to listen to while I was gone. In the tidal stress of preparing for departure however, I neglected these requests, and in an attempt to remedy this, I am now forced to broadcast my voice around the world for all those interested to hear. This, it turns out, also requires that I open a myspace account (but be forewarned that I do not intend to use this in the typical social fashion). So without further ado (much ado to follow), the website for listening to recordings is http://www.myspace.com/moroccansean . Enjoy.

Further ado: First, I would like to point out that the primary purpose of these recordings is for friends and family who miss me to have a way to hear my voice and thus stay connected on that important level, particularly since I have not been talking to people on the phone. As a result, I tried to give it that "sittin' right there in the room" feel by only recording each song once. In effect, it was a live concert with all the errors you would expect for such a venue. For those of you interested, the careful identification and repeated playing of these mistakes should bring much satisfaction and happiness (my second motive for the live concert style). Also, it should be stated that I am by no means a practiced guitar player or singer and therefore any attempt to record without mistakes would have been difficult if not maddening. My personal favorite hiccup is about 45 seconds in on "Always Remember". Its actually Amber's drum solo because she sent me a text and my phone was sitting next to the recorder. This created some sort of strange electronic field; a surprising and fresh percussion technique!

While I felt obliged to accommodate the request for my songs, I have also been hoping to post the more traditional and culturally significant sounds of daily life in Morocco. En Shallah, in the near future I will add these sounds. Look forward to them!

The Bountiful and the Hungry (Ramadan Begins)

I returned from my extended visit to Azrou with an arm load of expensive cereal and spices, and a new appreciation for the simple things I took for granted in the States. But when we arrived home, the scenery had changed a bit. The beautiful fields that run bright green through the duwars of our community have always been an important source of food and funds. When we left, people were hard at work picking and processing barley. Before that, they gathered wheat. When we returned, the grains were gone. Instead, people were emerging from the verdant foliage with buckets of sweet delicious tazart (fresh figs). At our house, the same fruit, round and ripe, burdened the adolescent tazart trees just outside our front door. Inside in the courtyard, perfect bunches of grapes hung heavy, gleaming in the morning sun. The basil seeds I had planted were flourishing. Back in the fields, quince, apricots, plums, and corn were nearing completion as well. We discovered, to our surprise, that we were now living in cornucopian oasis delimited by arid desert and mountains as far as the eye can see. Though I continued to enjoy my "Kellogg’s" creations, these facts gave me pause as I pondered the even simpler things there are to appreciate. I mean what could be more minimal than this? We walk through the fields with our neighbors until we reach a fig tree (there are many trees, but each tree is shared by certain groups in the community, so you can't pick from just any tree). We carefully handpick only the perfectly ripe specimens, easily filling a deep plate. Then we go to the nearby aqueducts (underground run-off from the mountains above) we rinse the fruits, and eat them right there, throwing the peeled skins back into the rich soil from where they came. Usually there are leftovers to be taken home for later, and if we see some ripe lemons, plums, or sprig of herbs, we are free to take a little of that home with us too. The last time we visited our host family for lunch, as we were leaving Ahmed reached into a huge sack and transplanted multiple scoops of freshly picked pre-shelled luz (almonds) into another bag for us to take home. It’s delightful! And it emboldened me to experiment with the other local ingredients that I had on hand to make things from scratch. First I made ricotta cheese; easy and quick, but a wonderful treat in a world of "laughing cow". With one success under my belt, I went a little crazy. I threw together some pickles in a jar and put them in the sun for 6 days (delicious); I made a large jar of creamy plain yogurt ready to eat after about a day on top of the fridge; and I perfected hand crushed peanut butter using a heavy metal mortar and pestle from souq. Also at souq I gathered up the courage (and maybe the language skills) to find the souq flour mill and find out how to get whole wheat flour. (I've tried buying it everywhere, but none of the buhanuts carry it). With large grain sacks all over the ground making it hard to walk and a thick cloud of flour dust rolling in the air, I asked the mill worker if I could buy some fresh ground flour. He told me, "I don't sell flour; I just grinds what people give me". Even better! From there I went to a nearby stall outside the souq walls where piles of grain were resting in the sun. After a short discussion about where the salesman lived and how I speak TashlHite (this usually helps with getting the none-tourist price), I asked for 2 kilos of irdan (wheat). I returned to the mill, but he remembered me and asked "did you sort this yet"? In my haste, I had forgotten that all grain in Morocco comes free with small rocks and other unknown objects. It is after all, hand picked from the fields. With that, I agreed to come back next week with sorted grain and encha' llah, return home with fresh local whole wheat flour; which should go great with the pizza dough and banana bread recipes I've perfected. (Thanks to Karen for the oven thermometer! I guess not everything is local). But the crown and jewel of my recent gastronomic endeavors is soda! And not just any soda; watermelon ginger soda with lots of fizz. Honestly I worry about the possible jealousy and greed that the introduction of this magnificent beverage may create... but it’s worth it. I tried making ginger ale first, but I put too much ginger, too much yeast, and not enough sugar. On my second attempt I was making some watermelon juice and I decided to give it a whirl. I added just a little yeast, a bit of sugar, and some crushed ginger. I put it in an old plastic coke bottle and I let it sit on top of the fridge over night. In the morning the plastic was taut so that I knew that the soda was done. After a few hours in the fridge, and a patience few minutes opening it so it wouldn't fizz everywhere, I took my first wonderful taste. Sadly, while I have another larger bottle of the same amazing nectar waiting for me at home next to the thyme/onion flavored homemade pickles and the fig flavored homemade yogurt, I will find myself both hungry and thirsty for the foreseeable future. Why? Because last night as we prepared for bed we heard a knock on the door. Our neighbors had stopped by to let us know the news they had just seen on TV. Ramadan will begin in the morning. Before bed I set the alarm for 5am so that we could get up before the sun, eat our last meal, and drink our last glass of water until the sun goes down again around 8pm. Its 12:30pm here on my first day of fasting. I've had a couple of passing hunger pangs and I'm beginning to get thirst, but nothing I can't handle yet. The hardest part of Ramadan is that people are expected to maintain there same workload even when they fast. After eating before the sun, I went back to bed for a couple hours, but then I had to bike to a nearby duwar and look at the drinking water systems with the man who controls them. Tomorrow, we have an hour long bike ride to visit a hospital with no nurse or doctor. If we slept all day, it would be seen as cheating. I'm not sure how the rest of this day will go, but with all the amazing food growing up around us it’s hard to fathom fasting. I can only assume that as the sun sets, my appreciation for these amazing earthy gifts will continue to intensify. Humdullah!

Fez

I awoke on the roof of Hotel Cascade in the old medina of Fez to the sound of birds squawking above. They dove and glided, celebrating the new day's sunlight peaking over the horizon. Perhaps two hours prior, the long and beautiful call to prayer from the nearby mosque had jostled my slumber. A few hours before that, I had been singing along to American folk song favorites with a large group of PCV's armed with a couple guitars and a desperate desire to create a home away from home.

I sat up from my sleeping pad. The sun glistened from the mud and stone edges of the cramped medina structures stretching on into the distance as far as I could see. Tired Americans and adventurous backpackers lay strewn about the hotel roof like dirty clothes on the floor of a bedroom. Rooms at the "Cascade" are affordable despite the hotels perfect location, but if you don't mind multi-national mingling until the wee hours of the morning, the roof makes a far superior place to sleep; especially on hot summer nights like these. Our taxi driver told us that it was 130 degrees the day we arrived. I didn't take him for his word, but I've experienced 115 before and Fez was hotter than that. At 7:30am, I was already beginning to sweat, so I took one more glance at the chaotic skyline of the medina and went downstairs into the hotel. I washed my face and brushed my teeth at the shared sinks in the hotel foyer, and then made my way to the third story patio. There I found the unusual, but gracious hotel host seating people for breakfast. Multi-lingual and eerily comfortable with his surroundings; like a Moroccan version of "the Dude" from "The Big Lebowski"; the "Moroccan Dude" wanders the hotel vestibules, sliding his flip-flops along the tile floors, making small talk with all the guests and always reminding them "MarHaba" (you are welcome here).

"SbaH lkhir" (good morning), I said. The "Dude" said something to me in French, to which I replied, "yeah, I'll take what their having", pointing to a couple of Europeans eating breakfast at the end of the table. A minute or two later, I was presented with a traditional Moroccan breakfast of sweat mint tea, fresh squeezed orange juice, a croissant, a slice of bread, a yogurt, a triangle of laughing cow cheese, and mnsinmn (a flat fried tortilla) rolled up and drizzled with honey. Just down at the street, I could have bought all these treats by the kilo, but Fez can be a daunting place, and having just woken up, I wasn't quite ready for the full experience. Besides, I was tired.

It had taken us two long days to get to Fez from our home. The first day we left around 9am, but our bus was delayed 4hours and got us to the halfway point much later than we had hoped. That night we stayed with a group of volunteers near the town of Rich. We stayed up until 3am making pizza and talking about our experiences. The next morning we all piled in taxis and headed into Rich, where we met up with more PCVs and doubled our group. Three sweaty taxi trips later, at around 4pm, we were finally pulling into Fez. We took city cabs to the old medina, checked in to the hotel and dropped off our baggage. There we were; we had passed through the famous L'Bab Oujoud (great entrance to the medina) and for the first time, set our feet inside one of the most historic sites in all of Morocco; one of the great cities in the world; the single largest metropolis inaccessible by automobile; riddled with history and culture. So what did we do? McDonalds!

Some of you might be grimacing as you read this, but don't judge us. We all came here to experience and embrace new cultures, and like it or not, that is exactly what we have been doing everyday, all day, for the past five months! And we haven't been just seeing historic sites from the comfort of a hotel room. We are living in the bled of Morocco. We are in fact so steeped in Moroccan culture that we must at times endure the prejudices of city dwelling Moroccans who look down on us for being too Berber! Even from the perspective of many Moroccans, we are living in a culture of the past. So if the ancient walls of Fez have stood as long as they say, surely they can wait until after we get our McFlurries!

The McDonalds in Fez was refreshingly similar to those found in the States. The major exception, besides the special "McRabia Tagine Flavored Burger", was that the employees were outstanding. They were sharply dressed, spoke Arabic and French if not English, and were all smiling and happy to be working there (I later heard that in order to work at an American fast food restaurant in Morocco, you must have a college degree). Because of the heat, I was not in the mood for cooked food, so I passed on the burger and fries and ordered a soft-serve ice cream cone and a medium coke. I was pleased to find ice in the coke, but I asked for more so I could really savor it.

With McD's in our system, now we were ready to return to the medina and appreciate it for all its historic beauty. For the next day and a half we wandered the thin, winding, stone corridors of Fez. Loud with music, boisterous discussion, and flamboyant sales attempts from the local shop owners, the streets bustled with a sea of people broken in sections by the occasional passing cart or donkey load of goods. Beautiful decorative shawls, carpets, leather slippers, and jewelry hung from the walls and outstretched awnings. The red geometric Fez hats lined some store entrances. Each inset room had new gorgeous offerings or unexpected craft. Just down from the hotel, in a wide spot in the alley, men stood meticulously carving Arabic text out of marble slates. I passed one small room maybe 8ft across by 4ft deep, by 4ft high, that was oddly offset about 5ft up from the road. To small for a man to stand up, inside the compartment was a woodworker sitting on the floor against one wall, carving away at a long strip of wood. Behind him, were layers of partially finished wooden works of art, material scraps, and tools.

Interspersed with the crafts stores, were cafes, butchers, delis, and pastry shops. Giant stacks of golden pastries glistening with honey competed for our attention with the smell of grilling meats, piles of delicious olives soaking in brine, stalls overfilling with mysterious herbs and spices, and gooey stacks of dried dates and figs. Occasionally, we would walk by a mosque with an open door and catch a glimpse of their cavernous insides meticulously crafted and adorned with plush red carpets and gold trim; rich and elegant, and yet somehow not ostentatious. The sight of such massive open space was particularly breathtaking juxtaposed with the ever thinning stone avenues of the medina, which make you forget open space all together.

Smaller alleys leading into the darkness, shot off from the more heavily traveled thoroughfares. One such alley weaves a short distance between tall adobe walls before a door appears on the left. This door is the entrance to "Cafe Clock", the brainchild of a particularly merry British expatriate. We had heard of the "Clock" as the place to go for a delicious camel burger, so we went one evening to celebrate Amber's birthday and try some camel. At first, it seemed like nothing more than a trendy cafe/restaurant, but when we took the time to wind up the steep four levels of stairs, we began to see how special the "clock" really was. Housed in what was once a large adobe house, each floor is a unique space of its own, and because the central area is kept open, you can see all the way down through to the bottom floor from each floor above. At the top, the largest seating area in the cafe, is a stunning multi-level patio section with funky, eclectic furniture, green foliage, and a view looking out over the medina, across from the detailed tile work of a historic mosque. The night we went, we happened to sit next to a man named Anise Hbiba. Shortly after our food arrived, the cafe owner came up to see how we were doing and introduced Anise to the entire room as one of Morocco's best and most famous contemporary singers. He then urged Anise to sing a few songs which Anise obliged. The next thing we new we were being serenaded. Between songs, while cafe staff asked for autographs and gave requests, we enjoyed our camel burgers and our date-almond smoothies. Afterwards we retired to the hotel roof for another late night of singing and some cake for the birthday girl. A more perfect night could not have been had.

Before leaving Fez we were able to walk through much of the medina, see the famous leather tanneries, look out over the whole of the medina from ancient tomb ruins atop a nearby hill, and spend quality time singing and chatting with fellow volunteers. But there was one thing I didn't mention, which was also a major highlight (If you didn't like the McDonalds story you might want to stop reading now.) Fez, like some select other major cities in Morocco, has a store called "Marjon". "Marjon" is like one of those super-Wal-Mart's in America. Its got cloths, house wares, office supplies, electronics, and groceries; more importantly though, it has imported groceries. When we arrived in the air-conditioned store, we wanted to make the experience last, so we decided to walk up and down each aisle, one by one. It occurred to me around aisle 3 how much I missed the experience of shopping in a store. In the bled of Morocco, everything is bought in the intense haggle-laden environment of the souq, or standing at the counter of a hanut asking the owner what he has. At "Marjon" we could take our time and pick up and look at items for as long as we wanted. We knew that we would have to travel a long distance home with whatever we bought, so we tried to limit ourselves to only the necessities. Still, we left with two big bags of groceries including, three boxes of cereal, rosemary, oregano, basil, thyme, curry powder, lots of herbal teas, quality chocolate bars, and balsamic vinegar. Because of a lack of a place to keep them, we ignored the exceptional selection of cheeses and meats. As we walked out into the blistering Fez heat, we were smiling from ear to ear. It's hard to go without the things you love, but it's wonderful to discover those little things that make you happy; for me its cereal and spices.

Sean the Teacher

You know that saying “Stick to what you know”? Well, generally, I disregard this expression. I try to keep one foot squarely planted in unfamiliar territory, and I avoid sticking to anything except my loved ones and my convictions. That said, I will admit that my recent African adventure has me uncomfortably submerged in the unknown with a short snorkel and few opportunities to surface. So when I was approached by the town pharmacist regarding the possibilities of me teaching an English class, I seized the opportunity, and slathered on the proverbial glue. A few days later, I brought him a schedule of times in the week when I was available, and we came up with a tentative schedule. "I've only found two or three others who are interested so far", he warned, "So it might be a small class". "Mashi Mushkil" (No problem) I said. The fewer the people, the easier this will be, I thought.
The plan was to meet at the local association building the following Tuesday evening. Luckily, I had already read a book on teaching English as a second language, so I went home and diligently looked over the notes I had taken. Besides the pharmacist, I didn't know who my students were, so first I would have to assess the student's current skills and expectations for the course. But, people would be disappointed if that’s all we did, so I prepare a short lesson in addition. I struggled for some time with the logistics of teaching unknown students and varied skill sets, but finally, I settled on an exercise called "The False Story". In this exercise, the teacher reads a story to the class, and within the story there are some statements that are not true. The students must identify these falsehoods and correct them. In case we still had time left over after that, I also brought along Bananagram (a spelling game with tiles like Scrabble).
That Tuesday, I arrived at the center of town near the classroom about half an hour early and watched for students. At 7:25pm, just five minutes before class, nobody had arrived and I began to prepare for a one on one session with the pharmacist. As the clock struck 7:30pm, however, people mysteriously emerged, collecting outside the classroom door. In all, I had five students ranging in skill level from total beginner, to one gentleman, who has a B.A. in English. I introduced myself and asked for everyone to introduce themselves as best they could in English. Then I asked them some basic questions. Why do you want to learn English? How do you use English now? How do you want to use English? Etc. But these were odd questions to be asking. Morocco is a country whose education system regularly forces foreign language upon its pupils without thought to what the pupil wants or needs. The teacher is supposed to know best. My student's answers reflected this cultural phenomenon plainly. "We just want to learn everything about English". "We want to know it all; as much as we can; as soon as we can". They looked confused and a little concerned. My apprehension was palpable. Everyone in the room, myself included, was wondering the same thing; "Does Sean know how to teach"? Ironically, in my haste to "stick to what I knew", I had neglected to ask myself this question. But it was too late to turn back. So with a manufactured smile, I steadied myself, handed each person an empty notebook, spun on my toes, grabbed a piece of chalk, and began my lesson.
On the blackboard I wrote, speaking, listening, reading, writing, and grammar. Above that I wrote beginner, intermediate, and advanced with the number one over beginner, connected by a line to the number five over advanced. "These are the five elements of language" I said. After translating all the words I had written into TashlHite, I continued, "In the notebooks that I have given you, rate yourself from 1-5 for each element." My ability to answer the students’ questions in their own language was confidence building. My students were now the ones out of their element, and as I moved on to "The False Story", my poise improved.
"There is a souq here every Friday" I announced, writing the words on the board as I spoke. Smiles cracked among the classroom and a couple of the students yelled out, "No, souq is on Thursday". "Good" I said crossing out Friday and replacing it with Thursday on the board. "So when do we have souq"? Answers rang out freely. As the story continued, it occurred to me that the classroom dynamic had shifted again. Now we were all having fun, and the students were engaged and learning. When the story was complete, I assigned everyone a bit of homework, and announced that we had arrived at the end of our class. With a sigh of relief, I accompanied my new students out into the dim twilight of the desert.
The next class came the following Friday, which was enough time for me to start doubting my success in the previous class. I prepared for the class as if the same people would attend, but worried that nobody would show up because they didn't like the last class. First, of course, I prepared a short review of the previous week’s lesson. Second, I decided to try a new exercise called "What am I Describing". In this exercise, the teacher describes something with simple sentences and adjectives, until the class can guess what they are talking about. Also, I prepared a short exercise, similar to the "Telephone Game", where each person must tell one other person an English phrase, and it is passed along until everyone has heard it. Then you compare what the last person heard to what the sentence was in the beginning. If anybody showed up, I thought, it would be a good lesson.
Very curious about the attendance, I biked into town that Friday a little before class to see if anyone had arrived. Before I could assess the situation, the pharmacist invited me back into his office for a quick snack of cake and apple. Finally at exactly 7:30pm, we exited the pharmacy to go to class. As he locked the pharmacy doors, I looked over to the classroom across the road. Waiting for the doors to open were ten or more people. By the end of class that night I had fifteen students of all ages and skill levels. Standing in front of a class that had tripled in size, my nerves briefly got the better of me. Like last time though, I worked through it, and like last time, the class was a success! So successful in fact, that I may have to begin another class to accommodate all the people. That's what happens when you stick to what you know (or when you offer free language classes to Moroccans).

Independance Day

So we’ve moved into our new place, complete with mattress, butane oven, “agurteel” (plastic woven floor mats) and refrigerator (it makes ice!!). Aside from getting used to a healthy population of co-inhabiting insects and reptiles, things have been wonderful. We love and miss our two gracious host-families, and cherish the valuable time we shared with them, but we also miss our privacy, our freedom, and our cuisine. So for our first Moroccan July 4th, this was the independence that we celebrated.
I began by perfecting my favorite drink; the iced-Americano. The key was replicating ½ and ½ with chilled, densely mixed powdered milk. Next, it was time to re-introduce peanut butter into my diet. After toasting peanuts in a pan, and carefully removing the skins, I managed to produce extremely chunky but acceptable peanut butter with our “mskeen” (sad/pathetic), underpowered blender. Peanut butter and coffee checked off, next it was time to christen the oven with some good old-fashioned chocolate-chip cookies. Ovens in morocco are not the ovens you are used to in the States. Ovens here come in three sizes; very small, kinda small, and medium. Made from bent steel sheeting by local welders, these ovens attach to large tanks of butane, piping gas into multiple flame holes running along the underside of a thin middle shelf. When turned on, the result is a very hot little metal chest. We keep our metal chest, which we call “the Bunsen burner”, tucked under a cement kitchen counter. Our stovetop sits on the counter just above and shares the same gas tank, so therefore cannot be used simultaneously. With no measuring cups and no way to know the temperature of the oven, baking cookies proved to be a difficult task. By the fourth batch, though, the cookies were approaching edibility and I was only mildly embarrassed to present them to our host-family later that night. “We’re not used to the oven yet, but they’ll be better next time”, I promised in broken TashlHite, as thin brittle cookies crackled in the mouths of my friends during “caskerroot” (afternoon tea). I could hear their thoughts, “Didn’t you say you used to be a baker”?
The next day, perhaps out of sympathy, I received a call from my host-father inviting us for the couscous meal traditionally served after midday prayer on the holy Friday. Though we had 4th of July travel plans for that afternoon, and though I received the invitation just as my own delicious lentil salad was nearing completion on the stove, I accepted the offer and carefully packaged up my meal for later. We arrived at our host-family’s house at 2pm as requested, and proceeded to wait on the doorstep of the empty house while the whole family prayed at the nearby Mosque (Random cultural side note: Although some women pray in Mosques daily, it is not required by their religion. Many women- our host-mother included -make a point of praying in the Mosques only for the midday Friday service. Mosques often have a special room for women for this purpose). After waiting 30 minutes, our growling stomachs were pleased to see people trickling out of the Mosque. Passersby must have been intrigued by the sight of two hungry Americans sweltering in the midday sun on a Moroccan doorstep, but some gracious “Salaam’s” and an occasional double-take were their only response until two unusually large Moroccans walked by. After almost passing us by, one of the men turned and said with a perfect east-coast accent, “Where you guys from? Are you lost or something?” I was speechless. I was thinking “What do you mean where are we from? Who the hell are you and where did you come from?” Instead I stammered, “d..d…the united…uh…ameri..um..New Mexi…I..I mean the southwest“. Then his friend chimed in, “What are you doing here?” By then I had regained my bearings. Though they wore “jalabas” and looked Moroccan, I could tell from their accents that they both lived in America. “We work with the Peace Corps. What are you doing here?” I spouted. As it turns out, the first man was born here and was visiting his remaining family. His friend was originally from Casa Blanca. They both currently live the D.C. area. When our host-mother Katuma returned from prayer this improbable English discussion switched to a mixture of Arabic and TashlHite and ended hurriedly. We did after all have couscous to enjoy. As is tradition, the couscous was delicious and served later than expected. Luckily, it is also tradition for guests to leave abruptly after a meal, so we didn’t feel too bad rushing to the taxi stand with the food still fresh on our tongues. Ensha’ allah, we were going to spend the 4th of July with other Americans!
Our 4th of July plans formed organically out of necessity. Our house had all the basic furnishings, and even some extra frills, but it lacked an important Moroccan element: carpets. Moroccan carpet weaving has an immense history and is still an important industry for Moroccan economy- especially for rural Moroccans. Tapestries from Morocco are shipped and sold all over the world, and are one of the major goods purchased by tourists. As a result, the industry is adapting. Middle-men sprout up everywhere trying to pocket the hefty difference between what foreigners are willing to pay and what local Berber artisans are willing to charge. These middle-men, who set up shop in all the major tourist locations, make access to these rugs effortless. Unfortunately, they also force the artisans to work for unfair rates. To combat this, some Peace Corps volunteers work with local women’s associations called “neddi”s to encourage a business model that brings the buyer and the artisan back together. Our goal was to meet up with some of these volunteers, buy some rugs, support some local artisans, and enjoy our independence day weekend as a group. And as it happens, the “neddi”s we planned to visit are located in the beautiful “Dades Gorges”, so we also planned to do some sight-seeing.
After our couscous meal, we traveled to Kelaa Maguna (about 80k away), where we cooked dinner, compared experiences, and spent the evening with a couple volunteers from the area. The next morning we slowly made our way to the Gorges with three sweaty taxi trips. We finally arrived around 2pm and met up with the two volunteers that live in the site and some more friends visiting for the weekend. After making some lunch and chatting, we took a Moroccan up on his offer to drive us through the scenic Dades Gorges canyon. The canyon is marked by its impressive transition from a river valley, to a deep and narrow canyon with chiseled rock walls. At a spot near the river where the walls begin to open away from each other, we stopped to take pictures and observed a man with a rifle shooting pigeons perched on the rocks far above. The gunshots echoed down the canyon walls, followed by the sound of flapping as wild pigeons temporarily flew to attention before resettling on the cliffs. The gunman, having hit his target once already, walked along the mountain road looking for his next opportunity with his rifle in one hand and a dead pigeon in the other . Each time he took a shot, he would carefully put the bleeding bird down on the pavement and pick it up again post-shot. The pigeon, of course, would become a tajine dinner.
When we returned to the town, we headed to the house of a local acquaintance of one of the volunteers, whose family had offered to serve us dinner if we brought them the materials. We brought over some bags of vegetables, and sat with the men of the house having tea as the food was prepared. Dinner came very late, but we were pleased to see that they had prepared grilled chicken-date tajine topped with golden fries (this is a very common meal to serve to special guests and absolutely one of my favorites)! More impressive than the food though, was the generosity of the hosts. Not only had they offered to host, serve, and cook for a large group of American strangers, they had also swapped our bags of cheap vegetables with dates, almonds, two full chickens, and even a variety of beverages. The most unusual of the beverages was type of moonshine made from the locally grown “tazart” (figs). Generally, alcohol in Morocco is a big “hshuma” (shameful) because it is forbidden by Muslim faith. In fact, until that night, I hadn’t met a Moroccan who would even admit to drinking. Nevertheless, here we were, sitting in a Moroccan salon watching Moroccans pass around shot after shot like just another glass of tea. Meanwhile, the American guests, who had grown accustomed to the negative cultural innuendoes of drinking, were timid and mostly abstained from the potent concoction as if fearing its bite. “What a strange juxtaposition” I thought to myself. But this is the allure of Morocco. With a rich and mystifying culture that reaches out to the modernized west, while simultaneously supplementing itself with other cultures and religions, and reaching as far back as it can into the ancient history of the Moroccan mountains, there is always an element of surprise. Each day in Morocco unfolds in unexpected ways, lending significance to the Moroccan tendency to preface any discussion about the future with the term “En sha’allah”, which means “if god wills it”. As a Moroccan dweller, you learn to expect the unexpected, to enjoy the inconsistencies, and to embrace your inability to control those aspects of your life that cannot be controlled.
Late in the night, on the roof of the house where we had dinner, I pondered these ideas. I looked out on the sleepy village and up into the bright stars, squinting my eyes to replicate fireworks. I thought about my friends and family back home watching fireworks and having barbeques to celebrate the birth of America. A sense of profound gratitude washed over me. It took being far away from my country to truly appreciate it, but on this 4th of July, I was earnestly willing to celebrate America; a country that has offered me the opportunity to experience, understand, and “en sha’allah” help another beautiful culture.

Tea and Coffee

Though tea is conceivably the most important and/or influential aspect of a Moroccans life, I was shocked to discover that this imported beverage was only beginning to be introduced to native Moroccans by the English and French in the early 1800’s. Since that time, it has dominated the Moroccan social calendar so that it is not uncommon to sit for tea 5-6 times a day.
Moroccans prefer their tea very hot and very sweet. As a result, there is a special sugar used for tea which is distinguished from regular granulated sugar as being sweeter. This special tea-sugar comes all in one piece like a sugar cube, but in the form of a tall skinny cone shape called a “kelb”, which is maybe 16” tall and 4-5”across at the base. Moroccans shatter these sugar-cones into large chunks using a rock or large metal rod. They then choose the appropriate size of sugar shard depending on the size of the teapot and amount of tea inside. Having witnessed the size choosing and inclusion of these diabetes rocks, I can safely estimate that Moroccan tea is consistently at least ¼ sugar. The tea is heated to boiling twice before serving, and again later if it starts to cool down. As if to underscore the piping temperature, tea is served in tiny shot glasses, which for the uninitiated, often scald the fingertips and lips.
While pouring tea, it customary to raise the teapot far above the glass, which should create a frothy “tarabush”(hat), proof that the tea is high quality. However, even high quality tea should be rinsed at least once or twice before brewing because it is not “clean” and will appear muddy when served. To preserve the flavor and caffeine(a chemical which is oddly unknown even to educated Moroccans), the process for rinsing the tea leaves is as follows. Pour in a full tea glass of boiling water into the tea leaves and after a very short time pour this out and save it for later. Now pour in enough water to cover the tea leaves and swish it around fervently in order to clean off the leaves. Pour this water out into a container of some kind (not into the sink because of some religious or mystical tradition which I can’t fully understand). Repeat this step until you think the tea is clean. Once the tea is clean, add the original saved cup-with the flavor and caffeine-back into the pot and fill the rest with boiling water to the desired amount of tea. Now you may add a large chunk of sugar and put the pot on the fire until it is boiling. Finally, pour out two tea cups and dump them back into the top of the teapot in order to mix the sugar. If you want, it is good manners to let somebody test it before serving.
For those that desire alternatives, coffee is also served in Morocco and in many families, tea and coffee are served together. Bigger cities have numerous coffee shops, all of which serve tea and espresso with various percentages of milk or water. Perhaps the most popular coffee order-and my favorite-is the “café ns ns“(½ and ½), which is half espresso and half steamed milk. The “bled”(countryside) of Morocco, does not have espresso machines, but rather is known for its own special style of coffee which is preferably brewed in whole milk instead of water, and spiced and sweetened so that it almost resembles Indian “chia” tea. When brewed in water, and depending on how it is spiced (families recipes include anything from mint to peppercorn), these coffee recipes can also, oddly enough, taste a bit like piping hot coca cola (Beverage side note: Coke and all other sodas are referred to as “leemonada”, and a “leemon“ is an orange; suggesting that the first soda to become popular among Berbers was probably an orange flavor like “Fanta”). While milk can be purchased at local t’Hanuts in boxes that do not require refrigeration, luck families, like my current host-family, get their milk for a cow. Recently, I stood amongst the hay and clucking chickens outside my house watching my host-mother milk her cow. When she had filled one small bucket, she gave it to me saying “Eammr L’qHwa”(make the coffee). Maybe fifteen minutes later, I was enjoying a sweet creamy beverage made from what must have been the freshest milk that has ever passed my lips. With such fascinating traditions and delicious beverage options, its hard to complain, although I do sometimes find myself daydreaming about ice, which to my chagrin does not exist in Morocco.

Having Friends at Souq

The souq is a lifeline here in the bled(rural villages/countryside) of Morocco. T’Hanuts in these villages carry some of the basic daily house necessities, ie. soap, oil, rice, milk, butane, etc.; but it would be difficult to survive here without the goods and services provided by the weekly souq market. The souq is so important in fact, that even professionals adjust their work schedule and sometimes don’t work on souq day in order to get their shopping done. In the TashlHite language, there is even a verb specifically for the act of going to the souq (“Swwuqagh idgam” = “I shopped at souq yesterday”). The most important items at souq, of course, are food staples like fruits and vegetables, fresh and powdered herbs and spices, coffee beans, and teas. Also very important, however, are the many incidentals for daily life like dishes, ovens, buckets(which are used constantly in a Moroccan household), yarn for weavers, tools for workmen, used clothes, farm animals, livestock feed, blacksmith and cobbler services, locks, brushes, tires, notebooks, rugs, the list goes on and on. Access to these goods are essential to life in places where the next best way to buy them is often a bus that you can’t afford. Access to these goods is also especially important if you happen to be moving into your own home after relocating to a foreign country with only the limited items that can fit on an airplane. Being in that situation, Amber and I began our “souqing” last Monday in the next town over(see previous post for more on that adventure), and continued our search for household necessities this Thursday in our own town.
Nearing the souq entrance on Thursday morning, we noticed some nice used pots and pans lying on an outstretched sheet bordered on one side by used televisions and on the other by used shoes. Not seeing the vendor, we took note and moved on. Somewhere around this time, we were joined by a boy of perhaps 10 years who followed us for the rest of the morning, staying right at my side with a shy smile. Often times, if we showed interest in something, our new friend would lean in and whisper the name of the object in TashlHite. Occasionally, I would pick up an unknown object and ask “Matskirt ee wad?“(What do you do with this?), to which he would shrug with innocence or meekly reply. Although he did ask for money a couple times, and once asked me to buy him a pen, I could tell that these were not his motives for following us. He had genuine interest in us and appreciated our company. Having been shamelessly asked for pens and money by the neighborhood kids countless times, I now know that it is an innocent and natural response to seeing foreigners which does not derive from greed or exploitation, but rather from a communal value to sharing ones wealth and good fortune with those less fortunate. I know this because I have witnessed Moroccans, who are by no means well of, giving what they can to the beggars and paupers among them. Still, to give my new young friend anything of mine, even something as small as a pen, would have set a bad precedent and fed the stereotype of the rich foreigner that I am trying hard to overcome. Instead, I offered him my free sample piece of melon, which he accepted and ate amidst low-slung tarps and the shaded fragrant produce that fill the back section of the souq.
After circling the aisles of the souq numerous times, we settled on the items we wanted; among them, a pack of simple tea glasses, a plastic juicer, a butane stove, a foam mattress, and a giant bucket in which to do laundry. Moderately concerned about getting these large objects back to our house which was a 30 minute walk down the road, I was relieved to run into our host-father who suggested that we leave our goods with a vendor friend of his offering to have them sent to our house in a transit bus later that day. Pleased with the charity of our friends and relieved of all burdens, we walked on, returning to the vendor with the used pots and pans we had seen earlier. The items still there, Amber began negotiations with the vendor’s starting price of 125Dhs for two matching pots and a pan. Finding that price too high, Amber made a counter offer which initiated a true scene of haggling. In the midst of their escalating negotiations, which were now drawing a small curious crowd, we were joined by a friend of ours who happens to be an Imam in a nearby “duwar”. Although our friend was careful not to show obvious inclinations for either side of the argument, it certainly may have helped that the respected religious figure was there greeting us, and in the end, the price was dropped to an even 100dhs. “Humduillah!”(Thanks be to god!) Souq, it seems, in addition to being an important lifeline, is also a place where friendships are made, celebrated, and improved.

Movin' on Over: Adventures in Nesting

After nearly four months of playing house guests with two radically different, but equally wonderful Moroccan families, Amber and I are finally seeing the end of the tunnel. We have signed the rental agreement on our own house, which we move into in the beginning of July! A short jaunt across the street and up the hill from our current resting place, the house stands in an open foothill surrounded by sparsely planted adolescent fruit trees. Neighboring houses are a comfortable distance away, the closest belonging to our studious tutor, Samira and the rest of her quiet and lovable family. The one-story, adobe house is laid out in a square shape surrounding a large, open courtyard shaded by two mature olive trees and trellised grapevines hanging from bamboo latticework. In addition to a modest kitchen, bathroom, and two long skinny rooms (for living-room and bedroom), there are also three smaller nondescript rooms and a traditional “rocket-ship” hammam for bathing. Unaccustomed to having so much space, we are hoping to use one of our free rooms for housing a modest band of chickens, which we have been advised should not be kept outside because of the feral dogs. We would also like to get a cat, but assuming the cat doesn’t need his/her own room, we are still stuck with deciding what to do with the other two empty rooms. Inspired by the Moroccan style of furniture use, we are largely planning to own portable furniture which can be picked up, modified, and relocated to fit the activity, weather, and number of people of any situation. For example, depending on the time of day and the weather, I have eaten meals in at least 6 different locations in my host families house. Most people in Morocco do not even have a designated bedroom, choosing instead to sleep wherever it is most comfortable, which in the summer is often outside in the courtyard or on the roof (Oh and by the way, there is a stairway up to the roof in case we decide to sleep under the moon on hot summer nights). As a result, it is likely that we will buy enough furniture to comfortably furnish one room and then just move that stuff around with us as needed. Of course, that isn’t as easy as driving down to the nearest IKEA. We have been doing all our shopping in the excitement and bustle of the weekly souq.
Upon seeing the beautiful rental house, we quickly realized that we would have to repaint many of the walls, which had been uniquely decorated by the previous tenant. We also wanted to start pricing things to see what was available and what we could afford. This meant a trip to the next slightly larger town for its Monday souq. After a two-hour tutoring session in the morning on the following Monday, we walked out of class just in time to catch a taxi headed in the right direction. “Are you going to the next town?”, I asked in TashlHite. “Yella”(come on then), the driver replied with a smile and an intonation that seemed to say “where have you been, I‘ve been waiting?”. We joined the rest of the passengers for the dusty trip that crisscrosses the river down the valley. As we neared the center of the next town, there was no mistaking that it was souq day, traffic slowing to a crawl behind donkeys, and vegetable-laden handcarts. This slow, taxi creep through a souq town is what I call “Moroccan window shopping”. While most of the souq exists within the walls of a large designated plaza, venders spill out onto the main streets showing off there goods to the passersby. Finally at the taxi stand, we got out, paid our fare, and found a friend, who lives nearby and offered to help us shop. Darting into the souq plaza, she introduced us to some her family that work in the souq selling carpets, blankets and pillows. From there we wondered the souq inquiring about the prices of everything from mattresses to stoves, dutifully writing down prices for later comparison. The price we were quoted on a pair of short wooden tables was just too good to pass up (talked down to 180DH for both), and soon we found ourselves hauling tables through the congested souq arteries. Satisfied with our price finding and table purchases, we snaked our way out of souq and headed to the hardware t’Hanut(store) in order to buy some paint.
Painting in Morocco, as it turns out, is nothing like painting in America. This is because in Morocco, the only color of house paint that you can buy is white. Instead of buying the color of paint that you want, you buy white paint and mix it with small bottles of tint which are available in a few expected colors. Although it is possible to use multiple tints and get creative with your mixing, the major quirk with this approach is that everything ends up pastel. I mean think about it; it doesn’t matter how many tubes of red you mix with white paint, your just going to end up with a brighter shade of pink! Originally planning to paint out salon (living room) a deep red color, after seeing the pepto-bizmal color that another volunteer created while attempting to make red, we relegated ourselves to colors of lighter saturation. With the knowledge of this new cruel reality, I suddenly saw Morocco with new eyes. Everywhere I looked, I saw pastels; walls, doors, signs; it was everywhere. Darker colors can be acquired in small quantities, but they are expensive and are used only for detailing to offset the excessive use of pastel. In fact all paint in Morocco is expensive. As a result, it is common practice for painters to dilute their paint with water in order to stretch its coverage, the result of which (partially translucent coats of paint) can be witnessed all over Morocco. It is particularly common to see one wall, in a room of four, with a much thinner grade of paint. This, you can be sure, was the last wall to be painted. Wanting to avoid this visual effect and not knowing how much surface the paint would cover, we apprehensively asked the hardware store attendant for a 30 kilo (about 65lbs) can of white paint. Then we went to work trying to order the right 5 colors of tint without any language (they speak Darija Arabic instead of TashlHite in this town) by leaning over the counter and pointing to things that were roughly the color we wanted. Meanwhile 6ft away, out of cover of the awning above us, the dirt on the ground began to sputter and darken with heavy rain drops. By the time we paid the exorbitant fee for our paint, sheets of rain were pouring from the clouds and muddy pools had formed in the streets and dips all over town. With Amber carrying the two tables and me carrying the 30kilo paint bucket and other painting accoutrements, we stumbled through the heavy rain and splashing mud to the taxi stand. Leaving Amber and the paint under a nearby awning, I ran, soaking wet, to find a taxi heading back home. I quickly found one with two seats available and rushed back for Amber. Under pouring rain, the driver strapped the tables to the roof of the cab and made room in the trunk for the paint. From there we maneuvered our way through the busy streets to a nearby Bufrron (bread bakery) where one of the passengers-a talkative and excitable middle aged women sitting in middle of the cab-needed to pick up fresh bread for her family. The driver, who wore a pink towel on his head hanging off his shoulders like a cape, got out of his seat, retrieved the bread and spent a few minutes under the hood of the taxi before wiping off the windshield one last time with his sleeves and getting back in. His wiping didn’t help for long, and with no working windshield wipers and the rain getting worse, visibility was poor. His resulting caution, however, made for an unusually relaxing ride and soon the women in the center seat was tearing off fresh steaming pieces of bread and passing them around to the soggy passengers, who in turn commenced jovial conversation and mutual appreciation all around. Though we had set out that morning to begin building a home for ourselves with paint and furniture, on this unusual and saturated day, we had found ourselves feeling at home in the warmth and comfort of a sodden taxi cab, in the company of loving strangers.