tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51033082063478879812024-03-13T19:37:00.214+00:00Sean Shiel in Morocco.Echoes from a distant land.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-12731151463792823622010-07-07T12:38:00.001+01:002010-07-07T12:44:21.423+01:00Vacation in Morocco<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As an entry point, Tangier doesn’t do Morocco justice- think Morocco’s “Rocky Point”- It’s mildly seed, slightly over-developed, and caters to the young European tourists with a fine beach dotted with nightclubs. Tangier may have its pleasant spots, but we didn’t stick around long enough to find them. Not long after arriving, we took a 4.5 hour bus to the town of Chefchaouen. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Chefchaouen is one of those spectacular places you’ve seen pictures of all your life and never knew its name. It’s affectionately termed “the blue city” for its breathtaking characteristic of having had all its walls painted ice blue. The effect is particularly impressive given that the city is a traditional old medina, which means that all houses are built together into what is essentially an expansive adobe Kasbah cut into organic sections by undulating open-air hallways with the occasional archway. The city is also picturesque for its location nestled high on one side of soaring, verdant mountaintops. Multiple steep hikes offer impressive views overlooking the quaint old medina. The main trailhead is positioned just outside the city wall, where a cascading waterfall has been retrofitted to double as a Laundromat and swimming hole. Gazebos on each side of the river house rock wash basins. Water is siphoned to these structures, which each day attract hoards of women who carry their dirty clothes to the site and wash them in nearly the same was the people of this town have for centuries. Their children help carry the clothes and then find a splashing spot in the lagoons to spend the rest of the morning. Beyond the beauty of this place, it provides serenity little known to the tourists of northern Morocco.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">After two days hiking around “the blue city”, it was time to move on to the decidedly less peaceful city of Fez. Fez is a “must-see” for many Moroccan tourists, but as I have said before, it can be overwhelming. Karen, for legitimate reasons, had already shown signs of stress upon entering Morocco. Our relatively relaxing time in Chefchaouen had ameliorated the situation a bit, but after another long bus ride and the initial shock of the spectacle that is Fez, not to mention checking into our usual hotel- a favorite of volunteers for being cheap and convenient, but perhaps a bit shabby to the uninitiated observer –Karen’s stresses had returned. Add to that occasional adverse reactions to the food, and we were beginning to realize how difficult it can be to travel Morocco in the style we usually do, without the many months we had to get used to the place. Fighting our urges to live like the locals, we tried hard to accommodate; seeking the less trafficked areas and the higher-end fare. The fact remained though, Fez is stressful, and even if we left, we still faced 2 days of bus travel to get back home. By our second day, we had decided to abandon our more ambitious travel plans and take advantage of the decent train systems in the northern half of Morocco. One days train travel got us to Marrakech, where we spent the night, and then a 6 hour bus/taxi ride got us home before dark- even though the second bus overheated within an hour of our house and had to be doused with multiple buckets of water while its passengers waited in the afternoon heat.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Once in the seclusion of our abode, we were all finally able to relax. We stayed in site for five days. We spent the first few days mostly confined to the house enjoying the silence and escaping the heat. Then one afternoon, our tutor and her sister came over with coffee and snack, and stayed for a few hours chatting. The next morning we met them again at their house for breakfast of egg tagine. After breakfast, it was time to start making the rounds and showing Karen of to the rest of our community. First we went to the local health clinic, where we translated shop-talk between our nurses and Karen- who was most recently a school nurse. This mostly consisted of trying to convince the Moroccan staff that nursing is still a difficult job in America despite access to modern technology and better education- they seemed to imagine a hospital environment where nurses just press a button all day. It proved a useful opportunity to fulfill the second goal of Peace Corps; to engender better understanding of America on the part of host-country nationals.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As we were leaving, the cleaning lady at the clinic invited us to her house. That afternoon, after wandering through the fields, we met her at her house. She fed us tea, bread, cookies, and almonds, and then walked us to her relative’s house, where we chatted briefly with lots of her family. Finally, we made the long walk to the fields so that she could cut her daily supply of animal feed. When we arrived, I offered to help, and suggested a race. She was very excited about this idea, responding with the Berber equivalent of “Bring it white boy”! I was soon declared the looser, despite a decent showing. When I complained that my cutting tool wasn’t sharp, she snapped back smartly with, “you’re not sharp”. We each took our turn collecting some of the weeds, and then our host suggested that we wanted around the fields and look at the aquaducts while she finished up. We did this for a little while, and when it seemed to be getting late, we wandered back, where we found our host twenty feet off the ground in a tree, snapping branches off and throwing them down to another woman below. “Hey”, she said, “Ready to go”? She climbed down, grabbed some of the branches, packed them into a large wicker basket already full of cut weeds, and tossed the whole thing onto her back. When we were within sight of her house, she let Amber and Karen each take a turn carrying the basket, which they were happy to do, and which she got endless enjoyment out of- the idea of a foreigners doing hard labor is hysterical to most Moroccans. She still talks about it. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The next day we did some English speaking, which must have been a relief to Karen. In the morning, we visited the director of the post office for tea. He speaks impressive English, is always welcoming and generous, and has been one of our most helpful unofficial work counterparts. Then, in the afternoon we visited the pharmacist, who studied some English many years ago, and who I have been tutoring in English over the last few weeks. Soft-spoken and blithe, he offered us a light supper, while we gave him the opportunity to practice his newly acquired language skills.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Having visited most of our favorite community members- except for our host-family who were regrettably out of town – it was time to leave site again, and make our way to the world-famous “Gnawa Music Fest” in Essaouira! Essaouira is a gorgeous, well-designed city, with beautiful beaches and a laid-back attitude. Known for its fresh fish, the old medina is built right up against the ocean, waves lapping against its rampart walls. The Music Festival the city hosts each year invites a wide range of world music, but is named for the Moroccan style of music called “Gnawa”. Developed by Moroccan slaves from southern Africa, Gnawa is bluesy, but upbeat. It is usually played with a 3-string rebab and handheld metal cymbals, which are woven with soulful stories mixing TashlHite, Arabic, and the languages of sub-Saharan Africa, so that even native Moroccans struggle to understand the lyrics.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We had arranged to stay with some of our favorite volunteer friends in a rented house for the duration of the festival, so we met up with them and got settled in to our temporary digs. Then we went out in search renowned grilled fish stalls. We found our target a short time later; a number of stalls lined up facing the ocean, each one with a table full of fresh fish displayed at its entrance. The fish is sold by weight and is grilled up promptly after you hand pick it from the selection. Unable to decide, I asked for a mixed plate which came with divine shrimp, sole, sardines, calamari, and a steak of something else I didn’t recognize; maybe shark. As we enjoyed our meal, the sun set on the water in front of us and the music began.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Most of the festival music begins in late afternoon and lasts until 3 or 4am the following morning. At least five stages are set up in various locations around Essaouira. Two are directly on the beach, and the main stage is positioned in front of a huge open plaza overlooking the ocean. We were eating next to this stage, and were drawn into the crowd when we finished out meals. A Gnawa style band was performing with a collection of other musicians who seemed to represent a healthy cross-section of world music. Together they thrilled the crowd with jazzy improvisation over a seductive beat. Colorful beams of light shot out into the night. People stepped, twisted, and gyrated. Children moshed, couples swayed, teenagers break-danced, and friends did the conga line; everybody smiled.</span></p> <span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: trebuchet ms;" lang="EN-US">I could probably go into more detail about the rest of our time in Essaouira, but I wouldn’t do it justice. In the mornings, we would sleep in and then head to the beaches; swimming and laying in the sand. Tens of PCVs had come to the festival so we were constantly running into and spending time with all of our friends. As the sun started to fall, we would seek out delicious dinners and then make our way to the stages. It went like that for 2 ½ wonderful days. When it was all over, we spent one last night with Karen in Marrakech. We met up with two great volunteer friends of ours and had a delicious meal of Moroccan specialties- Pigeon Pastilla, classic goat tagine, and “Tangia” a cured meat unique to Marrakech. The restaurant was on the second floor with a balcony hanging over the “Jmaa Al-Fna”, perhaps the most famous spot in all of Morocco. It teemed with humanity, a cacophony of sounds and smells wafting our direction. The smiles that we all found in Essaouira, were still being worn. And though Karen’s trip was not all relaxing and attractive, it was a full representation of Morocco. That is what I love about Morocco; the excitement, the surprise, the excess, the variety. It’s what I hope to remember, and it’s what I’m glad Karen could experience.</span>Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-37005597194534161692010-07-05T11:22:00.002+01:002010-07-05T11:24:48.091+01:00Catching UpThings have been busy for us the last few months. Since last I blogged, we’ve had three visits from friends abroad, attended and/or participated in three impressive Moroccan festivals, completed our annual medical checkups, crossed the Straight of Gibraltar; spending three wonderful days in Spain, traversed most of Morocco’s roads and rails north of Ouarzazate, visited Fez twice and Marrakech more times that I’d like to recall, lounged on beaches all along the Atlantic, and discovered my dreams while dipping in and out of minor emotional breakdowns and bouts of exultation.<br />Not long after our one week High School Spring Camp in Ouarzazate, we zipped up to Marrakech for a quick weekend to meet our friends Chris and Courtney- another married couple currently serving in Peace Corps Albania. Together we wandered the loud streets of Kech in true Peace Corps style; speaking the local languages, savagely bargaining for prices, and seeking out the dingy local hangouts for cheap, delicious, traditional Moroccan cuisine. Though we hadn’t seen Chris and Courtney for years, the special bond that comes from sharing the Peace Corps experience soon had us acting like age-old friends. We shared our successes and our trials, complained about the difficulties of accomplishing work, and related stories contrasting cultural nuances in our two Islamic homes. We also expressed our hopes and concerns for the future. The result of which, was evidence that Peace Corps changes the way people think about their lives. It is difficult to find a PCV who does not think about their future in terms of how they will impact the community and the people around them. The four of us were certainly no exception (more on my dreams to come).<br />Sad to see them go so soon, we said goodbye to our friends after only a couple days, and headed back to our site refreshed and invigorated. When we arrived, we were greeted with seemly utter apathy. Probably just bad timing, but it seemed that the only person excited to see us was our landlord, who was much more concerned with our house plants getting watered than the fact that we were home. Meanwhile we were coming to the end of many months of preparation for a huge project at the Rose Festival in the city of Kelaat M’Gouna, scheduled for the first weekend in May. As a result, our work focus was not on our site. In fact, we would be spending many days out of our site over the next month working with other volunteers and local leaders to finalize our program. In the weeks leading up to the Festival, we arranged multiple training sessions for local professionals and youth leaders based on a unified message on AIDS and STIs created by us and endorsed by the Ministry of Health. We also jumped through numerous bureaucratic hoops and even managed to acquire signed and stamped “certificates of training completion” and “certificates of appreciation” for our local Moroccan volunteers, who numbered in the forties.<br />During all the planning leading up to the Festival, we took another long weekend to meet up with our friend Ben. He was in Rabat on work, and had the weekend free to sightsee. We met him in Rabat where we enjoyed the low hassle atmosphere of medina souqs, visited the beautiful Roman ruins, and enjoyed nice weather and breezes coming of the ocean waves on the beach. We then accompanied him to Fez- the ancient medina known for its incredible array of handicrafts and mazelike alleys. Of course, the atmosphere here was quite different. An endless barrage of sales tactics in thick accents left us overwhelmed and exhausted by the first night. The next day, we opted for a walk up the hill overlooking the medina to enjoy its splendor without the constant hassle of vendors. When our eyes were full of the picturesque views, we wandered back down into the city’s winding walls and made our way to the English-owned, expat getaway known as the Café Clock. We sat on the roof patio of the beautifully renovated three story riad, and reflected on the good and bad of Fez. It was mutually decided, that we need not see another Tourist Souq as long as we all shall live. Of course, Ben still had some shopping to do, so within the hour we were back in the maze scouting products and prices. Luckily the midday crowd had not materialized and we found our task slightly more achievable. As we left Fez in a much delayed train that was standing room only, a thought to myself, “Never again; leave Fez to its inhabitants”. We finally arrived back in Rabat and got a hotel about 8hrs before Ben would have to catch a cab to the Airport. We dropped off our luggage, went out for a late shwarma dinner, and finally hit the hay with a few hours to spare before our 4am alarms began to sound. After seeing Ben off in a taxi, I wandered over to the bus station, and sat in the peaceful predawn darkness of Rabat waiting for the 6 o’clock train. I would be home roughly 12 hours later with some unfortunate surprises.<br />Amber had left from Fez the day before to attend a work meeting in Kelaat M’Gouna. So when I got home, I was expecting a lonely house. Sadly the house was even emptier than I had anticipated, because our adored cat Igli had run away. The sadness this event caused me would build up over the next week as I continued to expect him to be in all his favorite hangouts- waiting for me at the bedroom door when woke up in the morning, running laps on the roof while we lay in bed, jumping on my lap as soon as I sat down, or taking my seat as soon as I stood up. His absence affected me much more that I could have expected. After a few days I was really pretty miserable. It was then that I received a text from Amber informing me that her bag, including our little laptop, had been stolen from inside another volunteer’s house when the door was left open one evening. The combination of my cat and computer leaving me in the same week was too much to handle (I have learned that I don’t take loss well). I fell into a deep emotional breakdown accompanied by all the obligatory, fluctuating feelings of antipathy for the people of Morocco; who I came to help, and who repay me by constantly saying “bon jour”, hassling me anytime I walk by a store, and now by outright theft! In addition, to these fervid, albeit irrational emotions, I was also beginning to question my effectiveness as a volunteer. I did come here to help, and I did expect to compromise my comfort in the meantime, but am I even being helpful? Is it worth it? Should I leave? or maybe spend the rest of my time here reading novels and ignoring my work?<br />Luckily, these feelings arose on the eve of the Rose Festival. A large group of volunteers expected me and needed me to work. I quelled my emotions and continued to do my job, telling myself I would address these thoughts as soon as the Festival was over. As the 3-day festival went on however, my concerns began to fade. When it was over, we had educated over 2500 people on the dangers and prevention tactics of AIDS and STIs, and had worked with a local association to test over 500 people for HIV. That is not to mention the 40+ Moroccan volunteers who we thoroughly trained prior to the festival, many of whom have already expressed an interest in doing other projects in their towns. In other words, it was one of the most successful projects to date. How could I question my effectiveness when I participated in such a successful project? And how could I question the goodness of Moroccans, when it was Moroccan volunteers and associations who made it all possible? I resolved to miss my cat and my computer without letting it affect my work and my goals here in Morocco.<br />As it turned out, I wouldn’t have had time to address my emotions anyway, because the morning following the festival, we all woke up early and caught a bus headed north. I was headed back to Rabat yet again; this time for our one-year anniversary medical exams. Between shots, dental cleanings, and pooping in cups, we enjoyed our time in Rabat by eating food that doesn’t exist in the less cosmopolitan areas of Morocco, and restocking our dressers with new clothes to replace the worn and faded ones we brought here a year ago.<br />A week later we were on our way back home again, refreshed, happy, and healthy (except for the amoeba which was discovered to be living in my gut… but seems to cause no symptoms). Finally home again, we made efforts to continue our four weekly English classes- two for students at the middle school, one open to anyone in our neighborhood, and one advanced class for men. These classes proved successful both because students continued to show up and seemed to genuinely enjoy the classes, and also because of how much our student’s English skills improved over a relatively short period of time. As an unexpected bonus, I was beginning to discover a love of language I did not know I had. The period of time during and shortly after each of these classes, I would glow with pride for my lessons and my student’s improvements; feeling absolutely satisfied. In fact, I realized that it’s not just teaching language that I love, but also learning it. I often find myself boring volunteers with a lesser penchant for language, as I explain “interesting” discoveries about TashlHite or Darija. It should be noted that this fondness for language education and acquisition has not resulted in my being good at language. In fact, I believe I am probably below average at language learning. My fondness of learning it and my persistence to continue studying are the only reasons that I am able to speak TashlHite at an average level.<br />My lack of ability to learn language, however, does have its advantages. Combined with my fondness for language, it seems to make me an excellent language teacher. Faced with my own language acquisition snags, I have developed lots of strategies for learning, which can be applied in the classroom. In addition, I understand the mistakes, difficulties, and potential barriers my students face, which makes me more patient and more likely to adjust the curriculum to fit their needs. Finally, I find that when I bring my passion for language into the classroom, it is contagious and students begin to have fun learning just like I do.<br />As I slowly began to realize these facts over the course of a few weeks in my site, my life goals seemed to be forming in front of me. I had been planning to go back to grad school when I finished in Morocco, but until recently, I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I have always flirted with the idea of teaching, but never knew who or what I would want to teach. Of course I have much research still to do, but now I am seriously considering getting a teaching degree with a focus on language and culture. I am really excited about the possibilities this could afford me and the people whose live I may someday impact! It’s also a great way for me to incorporate the design, problem solving, and leadership experience of my past, with the unique language, cultural, community development, and education experiences of Peace Corps. I just have to remember not to lose sight of my more immediate goals in Morocco; which brings me back to my current language classes.<br />The classes were so successful that even though we were only scheduled through the end of the school year, students opted to continue taking them over the summer months. The classes, however, were put on hold for one month, so that we could help out with a 3-day World Environment Day Festival in the town of Taghssa and to take a vacation.<br />The Taghssa World Education Day Festival was impressively executed and run by the teachers of the town. These teachers asked some Peace Corps volunteers to come and do a few hours of education activities scheduled on the second day of the Festival. As a group, we decided to prepare lessons and activities for proper teeth care and trash prevention/disposal to a group of about 100 children, and Moroccan Women’s Rights and trash prevention/disposal to a group of about 50 women. In preparation for the activities, I made a massive set of teeth from plastic bottles painted white, and a huge toothbrush to match. I also prepared some posters illustrating proper disposal of garbage and examples of handicrafts created by reusing garbage like crocheted and knit items and friendship bracelets out of yarn made from used plastic bags. On the day of our lessons, the roughly 100 students piled in a mid-sized classroom and sat on a woven plastic carpet stretched out on the floor. Meanwhile, teachers from the school tried to set up a projector and speakers for some movies we brought. After almost an hour of the students sitting patiently on the floor waiting, it was decided that the projector wouldn’t work, so we begin without it, and did a fun teeth-cleaning and safety presentation without the video. We used lots of props and got the kids to participate by picking out foods that are good and bad for teeth and by showing how to brush teeth with the giant teeth and brush. When we were done, the students were excused to run around outside while we took a small break and drank tea. While we drank, we discussed not being able to use the video we brought about trash prevention and decided to supplement the presentation with a few small plays. We threw them together over the next few minutes, while the children piled back into the classroom. We took our positions and acted out the rough parts we had created- with much improvisation (all in TashlHite of course). Each act was a sensation followed by great applause from the children. When we were done, we explained the points we were trying to make with the plays and asked questions to gauge the students understanding. We also showed them the posters of how to properly dispose of trash and then brought in a bag of garbage and asked them to properly dispose of each item. Finally, we had them guess how long various items take to decompose, which they found amazing. Again the children were excused so that we could prepare for the women. As the women began filing in, it was suggested that the male volunteers leave, so as not to make the women uncomfortable. The remaining women volunteers eventually presented the chosen topics to the women while my volunteer friend Cory and I wandered around making small talk, sipping tea, and in my case, taking a short hike up the canyon to watch a beautiful sunset go down over the valley. I was told later that the women were thrilled and inspired by the reused garbage handicraft ideas that I made. One woman asked if she could keep one, and another woman got really excited and brought in another reused garbage handicraft idea she had created. While I take no credit for the success of the Festival, which was beautifully executed by the teachers of Taghssa, I was pleased to participate, and take advantage of such a well prepared event in which to educate.<br />Sadly we could not stay to see the final day of the festival. Instead Amber and I took the only transportation out of town at 6am to get back to our site. We had only one day to pack and prepare our house before we left for our vacation. The following morning, we made a quick trip into town for some last-minute paperwork and stopped at the pharmacy for some Dramamine. Then we hopped a taxi out of town and headed north. It took 2 ½ days of travel to get to Tangier where we paid a ridiculous amount for ferry tickets to Spain. We dealt with some paperwork problems as a result of Amber’s passport being stolen, and then waited in a long line of excited tourists. When we finally got on the ferry, I experienced the most intense culture shock to date. The ferry was actually more like a cruise ship. It had a bar, club-like atmosphere, spiral stairs leading to a second story, etc. All the prices were in Euros of which I had none, and everyone around me was non-Moroccan- mostly speaking English but with various accents- except for one woman who claimed to speak Tashlite, but clearly couldn’t (at least with any discernable dialect I am aware of). In my fragile state, I was shocked into taking a step backwards when the bathroom sink ran with hot water. I tried to stay calm; watching the lapping waves and the Moroccan mountains fading away behind us.<br />When we arrived in Spain, in the town of Tarifa, I saw people getting on a bus labeled with the same name as our ferry. I asked where it was going in Spanish and didn’t understand the response, but gathered that it was a free trip. From this we inferred that it was probably a free shuttle into town, maybe even the bus station. We got on and were enjoying the beautiful views of Spain’s countryside, when it suddenly became apparent that we were leaving Tarifa altogether. “Great”, I thought. “Now we are in a country where we don’t speak or understand the language and the first thing we do is get on a bus to god knows where!?” Eventually we pulled into the port of Ageciras where we struggled to change Dirhams in to Euros and find a bus to our desired destination of Jerez. Once that was done, we apprehensively wandered into the city for some food. We stopped at a couple unfriendly cafes and found the prices unbearable (we were still thinking about how many dirhams is in each precious euro). Finally at the corner of a quaint back alley, we saw a Moroccan restraint advertising cheap Moroccan soup. We walked in with new found courage and said, “Salaam Walaikum. Wesh 3andik pisara?(Hello. Got any fava bean soup?”) The restraint staff didn’t skip a beat. They set us down with bread and olives, a bottle of chilled tap water, and some bowls of soup shortly after. We felt so at home; so comfortable. A little bit of home right here in Spain!<br />Having finished our soup, we wandered back towards the bus station and waited for the bus, which arrived a just a few minutes later. The culture shock and fear of this strange land had faded. In fact, I was quickly beginning to like Spain. By the time we arrived in Jerez, I was excited. Everywhere I looked, Spain seemed to be a celebration of life and beauty; lush fields and gardens, beautifully crafted sculptures, impressively detailed architecture, that was both colorful and playful, clean well planned streets traversed by shiny new public buses and spotted with huge recycling bins, even highly-skilled graffiti lined the walls. And the food….just from what I saw on the other side of the large bus windows, it seemed promising to say the least!<br />From the bus station we made our way to a hotel, where we met up with Amber’s sister Karen. We spent some excited moments catching up, until finally our stomachs insisted that we wander out and get some dinner. After a brief walk, we settled on a small tapas bar with a diminutive but highly energetic waiter. He begrudgingly gave us menus, which I pored over with great excitement and salivation; nearly everything listed was a delicacy that did not exist in Morocco. Furthermore, the entire concept of ordering numerous samplings of carefully crafted amalgamations of gourmet ingredients spat in the face of the major tenets of Moroccan cuisine- you’ve got four options made from exactly the same seasonal vegetables you just bought yourself at last week’s neighborhood souq (it should be noted that Morocco is known for its amazing food, which is outstanding in moderation, but “lacks intrigue”; if I may euphemize). The delicious little plates of food (“tapas” means “tops” and stems from a practice of serving a morsel of food on top of drinks at the bar) came one after the other; each one devilishly rich and flavorful. I thought I was in heaven; a misconception that persisted during my stay in Spain.<br />The next day we made our way to the city of Seville, where we would spend two joyous days. We wandered the friendly streets of Seville, spellbound by the beautiful displays of architecture, public plazas, and thin, colorfully painted alleyways adorned with flowers and vines growing from the balconies above. Sights of the beautiful city were augmented by sculpture, paintings, and frequent street performers and musicians.<br />To further appreciate the musicians of Seville, we attended two Flamenco shows; both passionately performed but atmospherically disparate. The first was held in large old adobe tavern, full of people clamoring with the excitement of a Friday night in Spain. So loud was the din of the crowd, the performers eventually gave up shushing them and stopped early. The second, was a private show held in the intimate, candlelit courtyard of a traditional Moorish riad. The seasoned performers theatrically sputtered across the percussive wooden stage for an audience of no more than forty people, all thoroughly engaged by the ardor of angry floating dancers, and a dirge-belting singer with a voice of velvet gravel.<br />After long days of experiencing Spain’s capacity for passion and playfulness, I would lay in bed reading “A Chef’s Tour” written by a man who has a similar passion for foods, and thus toured the world in search of the ultimate meal. Along the way, he makes a stop in Southern Spain, where he samples and falls in love with “churros”; a tradition Spanish favorite. My curiosity was piqued by his description of churros, which was very different from the fast food churros of my childhood. The morning after reading this passage, I eagerly questioned the hostel staff about where to get churros for breakfast, and proceeded to drag Amber and Karen along the directions I was given. When finally the dish was before me, I could not have been more satisfied; a plate of four golden, deep-fried, rigged circles of fluffy dough and a mug of thick, rich, slightly sweetened hot chocolate. It was just as it had been described in the pages of the book; nothing like the summer day’s snack of my childhood, and oh so delicious! I wished I could stay forever (though it might have meant frequent and premature heart problems).<br />Our last day in Spain was spent in the windsurfing town of Tarifa. There we enjoyed walks on the beach, a quick dip in the ocean, and an extended evening of dining at pleasant restaurant serving up a few versions of the day’s freshest catches. Though Tarifa lacked the spirit and depth of Seville, it proved an excellent place to relax. That night, Amber, Karen and I sat on the dimly lit patio of the restaurant, finally giving ourselves the chance to have a great conversation. The next morning we woke recharged and ready to begin the next phase of our journey; Morocco.<br />A curious law declares that if you take a ferry to Morocco, you must have your passport stamped by Moroccan police before leaving the boat. As a result, a line forms at the police kiosk as passengers enter the ferry. By the time the boat departs, everyone is in line. Since the ride from Tarifa to Tagier is only 35 minutes long, we (and most of the boat’s passengers) spent the entire trip in the passport line. This huge boat with hundreds of plush seats was left to waste, while all its passengers used what amounted to a long hallway’s worth of acreage. I think they would do better to just have a long skinny corridor of a boat, but then again, if you’ve done that, you’re already halfway to making a bridge. Why not just do that? Eventually, we did get our stamps, and we even managed few minutes to sit in our seats before landing. Still, it was maybe not the best first impression Morocco could make. Stay tuned to see how we fared on the rest of our time in Morocco...Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-71898942880093933762010-04-08T17:33:00.001+00:002010-04-08T17:33:54.745+00:00Revelations at Spring CampAll last week, Amber and I, along with 8 other PCVs and 10 Moroccan councilors, participated in an English Spring Camp for Moroccan students ages 13-17. About 80 students attended from all over the country, (primarily Taznaghkt, Ouarzazate, Casablanca, and Rabat). Of these, English levels ranged from complete beginner to conversational. For the entire week, all the students and councilors lived together in the same building. Each day, students participated in English classes, sports, activities and afternoon clubs. During the course of the week, there were also two talent shows and a full day field trip to Ait Ben Haddou (the famous kasbah/village that has acted as backdrop from movies like Gladiator and others). Too much happened to possibly explain in one blog post, but two major revelations should be noted.<br />First of all, I think I learned more about Moroccan culture in this one week, than I have in almost any other time since I arrived. The fact is, I have been learning about only one side of Morocco. This is a country that has naturally divided itself between urban and rural since before it’s borders and governmental structure were even defined. I live and experience the rural side of Morocco, and while I sometimes visit the urban centers, this camp was my first and only chance to closely observe and interact with urban Moroccan culture. More importantly, this camp was unique in that it mixed rural and urban denizens into one function, with infinite opportunities to compare and contrast. Not to mention the fact that camps (think about summer camps you did as a kid) are inherently social/culture activities.<br />On the first day, almost all the girls from the country wore conservative clothes and “hijab” (headscarves). The Rabatis on the other hand, were all without “hijab“, and in fact, were dressed no more conservatively than American teens at the mall. By the second day, girls from the country were exposing their hair and boys were flipping their collars up, wearing cologne, and gelling their hair. All the city kids were dressed better than me and the other PCVs, who have learned to dress a little “country”. These kids looked fantastic! And they had a change of clothes for every conceivable activity. In addition to their well fitting, brand-name clothes and chic hairdos, city kids also tended to carry with them expensive portable electronics, and in general, had surprisingly high-quality educations compared to the education expectations in rural areas. They were also much more likely to know about the world, to have traveled, and to be trained in some skill or sport like singing or tennis. So am I saying urban Moroccans are better than the rest?<br />Not by a long shot. What rural students lacked in sophistication and style, they made up for with culture and ingenuity. On the first night, three of the boys from Taznaghkt mesmerized the entire student body for hours in a music circle, with just one hand drum as their instrument. They continued to entertain for the rest of the week with their energetic and captivating music and dance, and a knack for social loafing. They also proved to be excellent language students, making incredible strides towards English proficiency over the week period. Since the majority of students did not speak TashlHite, it could have become the marginalized language, but since most of us volunteers speak Tash instead of Darija (Moroccan Arabic), rural Berber students were often put in leadership positions translating our lessons. And since all Berber speakers also speak Darija, knowing Tash isn’t a detriment, they just have that much more accessibility.<br />What I got from all this, was a clearer vision for the Morocco of the future. Obviously, Morocco has taken great strides towards development in urban areas. While there are still huge populations living in urban slums (check out the movie “Ali Zaoui” about the homeless of Casa), a respectable percentage of urban Moroccans are getting quality educations, living healthy lifestyles, and being given most of the rights and opportunities that any person can hope for. On the other hand, in the bargaining for quality of life, they traded away important aspects of their culture. Meanwhile, the rural areas are also making large steps towards development, but they are far behind. While they still need to progress in terms of access of education, health care, and infrastructure, it is important that they keep a firm eye on the special assets they do have; a unique quality of life that comes from depth of culture and social unity.<br />These two sides of Morocco can help each other to create one great Moroccan society. I witnessed rural children who taught kids from Casablanca how to drum, play the banjo, and sing traditional Moroccan songs. But I also witnessed children from Rabat teaching rural students about the dangers of AIDS and the negative health effects of eating too much oil or sugar. Most importantly, I witnessed students whose parents speak different languages and with opposite socioeconomic backgrounds, become best friends over night. These are people who can help each other. They just need to be told they are helpful. Which brings me to my second revelation...<br />I have been here in Morocco for over a year now. I have been working in my site for over 10 months with the singular goal of local community development. I have tried to approach this goal with a constant consideration for sustainability and future impact. As a result, I have focused most of my efforts on large scale projects, which are seemingly more sustainable because they can effect an issue more holistically. But working with students at the Spring Camp made me question this approach.<br />Without a doubt, we made a huge difference in these students lives. One student was completely unknown by the volunteer in his town, and by the end of the camp, he was so inspired, he single-handedly conceived of recording interviews with students and teachers to show on the last day of camp. A timid young girl from Rabat whose artwork shined in my AIDS/Art club, became a confident advocate for AIDS awareness at the end of the week awards show when I recognized her for her talent and asked her to tell the audience what she learned. A week long troublemaker exercised his demons when he discovered a natural talent for English numbers in the Beginners English class I assisted. A self-proclaimed “awkward computer nerd” from Ouarzazate, spent the entire last afternoon of camp rehearsing a play he wrote in English with the most popular girl from camp. In the play, which they performed live at the Finale Talent Show, and which received loud ovation, he proposes to her over a romantic dinner. And all I had to do was be there to encourage him when fear reared its ugly head. Each of the PCVs connected with students in this way. These kids blossomed into greatness in just one week!<br />Our success with these students was not derived from a holistic approach, but rather, from a one-on-one approach. With this new wisdom, when I think back to the most important impacts that I have made in the last year, none of them are the fruits of large projects. They are human-scale interactions. Like recognizing artistic skill in my friend who works at the cyber, and teaching him how to use Photoshop. Or empowering our neighbor/tutor enough for her to create a women’s association, just by being here and believing in her intelligence and perseverance. This leads me to believe that people do not need help, but rather, they need to know how they can help. They don’t need to be taught skills, they need their existing skills to be acknowledged. They don’t need to be shown how to do things, they need to be seen for what they do. They need to be respected and celebrated. The rest, they can do the for themselves.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-25152875865398927342010-04-08T17:32:00.002+00:002010-04-08T17:33:09.394+00:00Technological Advancement in BarbarismThis story starts out a bit like a fairytale, but I assure you its not! My host sister is married to a man whose family lives just next door to the house where she grew up, in a kasbah overlooking the fields. She was married in triple wedding so that her husband and his two brothers were all married to different women at the same time. While the three brides now live in the kasbah, taking turns doing household chores and animal husbandry, the three brothers work and live in Saudi Arabia doing fancy plasterwork for rich Saudis. The company that employs them has even worked on Saudi royal palaces. That is, according to one of the brothers, who recently came home to spend his three month vacation with his wife and daughter. While he was home, we had the opportunity to meet him at his house.<br />We met him as we were walking in and he invited us to sit down for some tea and cookies. We quickly recognized him as a really nice guy; generous, with an easy smile. Once we got past the usual get-to-know-you questions, he pulled out his fancy Saudi cell phone and proceeded to show us pictures and videos he had taken there. He showed us some pictures of some of the plasterwork he has done. He showed us a video of him and a few other guys making coucous in their apartment in Saudi. Then he should me a mildly religious video, in which a huge crack opens up in the middle of a multi-lane highway and swallows up a car; a phenomenon that the video claims is an act of god for whatever sin the driver committed before attempting to drive to work that day. While I didn’t buy the last part, I have to say, he had my full attention.<br />In the final video, a man wearing all white was kneeling outside on what seemed like a prayer mat. In fact, I assumed he was praying. A circle of men stood around him watching, which made me thing he might be an imam or a street performer. Suddenly, a man standing a few feet away on his right made a quick, grand motion, stepping toward the kneeling man and swinging his arms down. Like that, the kneeling man’s head was gone. He had been publicly executed. The executioner had used a sword, barely visible in the video. At first I thought it was a clip from a movie or the internet, but my tea-drinking acquaintance set me straight. He had taken the video, in person, in a public square in Saudi Arabia. That’s because, as you may recall, public execution by beheading is still normal in Saudi Arabia. I asked him if the stealing thing still holds true, and sure enough, he told me; depending on what you steal, you can get anything from a finger to your whole arm cut off. So I asked the next logical question (despite still being completely shocked and appalled), “Is there any theft in Saudi Arabia”? The answer, he said, was absolutely not. He said you could leave a stack of money unattended on a patio table at a coffee shop all day, come back that night, and it would still be there! A fact that I can only assume is fortified by sharing footage of the consequences everywhere you go on your blackberry. So is that enough reason to sign on to brutal retribution for crimes? Hell no! And remind me to think twice before I cozy up next to fancy cell phone during tea time.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-56639694214343057202010-04-08T17:32:00.001+00:002010-04-08T17:32:23.133+00:00Barbershop Cultural Exchange Part IISo thanks to fellow PCV Mike who recently did an excellent job directing the Oz Spring Camp, I have discovered one of the few upsides to being a male volunteer in Morocco.... the barbershop shave! I don’t know why it took me so long to figure it out? Probably because it such an unlikely luxury in the US. But here in Morocco, you can walk into a barbershop and get a nice relaxing straight-razor shave for just 5 dirhams! That’s less than a dollar! Plus its a great chance to hang out with the locals and practice your language. I treated myself to my first barbershop facial shave yesterday after finally returning from a long tiring week of Spring Camp. Of course, I went to the same barbershop I usually go to (there’s only one in town), which luckily, I really like. When I got there, I was pleased to see the younger barber from my last time there with the rap music. He was just finishing up with another customer, so I jumped into the chair as soon as it was free, and he strapped on the bib. He started to grab for the scissors and I said. “Ghir tamaert assad” (just the beard today). He seemed happy with that. First, he trimmed it with the machine, while we watched some news regarding a footrace through the Sahara dessert. When he was done with the machine, R&B artist “Usher” was being shown singing at a concert. Then a “Kid Rock” song came on, which I translated for him. I asked him if he liked the music and he said “I’ll show you what I really like. The other men around here don’t get it.” And with that, he switched the station to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller the Movie”. Visions of childhood Halloween flooded in. Meanwhile, Mohamed the barber grabbed the straight-razor and got to work. Watching the man in the mirror dance with the living dead, I said, “Have you heard the gossip about Michael? They say he might have been Muslim”(partially because I just learned the TashlHite word for “gossip“ and wanted to use it). This is kind of a big deal around the water-coolers in Morocco right now. He had heard of it, but neither of us were convinced it was true. When he was done, he slapped some aftershave on my newly smooth cheeks and offered me the sink to rinse my face. “Good talk Mohamed”, I said, “Until next week”. Classic pop music and a shave: my new favorite weekly habit!Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-67779986507522708522010-04-08T17:31:00.001+00:002010-04-08T17:31:43.439+00:00Saltown(not the real name): The Great AdventureLast Saturday, Amber and I woke up early for an adventure. I stumbled out of bed, rushing through my morning routine (picking up/petting the cat to get him to stop meowing at me, feeding him, starting hot water and coffee, brushing my teeth, and washing my face), and then I quickly started mixing together a big batch of semolina cookie dough. When the dough was finished, Amber baked the cookies while I dressed and packed an overnight bag consisting mostly of water. As the cookies cooled, I threw together a quick snack to hold us over until lunch. We grabbed our backpacks, now laden with cookies, our helmets, and our bikes; and finally headed out the door around 11am.<br />About an hour later, we were walking our bikes up the last, steep, two kilometer hill to the beautiful mountain village of Saltown. At the top of the hill, there is a collection of adobe houses, a stone-walled animal pen, and two stand-alone schoolrooms. The first is bigger and newer, made of concrete. The second is made of a strange composite; thin concrete-foam panels, braced by intermittent boards of wood. I can tell how the room was constructed because its missing most of it’s front wall and ceiling. There are old rotted school desks piles on one side of the classroom. Staring at me from the back wall, through a gaping whole in the front, is a 10ft painting of Mickey Mouse smiling. I can see straight through this classroom. Behind Mickey is a bright green oasis blooming from the depths of a deep canyon ripped into mountains. One nonsensically tall and narrow kasbah pokes out of the green mass felting the canyon base. Other tightly clustered adobe structures dot the edges of the foliage and cling to the steep canyon sides. The crumbled classroom stands teetering at the edge of the canyon overlooking it all. The children have to hike up the steep canyon walls to get to school each day, and many have a long journey before that. Teachers usually choose to live in the houses up here near the school.<br />We whizzed by this view on our bikes. Nearing the steep road down the canyon, I passed an old women with a bag of harvested grass on her back. She carried it from the canyon bottom to feed her sheep. I smiled and said hello as I pass but didn't slow down. By the time Amber got to her, she suspected who we were and asked her "Where are you going?". "We're here to visit the new teacher at the school", she said. "Oh. Well she lives over here with me" the old women responded. I back-tracked to them and she walked us to her house. Inside, we were warmly greeted by our friend/neighbor/language-tutor. She recently got a job as a French and Math teacher in this town. She rents a room from the old woman who lives alone near the school. She calls the woman Xalti, which means “aunt on my mothers side”.<br />We are shown into our friends room, where we present her with the gift of cookies. Then she makes us tea and starts an egg-tagine cooking. Over tea, bread, and eggs, we discuss the news of our duwar. We mention that we saw a grey donkey running through our neighborhood, his owner desperately chasing him, the bottom end of an empty bright orange oil jug strapped around his snout. In other news, I mention that we randomly walked 45minutes down the road into the middle of a vast rock field with two of her sisters. There they met with two of her cousins to chat about secret matters. News trickles in our town.<br />When the tea and tagine were consumed, we had a language lesson consisting mostly of reviewing our answers on a test we did the week before. We are getting pretty good at reading and writing TashlHite. Its a shame that Tash isn't a written language, and that I don't have time to formulate each sentence in a conversation the way I do when I write. Next weeks homework will be to watch a TashlHite movie and practice listening (by far, the hardest thing about this language).<br />After the lesson, Xalti’s daughter arrives. She invites us to her house halfway down the canyon wall for tea We pass gaggles of women perched on the path, enjoying the cool afternoon air. When we get to her house, to young boys are chasing each other around giggling. We go into the living-room, which hangs over the path, with windows that expose beautiful views up the canyon. Along with tea and bread, our host offers fresh almonds and walnuts gathered from the tree groves below. We point out the beautiful table cover. Our host knit this herself, but modestly dismisses her skills as the result of boredom. She is soft-spoken, humble, and giving. On our way out, after tea, her husband comes home from work. Also humble, with a small stature and kind eyes, he works at the nearby salt mines. We express interest in the mines, which immediately prompts an invitation to accompany him to work the next morning. We agree to meet him on the road at 7am the next day.<br />On the way back up the hill, we run into a gentleman sitting outside his house with a few of his sisters. He speaks to us in French despite numerous attempts to explain that we don’t speak French and requests to please speak Tash. Finally we manage a short conversation in Tash (still dotted with French words) and I realize he’s slurring his speech. As we walk away, he calls up to our tutor, “I have a gift for those foreigners. I am an artist. I will bring it to you later tonight”. Our tutor skeptically agrees and passes the message on to us. I ask her if he was drunk and she says “Yes, he is an alcoholic. Everybody here knows it and his family worries about him.” She is surprised I could tell.<br /> When we arrive back at her house, she begins some fried bread and tea as a late snack. Just as the bread hits the table, a knock is heard at the door. Our friend from the road has come with our gift. He presents me with a heavy slate of rock on which he has painted a colorful scene. Its beautiful and quintessentially Moroccan. He joins us at the tea table and spends the next two hours discussing heartfelt, complicated, ethereal matters in multiple languages, with me straining to finding new levels of concentration to try to understand. Shortly before leaving, he admits to me that he has a problem. He has a nice house in Marrakech, but he is here in the country with his family to try to “change his brain”; to find peace. As he leaves, I wish him luck on his journey and express a hope to meet him again happily in Marrakech some day.<br />It’s late and we have to be up early tomorrow. A quick dinner of pasta with milk and sugar is serve. (Surprisingly, this is the one meal I have discovered in Morocco that I simply cannot stomach. I can’t explain it in words, but I literally gag at the thought of it). Luckily I had already filled up on bread and tea so after choking down a few bites I go to bed satisfied.<br />The next morning, we wake up and prepare ourselves with the predawn air still chilling our bones. As promised, our guide for the day meets us on the road and takes the lead. We wander to the base of the canyon, through a series of passageways under adobe dwellings, through the fields, over a log spanning the river, up the other side of the canyon, and into the mountains to the north. After an hour of strenuous hiking, our trail begins to glisten. Piles of dark grey and pinkish salt crystal line the road to a large truck standing idle. Behind the truck wooden shacks have been built into the mountain. These are cave entrances. We enter one shack, where a crane hangs over an bottomless hole. Our guide explained that this is where the salt is brought up from the mine. Workers enter another cave to the south, wind down into the depths of the mountain, collect their salt, and bring it to the crane to be lifted out. We hang around the opening of the cave for twenty minutes waiting for the rest of the workers to arrive. A confident man with course speech and mannerisms shows up and offers to take us down into caves. “Is it dangerous“, we ask. Our guide replied, “I don’t go down there. It scares me”. This is the first time I’ve heard a Moroccan male express fear; which only amplified my curiosity. Another man says, “Just be careful. We’ll let you borrow some flashlights. You’ll be fine”. The course man lights a gas lantern, hands me a cheap plastic flashlight, and leads the way. We walk fifteen feet into another wood cabin before the true decent begins. Suddenly, the ground seems to fall way. The trail thins to no more than a foot wide and continues to get steeper. It hugs the chiseled wall on the left and drops into shear darkness on the right. I can see only a few feet of the narrow trail in front of me. With each step, my sandals slip on ground worn smooth from use, lubricated by a quarter inch of damp cave soot collected over decades. The trail levels and I breathe a sign of relief, but we turn a corner and the ground drops off again. When we finally reach the true bottom, my heart is in my throat. I shine my flashlight out into the darkness and a huge arching cave wall sparkles back at me from the distance. The cave narrows to the left where two perfectly square diverging passageways have been chiseled into a flat salt wall. Every surface is like staring at a crystal ocean from an airplane; millions of waves creating an intricate omnifaceted plane. Our new guide explains how to remove salt evenly. We take a few moments to marvel at the subterreanian sights, and head back up the perilous trail.<br /> At the top, we thank the men for showing us their work and we start walking back the way we came. When the canyon town is again in sight, we stop at the top of the hill and eat a snack. We have been hauling bread, tea, and a can of sardines for this event. A couple of young girls are harvesting weeds nearby and we invite them over to nosh. When the food is gone, they accompany us to the bottom of the canyon and split off to the left. We continue on, up the other side, back to the house. My legs are exhausted from a combination of climbing steep mountains and clenching my thighs in fear.<br />We help our tutor prep vegetables for a tagine. When the tagine is prepped and cooking, she brings us into the TV room to relax until lunch. Xalti wanders in and turns on the TV to entertain us. A while later, she ushers in two strangers. They are also teachers. One works here in Saltown. The other works in a neighborhood near ours. He biked here this morning to spend the day with his friend. Amber is sitting closest to the portable propane tank, so she is put in charge of making tea. We chat and drink tea with the men until finally lunch is served. It is a colorful and delicious beef and vegetable tagine, topped with crisp golden fries. When we are all full, Amber makes more tea, and we explain that we should probably head home before its too late. The teacher who biked here suggests that we all go back together and asks that we wait about an hour so they can go pray first. Meanwhile we wander over to the canyon edge for a last look at the beautiful sight. We run into Xalti’s daughter and thank her again for her generosity. We ask her also to thank her husband for the exciting salt mine experience.<br />When we get back to the house, Xalti has a bag of walnuts for us to take home. Our tutor fills our empty cookie tupperware with local dried figs. We pack it all up including the rock artwork from the night before. Then the teacher reappears ready to leave. We say our final goodbyes and strap on our backpacks, heavy with gifts, and I think to myself, “Its a good thing the road from this magical place is mostly downhill.”Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-59607689423602758212010-04-08T17:27:00.000+00:002010-04-08T17:28:20.252+00:00Barbershop Cultural Exchange Part ISo I was getting pretty shaggy around the neck and ears after a cold winter of not getting my hair cut. Finally I bit the bullet, made the 30 minutes walk into town and stopped off at the neighborhood barbershop. I walked in to find my normal barber not there. Instead, his early-twenties counterpart was sitting alone in one of the waiting chairs flipping through satellite TV stations.<br />"Are you cutting hair now?" I asked. "Yeah. Come have a seat". I noted that my normal guy was gone and he offered to let me wait until he returned, but I guess I'm not too loyal about these sorts of things so I sat down and let him strap on the bib.<br />Moroccan barbershops can be pretty nice. Our barbershop is the only establishment in my whole community with glass and carved-wood doors, where ugly sheet metal doors are the norm. Inside are two leather barber chairs strategically placed in front of a wall-to-wall mirror above a tiled countertop. On top of the counter, among the trimming paraphernalia, is a fancy plastic double-wall insulated thermos. This contains piping hot water so that when they sprits your hair or wipe away trimmings with a wet towel, it will be warm and refreshing (a pleasant and thoughtful amenity in these cold months). On the back wall, across from the mirror are three waiting chairs and a coat rack. Above the mirror, looming large in the left upper corner of the room is a medium-sized satellite TV with remote.<br />Today the remote belonged to my young hairdresser friend. He put it down to settle me in to my chair and got started snipping away at the fringes of my head. Soon another man came in and sat down and we all made small talk. The topic of me being American was broached (as it was fairly obvious), and before long the young hairdresser was developing a plan to make me feel more at home. He grabbed the remote from of the tiled counter and deftly punched in a series of numbers which left the TV above us loudly broadcasting MTV. He thought I would appreciate the "sounds from home", which in fact, were the rhythmic spittings of rap great Jay-Z. MTV had deemed it entertaining to create a "Top 20 Video Countdown" highlighting his extensive work. I'm not sure how the elderly Berber man waiting for his haircut felt about it, but my barber seemed to enjoy at least the beat.<br />To be honest, I was feeling at home, as a result. Especially when during one song, they asked to translate what he was saying. I hesitated for a moment and then said "ntta, dars bzzef n mashakil, welayni, urdars walo mushkil n tirvatin", which I though was a fairly direct, if not slightly more respectful translation of the original wording "I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one".<br />The American wisdom seemed to resonate strongly with these men. They bobbed their heads while I kept mine as still as possible for the remainder of the haircut. After trimming my neck and sideburns with a straight razor, he invited me to come to his house for a meal. I said that I was in a rush, paid my 10Dhs, left through the carved-wood door, and wandered down the dirt road with a head free from a heavy load of hair,<br />but full of catchy beats.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-76895912519461183072010-01-25T16:49:00.004+00:002010-01-25T16:55:49.935+00:00Glaoui Prison<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzRbMlE74OPdZgfMyfgKrPawj-t-zT5hv1MIOHk6R0cE21FDfYLhnDSu98KcJcQMYPkXLXSK40_RbFDEFJedyVBYaZ2-_K7gMgtjMgdWgnVaQr1l0CwhNpFatGxTxCxWejbhWyneQi808/s1600-h/IMG_2284.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzRbMlE74OPdZgfMyfgKrPawj-t-zT5hv1MIOHk6R0cE21FDfYLhnDSu98KcJcQMYPkXLXSK40_RbFDEFJedyVBYaZ2-_K7gMgtjMgdWgnVaQr1l0CwhNpFatGxTxCxWejbhWyneQi808/s320/IMG_2284.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430722121693919794" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYBpDBwNaB4mfwM7BRiWc3hg7aJq5rtDhZkcwCCRt9H3sf0iyft1sHYvWjisJV5W-QhsNM1Ghb5UQMcYiLWicHfjGhGU87npzISiMIW28WAa0f9ybspm9Xjdio7kvyHRjwB5s8rZgfx6I/s1600-h/IMG_2278.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYBpDBwNaB4mfwM7BRiWc3hg7aJq5rtDhZkcwCCRt9H3sf0iyft1sHYvWjisJV5W-QhsNM1Ghb5UQMcYiLWicHfjGhGU87npzISiMIW28WAa0f9ybspm9Xjdio7kvyHRjwB5s8rZgfx6I/s320/IMG_2278.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430721901916851890" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhthfB2ozCsNF6ZSp-D7Mnb2I2cS8CwLtyljOvjZu4vF91g6RrVFlZVlx3AswmG1B28b1664w3rwzPWNB7_Gn4UmaRo4qbomPR6EXAQZydaOkG87vyEZ8G761fAR0i7LvwXtTNIqH-UYww/s1600-h/IMG_2276.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhthfB2ozCsNF6ZSp-D7Mnb2I2cS8CwLtyljOvjZu4vF91g6RrVFlZVlx3AswmG1B28b1664w3rwzPWNB7_Gn4UmaRo4qbomPR6EXAQZydaOkG87vyEZ8G761fAR0i7LvwXtTNIqH-UYww/s320/IMG_2276.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430721623535945602" border="0" /></a><br />I am standing five stories up, on the roof of a towering kasbah that belonged to the most infamous family in all of Morocco. I had no idea this place existed just twenty minutes ago. Wind whistles past my ears while a flock of doves, spooked by our unlikely presence, circumnavigate the crumbling adobe turret to my left. A sea of lesser adobe buildings stretches out before me.<br />The kasbah is positioned on a hill, lofted up from the riverbed, in the center of my site, and overlooks the entire region. This spot is the highest point for miles around. I follow the path of the river down the valley with my eyes, and clearly see a town I know to be 36k away. The fields on each side of the river, which were grey and dying from winter's chill just a week before, now appear overstuffed and fluffy with an abundance of white almond tree blossoms. I glance at my friend, who is visiting my site for a few days to do a training. We express without words that this unexpected event is truly mind-blowing and unforgettable. As I slowly rotate, taking in the whole experience, I think to myself, "How did I get here"?<br />A few hours before, I had left my house hoping to find a Moroccan friend who works at the cyber. A week before, I had complimented him on the photos he was using to make a video montage. He told me he had taken the pictures at a nearby kasbah, and suggested that we go sometime. Today I had hoped to take him up on his offer. I ran into him near the main road about halfway to the cyber, and asked if he had time to show me and my friends the kasbah. He said yes, and told us to continue on to the cyber where he would meet us shortly. When he arrived at the cyber, we were all easily sidetracked by another cyber employee playing an online Arabic version of "Who Wants to be a Millionaire". For a while, the five of us -- three American PCVs and two young educated Moroccans -- made an unlikely, but effective team. They would read the questions in Standard Arabic, translate them for us into a mix of Moroccan Arabic, TashlHite and what little English they knew; at which point we would all pool our collective knowledge until an answer was chosen. After about a half an hour of this; satisfied with winning a $64,000 prize, we walked out of the cyber towards the yet unknown kasbah.<br />We took the scenic route through the fields, and stopped first at an attractive area with a patch of grass, a flowing brook, and grove of Aspen trees. From there, we walked down the riverbed until we were standing just below the kasbah; its massive mud walls soaring overhead. This is when our Moroccan friend floored us with the historical significance of the structure.<br />"Do you know who lived here?, he said. "The Glaoui family. Do you know about them"? Our jaws dropped. He continued, "It used to be a prison, and they lived here too". As we ascended the steep road, curving along the base of the tall outer walls, he pointed us to the large door which led to the jail section. We slipped into the dark cells just long enough to discover that this was not a fun place to be locked up, and got back on the road towards the main entrance.<br />The "Glaoui", were a family of Berber warlords who controlled the south of Morocco with an iron fist. Known for their brutality, they commonly tortured, murdered, and imprisoned their opposition. Supported by the occupying French, who needed assistance in oppressing the defiant southern Berber tribes, the Glaoui family maintained their fierce control of the area through a system of fear and unregulated taxes (mandatory gifts for the populous).<br />Their wealth is reflected in the stature of the kasbah. We had toured the modern annex first. Plaster and lavish paintwork; a strange architectural style -- Berber and French design struggling to coexist -- mirroring the political state of Morocco when this house was built. Of course, we now know that both sides lost. The paint of an extravagant archway had been marked with a completion date-- 1390 on the Muslim calander, we decide must have been around 1938. Our Moroccan friend informs us that the house was finally abandoned in the 70's. The painted walls are marred and cracked where looters have stolen wiring. A large hole in the floor near the entryway has fallen in, exposing the empty prison cells below. Somehow, a bathtub is still intact in the center of an empty tiled bathroom.<br />We edged past the hole in the ground and made our way to the original adobe section of the kasbah. The first floor is dark and hard to navigate, save a spot of sun, shining down through a central column. The stairs spiral up one of the turrets allowing access to each of four floors before reaching the top. The floors are built around a hollow, square-shaped column that extends the entire height of the kasbah. On each floor, huge keyhole-shaped windows have been sculpted into the four walls of the central column to let in light. On the third floor, we took turns standing in the keyholes to get our new favorite self-portraits. On the final flight of stairs, there are torn playing cards and empty candy wrappers. This is a great place to hide; whether its from your parents or an attacking Berber tribe. The Glaoui Family made many enemies during their bloody reign. This incredible structure would have protected them from most of them; easy to defend, difficult to attack, and a view from the top that left nothing to question. I stand among the doves and the clouds and wonder.....how does something so beautiful come from such terror? I believe opulent castles all around the world, pose the same question. But right now I am enjoying the silver lining.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-54021011344584705942010-01-25T16:48:00.000+00:002010-01-25T16:49:41.356+00:00Peace Corps Love MatchWe get a healthy number of neighborhood visitors at our house. Not enough to be annoying, but enough to feel included in the community. Most of the time, they are careful to come around late morning or late afternoon, which ensures that they won't wake us up, or interrupt any meals. Occasionally, though, they aren't so thoughtful.<br /> One morning a few weeks ago, we got a heavy knock on our metal door at the unreasonable hour of 8am! In the summer, we would probably have been up by then, but on these dim, blustery, winter mornings, we like to sleep a little later in order to give the sun a little time to wake up and do its thing. Needless to say, the knocking woke us up. When we didn't respond, the knocking got louder and more insistent. Eventually, our guest even picked up a rock to bolster the sound. Still, I was not about to jump out of bed, get dressed, and try to speak TashlHite in my current state. I stayed in bed hoping that the visitor would give up.<br /> Sure enough, the knocking stopped....that is until it resumed on the wall of my bedroom right next to my ear. Now I knew it was serious. Whoever was knocking must have been on a limited schedule. I jumped up and did exactly what I refused to do moments before. When I was dressed, I swung open the front door and jogged around to the back of the house where the second episode of knocking occurred. Nobody was near our house, but one of our friends and neighbors was poking around, working outside in her yard nearby. I walked over to her to see if she new what was going on. Seeing me coming, she yelled out, "Sorry. Did I wake you up"? By the time I got to her, Amber had finished dressing and was coming around the house, running to catch up. "Yeah", I said, "buts it's okay. We would have gotten up soon anyway. What did you want"? What she wanted, was our help in procuring a husband...<br /> So why did she want our help in this regard? In fact, she has been proposed to many times, and tentatively engaged twice. The first engagement was to a distant cousin living in Agadir. The second engagement, which lasted only one day, occurred the prior week to the son of a neighbor. The brother of the man was getting married, so his father told him that he needed to get married too; since all the family was already coming for the wedding, and since a dual-marriage would save money. The man heard that our neighbor was a good choice for a wife, and proposed to her one week before the wedding date. Initially -- perhaps out of shock-- she agreed to be married. That night, however, she stayed up thinking about what a huge mistake she had made. In addition to having never met this man before, she was also haunted by the fact that he was unusually short. She lay awake in bed imaging herself walking down the street with him, and imagined passersby assuming that he was her son. She even considered not inviting her family to the wedding, so they wouldn't witness the horizontally challenged nature of her groom. The next morning, she begged her parents to call off the wedding. When the man came back the next day to get the business of the dowry out of the way, her mother informed the man that their agreement had gone south. Her mother's insistence was enough to dissuade her suitor temporarily, but she expected him to be back in the days to come.<br /> The night before our rude awakening, our neighbor had talked to her friend in the Tiznit province, another PCV (Peace Corps Volunteer) who had lived with our neighbors for her initial two months in country. They had discussed the problem, and her friend in Tiznit had offered an alternative groom (if she could get engaged before the man returned, she would have an excuse not to marry him). The PCV vouched for this new mans personality, and offered to send a picture of the man to see if he met our neighbors qualifications in terms of appearance. Now she needed our help getting the picture.<br /> First, she needed the picture as soon as possible, so she could make her decision before the other suitor returned. Secondly, there was the issue of how to send it. Her whole family gets their mail sent to her fathers post office box, and only he picks up the mail. In a Muslim society like this one, you can't just opening send pictures of single men to young women. To solve the problem, we offered to try and get the picture via email, and also offered to let the picture be sent to our post office box in the event that email failed (which it did).While our neighbor waited as patiently as she could for the next few days, we diligently cooperated with the PCV in Tiznit to make sure everything went smoothly. When the picture arrived in our mailbox a few days later, we hastily gave it to its intended recipient, putting her future back in her hands.<br /> Imagine it! If she likes the boy in the picture, they may very well be married within the year. And all thanks to a well-connected volunteer down south, and a couple of drowsy volunteers next door. Talk about making a difference in the lives of the locals!Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-64887782708870532062010-01-25T16:45:00.002+00:002010-01-25T16:48:44.094+00:00Moroccan WeddingA while back, we were invited to a traditional wedding ceremony taking place across the river from our duwar. We didn't know what time to arrive, but we were assured that any time before about 2pm would be okay. We left our house at 1pm, and made our first stop at the local hanut (convenience store) to buy a wedding gift. The hanut was closed, so we visited the house of the hanut owner to see where he was. His family said he was probably praying in the Mosque and would be back soon. By the time we got back to the hanut, the owner had appeared and was slowly unlocking the door. Now running a bit late, we slipped into the hanut, picked out two of the nicest cones of sugar we could find, slapped down 24 dirhams, and started heading towards the river. We skittered down the steep embankment into the dry riverbed and navigated the rocky surface until we reached the network of paths wondering through the fields. We hurried along the paths, zagging this way and that, finally reaching a path that climbed up into the back yard of a series of houses. Nobody could be seen, but we wondered towards a collection of empty cars parked next to the adobe structures until our friend noticed us crossing the field and called us into the house we had just passed.<br />Despite our haste, we had missed lunch; but the women in the kitchen made us some honorary tea and offered us left-over fruit. Meanwhile a parade of relatives wondered in and out, taking turns welcoming us, introducing themselves, and testing our language skills; "What is bread? What is in this water bottle? Do you know what a wall is?".<br />After we had finished our tea, and gave the sugar gift to our host, an awkward period of time followed, because we didn't have any reason to be there until dinner, which would start many hours later. I wondered around the house until I came to a big open room with Tagines all over the floor. A man I had met once before in town, was standing in corner working over a wheelbarrow. I asked, "what are all these tagines for"? "Dinner", he replied. When another man came in the room and made a joke about the foreigner helping cook (which he did in TashlHite not realizing that would understand), I latched on to the opportunity for cultural exchange and responded, "Waxxa, radak 3awnG (okay, I'll help you)". The truth is, I didn't really know how long it would last or what I was getting into, but my curiosity was piqued by such a collection of tagines; 40 in all. Next came 40 mjmers (braziers), followed by wheelbarrows of glowing coals. Each mjmer was filled with coal and then a tagine was placed on top with a little water inside to avoid cracking. While one man added the coal, the other man and I worked with a pair of large bellows to keep the coals hot under the tagines. Up until this point, the men had been humoring me. Now the work was hard, and they needed the help. They started taking my presence more seriously and telling me what to do next at every turn.<br />When all 40 tagines were set with sparkling coals below, a huge crate of raw meat was dragged into the room. Each tagine was given more hot water, about 1kilo hunk of beef, and a splash of oil (a mix of olive and vegetable). Next, they brought out the vegetables. A heavy crate of onions, a crate of tomatoes, a crate of potato, a crate of zucchini. One man grabbed a knife and started peeling the skins of the onions. Meanwhile, the other man grabbed jars of cumin, turmeric, paprika, pepper, salt, and cilantro, tossing spoonfuls of each over the meat in the tagines. I was beginning to be impressed. Men in Morocco don't cook?! And here I was in a room of men confidently cooking 40 tagines simultaneously. This, I thought, was worth sticking around for. I grabbed a free knife, pulled a stool up to the onion crate, and started peeling.<br />My action was followed by some celebration to the tune of, "Hey, the foreigner is still helping! He can peel onions! Go team tagine!" When the onions were done, I took a quick spin through the rest of the house and discovered why men were on tagine duty. In the kitchen, where 8 or 9 women hurriedly preparing copious amounts of couscous. Down the hall, in a room opening out into the courtyard, were 5 or 6 more women squatting in a smoky room making bread. While some kneaded bread dough, one women was carefully slathering dough and flipping sheets of bread in a stout, igloo-shaped adobe oven, whose bottom was covered with glowing hot pebbles. The last women slouched over the newly baked bread, removing pebbles that had baked into the dough.<br />Feeling over-shadowed by the hard work of the women, I returned to my tagine duties, which brought more praise for the foreigner as I started in on the tomatoes. It didn't take long in that smoke, meat, and testosterone filled environment to forget all about the more difficult toils of the women and regain my pride in "team tagine". I felt like doing a chest bump when we finished skinning the potatoes. Shortly thereafter, a tray of tea came in with a plate of olive oil and a folded loaf of steaming fresh bread. We gathered around the tea and bread, padding ourselves on the back for a well deserved break. When all the vegetables were prepped, we portioned them into the tagines, added water as needed, and prodded the coals to check for problems. Just then I was rushed to another house to witness part of the wedding ceremony.<br />Inside the next house was a large circle of people drumming and chanting tribal wedding songs around the groom. He was completely cloaked, and sitting down on a chair in the middle of the crowd. As people chanted, various family members and friends walked into the circle and dropped money for the new couple. This continued for over an hour. When it finally ended, I stole a moment of time to check on my tagines. I chatted for a minute or two with my co-cooks, but our conversation was interrupted by loud horns from outside. The father of the groom, who was eating some food at one end of the room, said, "Its the Bride. The bride has come from her city with all her family". Sure enough, as I walked outside into the dark night, a caravan of 15-20 car headlights could be seen approaching on the road. They honked their horns to a distinctly Berber beat, and women in the vehicles chanted to the rhythm of the horns. The caravan pulled right up to the front door, and hundreds of people poured out into the driveway and into the house. On the roof, the groom and his friends were throwing candy down to the guests gathered around to witness the arrival. The bride was totally covered, and adorned with the traditional flowing fake red hair and a heavy gold headdress. She was rushed into the house, and then I heard somebody say "dinner". With that, men began forming a line around the house to a large fancy guest room.<br />A partition down the center of the guest room effectively created two long, thin rooms (maybe 10'x40' each). The floors was lined with carpets and pillows, and short round tables were placed down the center of each room at 5' intervals. Men filtered in and took their seats on the floor, lining the walls. When everyone was present, the man nearest each table was selected to be the tea-maker for that table. A tea set was brought out for the selected men, and they prepared the tea, scrupulously adhering to the most elaborate and ceremonial Moroccan tea-making processes. When the tea was finally served, plates of cookies were past around the room, followed by a second batch of tea, and more plates of cookies. Eventually, the tea sets were bused from the tables, and replaced with tablecloths. Men began to encircle their nearest table in anticipation of main courses. Servers brought in tagine after tagine, placing one on each table with a healthy portion of bread. When my table's tagine arrived, it was served by one of my co-cooks, who pointed at me and said to the rest of the people at the table, "this foreigner cooked these tagines"! It was mutually agreed that we should pop the lid and give our dinner a taste. The bread was divided evenly among the group, the lid was doffed, "Bismillah (in the name of god)" was uttered, and we took our first bites.... Delicious! I was genuinely impressed, and so were my table-mates. I got some "tabarkallahs (congratulations)" and some "shukrans (thank you)" and then the focus went back to the food.<br />After the tagine, came a heaping plate of mouthwatering couscous, and finally, a plate of fruit. When the food was consumed, an old man stood up and prayed aloud for the new married couple. The rest of the men punctuated his prose with chants of "Amen". Other speeches followed, but by this time, the majority of the guests were already shuffling towards the exit. I found my shoes among hundreds of others in the entryway, and walked out into the cold winter-night air, waving goodbye to some of the men I had eaten with. <br />It had been hours since I had seen Amber (men and women generally eat separately at weddings). I walked over to the other house where the bride had entered, and where the women had all gone to continue their festivities. A few men were lounging outside the front door. "Do you know if the women are done eating yet?", I said. One man looked up at me in surprise, "No. They haven't even started yet". While I expected gender separate dining, I had not anticipated that women would, in fact, only eat after men had finished (probably to ensure that there was enough food for the men). I thanked the man for his information and wandered across the courtyard, settling into a spot atop a log. I still had at least an hour to wait. Might as well get comfortable.<br />Some sociologists say that social events like weddings and funerals are the best opportunity to really see what makes up a culture. For over an hour, I sat on that log, staring up into the stars, marveling at the unique opportunity I had found myself in, and noting the remarkable similarities and differences between this event and its American equivalent.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-54462835099008334842010-01-25T16:41:00.002+00:002010-02-03T18:22:18.188+00:00Fun with LanguageIn a perfect world, if you want to learn a language, full immersion is definitely the best strategy. Unfortunately, for students of Berber language, full immersion is nearly impossible to achieve. Even in my quaint, rural community, I routinely hear at least as many words from outside my "target language" as within. Of course, part of my problem is that I live here with my wife so I always have somebody with whom to engage in English-speaking conversations. Even if I were alone, there are just so many other languages being used. Men usually speak Darija (Moroccan Arabic), which is the preferred language of business; and educated professionals (teachers, nurses, etc.) commonly include French or the occasional Standard Arabic in their speech. Despite myself, I have learned to understand, but not speak, basic French language; like numbers and travel questions.<br />Nearly everybody in my area speaks some form of TashlHite (the Berber language). This varies in dialect depends on where they are from. Just about every region has its own unique dialect. If your lucky, dialectical changes are just differences in pronunciation. For example, up north in the Khenifra Province, they switch their "k" sound with a "sh" sound (i.e. "tafusht" instead of "tafukt", meaning "sun"). Or in my site, for some reason we replace most "b" sounds with "v". Most of the time, regional dialects also have their own vocabulary, so that their is at least 3 or 4 words for the same thing; one for each dialectical variation. For example; the word in my site for "good" is "iHla". In the next town over, which is all Arabic, the word for "good" is "mzien" or "zween". Just to the south they say "ifulki", and just to the west they say "ishwa". Incidentally, "ishwa" means "sharp" in my site (both smart and like a knife), which brings me to my next point:<br />TashliHite is short on adjectives. "IHla" is the word for good, but it is also the only word for every other adjective that is a synonym of "good". How do you say "amazing, awesome, wonderful, cool, neat, nice, hard-working, beautiful, great, pretty, and cute"? "IHla"! If your really trying to emphasize how good something is, the best you can do is start adding synonyms from the other dialects; "iHla", "zween", "ifulki", etc.. Actually, there is a word for beautiful ("idrf") , but I've never heard anyone use it. And there is a word for "hard-working" ("iharsh"), but in some dialects that just means busy. In my site, the word for fast ("izrbn"), also has the connotation of being busy or late for something. When I told my host mom that we were going fast during one of our daily health walks, she thought I was telling her I was late for something and needed to turn back. Now I know that if I want to compliment her on her walking speed, I have to say "datazalt", which literally translates to "you run".<br />That brings me to another point. Do you know what we say when we go on daily walks with our host mom? We say "Anskr L'marche". Her doctor told her to walk every day, but he must of used the French word for walk so now we say "lets make walking", with an ugly French word, even though their are perfectly good TashlHite words for "walk (verb)", "walking (noun)" and "run (verb)", among other possible options.<br />The "mohim" (point of the conversation in Darija) is that while I am technically immersed in foreign language most of the time, the variety of language, and the idiosyncrasies of these languages, make it very hard to master. That is not to say that I'm not getting better. It is just a way of justifying the following collection of embarrassing language-related "faux pas"s (arrrg... another French word).<br />"You?": Unlike the English language, TashlHite has more than one form of "you". There are in fact four versions; masculine and feminine singular, and masculine and feminine plural. The first time I met my mquddam (like a neighborhood government official), I said, "How are you (feminine) doing today?" He brushed it off, but the mistake was not lost on him, or any of the native-speakers within earshot....<br /><br />"That's Handy!": The first time Amber and I traveled to Ouarzazate alone, we were very cautious not to get ripped off by the taxi drivers. When one of them started speaking to us in French, thinking that we were tourists, I replied in TashlHite, in an attempt to convince him that we were locals not to be messed with. Unfortunately I mixed up the body parts vocabulary lesson and said, "We don't need a taxi, we're just going to walk into town on our hands". The taxi driver was impressed, but not by my language skills...<br /><br />"The Moroccan Mom Joke": We have some great, friendly neighbors on our neighborhood, who were early to accept us into the community, and willing to be good listeners when our language skills were still abysmal. During one of our conversations with them, we expressed our desire for a pet cat. A few months later, when their cat had kittens, they brought us one of the cats as a gift. Shortly after that, we were visiting their house for afternoon tea, and I saw an adult cat roaming around. I pointed at the cat, intending to ask if that was our new cat's mother. But because of difficulties with the possession indicator, I looked right at our neighbor, pointing at her cat and said, "Is that your mom?". It wasn't....<br /><br />"Sharing Is Not For Everyone": We recently had 16 PC volunteers staying in our house for a regional meeting. Needless to say, that many people requires a lot of food, and much bigger cookware than we were equipped with. The day before everyone arrived I went over to our host-mom's house and asked her if I could borrow her large pot. The word for pot is "gamila". Unfortunately, I used the word "jamila", which is the name of her oldest daughter. She said, "Sean you can't have Jamila. She's got three young daughters of her own, but I'll let you borrow some pots instead...."<br /><br />"Lady Bug": One day, while wandering through the fields with some friends, I noticed a small ladybug on a blade of grass. I pointed out the bug to our friends and asked, "whats this called?" Their response was "tabHusht" which is just the generic work for bug. Having just recently learned that word, I was excited to here it come up in conversation,a dn even more excited to try and use it. I exclaimed,"In America we say 'bug of woman'(tabHusht n tamagart)". The women we were with seemed to think this was much funnier than it seemed to me, until I realized that I had said "taboosh" instead or "tabHusht". That "H"soud is the difference between saying "bug" and saying "breast". I tried to explain myself through the giggling, but its very possible some people here still think we call those cute little red and black-polka dotted insects "breast of a woman".Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-17664739761374043202010-01-12T13:24:00.000+00:002010-01-12T13:25:19.652+00:00L-3id Kbeer (some animals were harmed in the making of this blog post)“L-3id Kbeer” literally translates to “Big Holiday”. “Kbeer” is the Arabic word for large, and of course “3id” is Arabic for “holiday”, with the “L” tacked on in Berber communities as a definite article identifying that the word has been borrowed from another language (this, by the way, has always reminded me of the way American hicks are portrayed in the movies when they say things like “do you listen to the rap”). Anyway, it is an appropriate name as the holiday proves to be a unanimous favorite among people in our community. Not unlike the American Thanksgiving holiday, the centerpiece of “L-3id Kbeer” is the slaughter and consumption of a delicious beast; in this case, ram. In rural areas, like the village I live in, getting a ram is in some ways easier and in other ways more difficult; easier because nearly every household has an animal pen and the means to take care of livestock; but harder because rural Moroccans are not wealthy and rams are incredibly expensive (of course the price goes up exponentially as the holiday approaches). Some people buy their ram months in advance, housing and feeding it all that time to avoid holiday prices. Conversely, some families breed sheep and ram all year in the hopes of making a good profit during “L-3id Kbeer”. In the city, things are a bit different. I spoke to a friend who lives in Rabat about his experience. He said he didn’t really care about the tradition of buying a ram, but his wife insisted that he buy one. Unfortunately, they live in an apartment, in a modern city, with not so much as a shared courtyard. Where is the ram going to go? Thousands of urban-dwelling Moroccans find themselves in this situation each year. The solution is to pay the ram dealer not only for the ram itself, but also for the continued care of the animal until the fateful day. On that day, the ram is delivered to the butcher of choice, and dispatched for the eating pleasure of the entire family.<br />We happened to be traveling the week prior to “L-3id Kbeer”, and what we witnessed from the seats of our bumpy souq bus was both impressive and hilarious. In every town we passed, from Marrakech to the smallest farming community, rams were everywhere. Rams with their hind legs held up, being pushed forward like wheelbarrows; rams bound and crammed into plastic crates on the backs of scooters; rams tied to city light posts and park fences; rams being walked on leashes down sidewalks; rams strapped to the hoods of cars atop mattresses and other goods; rams being carefully arranged in car trunks; even rams slung around necks like over-stuffed scarves. Imagine if everybody in America bought their Thanksgiving turkey live. Now imagine the Cost-Plus parking lot the week before Thanksgiving. That is what we were witnessing.<br />In our village, the real festivities began the day before. As if to work themselves up to the solid week or more of a strictly carnivorous diet, people buy some type of red meat on the eve of “L-3id Kbeer” (also known as “L-3id n Tifiyyi”: “the Meat Holiday”) and make delicious meat skewers. The meat is cubed and marinated in chopped onion, minced cilantro, salt, pepper, and generous amounts of cumin. Then it is slid onto skewers and placed onto a “mjmer” (clay brazier) filled with glowing coals. The coals are fanned with a stray piece of cardboard until the meat is browned and glistening on both sides. Finally, the meat is served with bread and sweat mint tea. In a day and a half, we were unknowingly invited to four meat skewer meals; two of them, the morning of “L-3id Kbeer”, before the ram ceremony. Already full of meat, our host mom sat us in front of the TV to relax. The TV displayed visions of men in golden robes holding down a majestic ram. Before I could reflect on the oddity of the programming choice, the suave Moroccan king, atypically dressed in a tradition Moroccan tajllabit (hooded robe), sauntered out to where the other men were, and from behind a white sheet, with a shaky but resolute one-handed motion, slit the ram’s throat. This was our sign. The rule is that you may begin the slaughter of your ram once the king has done the deed. Before long we were ushered out to a common field around which all the neighborhood people had gathered in their finest, most pearlescent cloths. People were taking turns walking around the giant circle of people greeting and being greeted. We fell in line greeting all our fancily clad neighbors and wishing them a happy holiday before being taken over to a lengthy impromptu photo session, for which, as it turned out, I was the photographer. After taking pictures of every possible mixture of people, a beautiful black ram was walked past us. I turned to find that the large common field was in fact full of rams. Probably 15 rams in all, some of them had already been slain, others were at this moment being coddled into their taking their final resting places. Though it was surprising to see so many animals being slaughtered in one place and time, I was not disgusted or disturbed as I thought I might be. These acts were celebratory and reverent, family-oriented, and shared with the whole community. Most of the families cared for their ram for months before this moment. And you can be sure, that in a country where meat is expensive and highly values, these creatures will not have died in vain. In fact, I now know that nearly every part of the animal is salvaged and utilized.<br />After the animal is dead, a slit is made in the skin near the ankle. Someone will plow into this hole until the skin puffs out like a balloon and separates from the muscle. Then the animal is skinned, starting at the base of the tail. At this point the animal is opened and fully cleaned, saving every organ including the colon. Only the digesting contents of the stomach and intestines are left to waste on the ground when the act is complete.<br />For the next two weeks or so, we continued to eat pieces of the rams we had seen off that day. One day we had the traditional “head couscous”, a meal which draws strong mixed emotions among PCVs and Moroccans alike. Though the skull was given to our host father to eat, I enjoyed the mild head-flavored couscous and vegetables in my section.<br />On another occasion, we were invited to a meat breakfast at the huge adobe compound shared by our host sister and the large family into which she was married. The meal started with sweet mint tea and the meat skewers mentioned above. Then, they brought out a tagine sloshing with indiscernible meat stew, laden with a vast variety of chunked meats, so that every bite was a new and surprising consistency. It was delicious! Exactly like menudo, though perhaps gamier; each bite transplanted me to a run-down café in Hatch, NM. Of course, in Morocco, the success of each meal greatly depends on the triangular section of the meal placed in front of you. That day, Amber’s section was visibly less appetizing, making us both wonder, “How many weeks are these rams gonna last”?Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-42792988735412989202009-12-22T00:08:00.003+00:002009-12-22T00:16:48.658+00:00Drifting (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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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...<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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").Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-85882931267902897042009-12-14T16:23:00.002+00:002009-12-14T16:33:04.478+00:00Drifting (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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />(learn what makes Rabat such a great city and why the chicken crossed the road in the next riveting installment soon to come)Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-32906951707787230112009-12-09T16:26:00.002+00:002009-12-09T16:33:43.058+00:00Drifting (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?<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />(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)Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-52759843750683941482009-11-04T17:59:00.003+00:002009-11-04T18:19:08.065+00:00Holy Hillary!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i.cdn.turner.com/cnn/2009/WORLD/africa/11/03/morocco.us.peace.corp.senior/story.clinton.peace.corps.pool.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 169px;" src="http://i.cdn.turner.com/cnn/2009/WORLD/africa/11/03/morocco.us.peace.corp.senior/story.clinton.peace.corps.pool.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />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.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-78453108508623105572009-10-30T13:46:00.002+00:002009-10-30T13:52:08.660+00:00Pictures!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!Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-5494456401839643402009-10-19T12:05:00.002+00:002009-10-19T12:18:25.323+00:00Additional Blog Notes...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0U-t2bTu_2aN-zvvquBzHbdoHMTkUWsZ7uAfsLS2m0hd7DxfFjdoXlPI4XiY1b_idhfPjRedM4eF6uKJiOzdZo57Qwqoz5v3FRVDZtwKx6sUF0Bx8mR5BgSt3mircw5ZexCeFoTyb9yo/s1600-h/IMG_1495.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0U-t2bTu_2aN-zvvquBzHbdoHMTkUWsZ7uAfsLS2m0hd7DxfFjdoXlPI4XiY1b_idhfPjRedM4eF6uKJiOzdZo57Qwqoz5v3FRVDZtwKx6sUF0Bx8mR5BgSt3mircw5ZexCeFoTyb9yo/s320/IMG_1495.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394284308119969650" border="0" /></a><br />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!Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-33767460236834390942009-10-19T11:38:00.003+00:002009-10-19T11:48:14.238+00:00International Hand Washing Day<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTcE4ACfADkYozCLCMaoOz0WB5LZwM5AlxSn-_AIvgcI3s2pvMMvkTJXpegBNenHve4QWRP_30u36OMmYU0iR9LMaIYgVKON7cYzn1bU64Syx14ZpRm377YP0rm9BGVDrmGleHei9vhNY/s1600-h/IMG_1491.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTcE4ACfADkYozCLCMaoOz0WB5LZwM5AlxSn-_AIvgcI3s2pvMMvkTJXpegBNenHve4QWRP_30u36OMmYU0iR9LMaIYgVKON7cYzn1bU64Syx14ZpRm377YP0rm9BGVDrmGleHei9vhNY/s320/IMG_1491.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394275914561346098" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br />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!Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-40574680099492686392009-10-19T11:37:00.001+00:002009-10-19T11:59:26.019+00:00Desert Dessert<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIBu4scbdw7FBjdIUjpItd6c60sKA4s0qnCo8AO8uQgc2wp4e81K52WQxrsMkm6K5WGRjXGQGyazJr2r1x8AdhgMOiDI-w1GHL6c7Tt-vyZh5hfTDCXzqXOa_u6x2ZE1cIbvcVeQcd6ws/s1600-h/IMG_1438.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIBu4scbdw7FBjdIUjpItd6c60sKA4s0qnCo8AO8uQgc2wp4e81K52WQxrsMkm6K5WGRjXGQGyazJr2r1x8AdhgMOiDI-w1GHL6c7Tt-vyZh5hfTDCXzqXOa_u6x2ZE1cIbvcVeQcd6ws/s320/IMG_1438.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394279368919090002" border="0" /></a><br />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.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-53435549693343796612009-10-19T11:35:00.000+00:002009-10-19T11:37:52.550+00:00AgadirIt 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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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".<br />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.<br /> 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!<br />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.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-18104043076082311962009-09-29T11:50:00.000+00:002009-09-29T11:53:01.125+00:00Ishqqa 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.<br /><br />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.Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-48637571990695175682009-09-11T11:14:00.003+00:002009-09-11T11:44:43.718+00:00The Sounds of MoroccoWell 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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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!Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-34451669776355770482009-08-22T11:55:00.001+00:002009-08-22T11:55:41.517+00:00The 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!Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5103308206347887981.post-73063512006239071602009-08-16T11:29:00.004+01:002009-08-16T11:53:02.121+01:00Fez<img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370509716882878962" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV4YgbTSdi30EtJkd04_jFoxCYCAfWESMKw4d28PFyfCQbVuVgebVMkZPsMyYLasQFw_nsEeijeOrXwA1UIe7r5xD4l9K9FZYwaFZo-H_T2ZxIpuH9bmC5RHVSVPvGEKVp7HdA55aAzY0/s320/IMG_1137.JPG" /><span style="font-family:georgia;">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. </span><br /><div><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">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). </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">"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. </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">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!</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">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! </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">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.</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">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. </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">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. </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">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. </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">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. </span></p></div>Seanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01530698818405348422noreply@blogger.com0