tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36265888034433044982024-02-20T21:20:39.455+01:00Felicie's BlogFeliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-17777309799654200322011-11-06T17:17:00.002+01:002011-11-06T17:33:43.553+01:00Moonfest and Smoked Salmon<span style="font-family:Calibri;">The last few weeks have been busy and memorable. I left off in my last blog post with the preparations for the international music festival, Moonfest, taking place in Lalla Takerkoust. As planned, the women came to my house each day for a week to prepare platters of sweets to sell at the festival. I enjoyed having my house be the center of activity, especially since I knew it was just for a little while. I learned how to make new types of colorful and tasty Moroccan cookies. On the first day of Moonfest, our pick-up truck man Hassan came to m<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyZxxmLeQECMSKCRjXHj3fMEvb9ehdxEv0p8V0QFAsQgPJz1lsNvyVIrsBsIuOAiWcj_7PYhEJB7SJslNVob6Xyfp5JBbRsSm9j3bev6FcCONDxe3ZBUATtTAVxOE8gJsLskJgWJWoEzU/s1600/group.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671920268853367586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyZxxmLeQECMSKCRjXHj3fMEvb9ehdxEv0p8V0QFAsQgPJz1lsNvyVIrsBsIuOAiWcj_7PYhEJB7SJslNVob6Xyfp5JBbRsSm9j3bev6FcCONDxe3ZBUATtTAVxOE8gJsLskJgWJWoEzU/s320/group.jpg" /></a>y door at daybreak and we piled everything in the back. The women spent the morning setting up the display cases and products in the tent up by the lake. Meanwhile, two of the association members participated in a cooking contest coinciding with the festival. Choumicha, the host of a cooking show on national television (channel 2M), had selected a group of about 10 women from the commune to prepare traditional meals in front of a panel of judges. Our two members, Aicha and Rabia, won first and second place! They proudly returned to the tent, holding their trophies. Choumicha was impressed with their work and brought her film crew by the tent to interview Naima and the women about the Association. They showed up on national television a couple weeks later, making the whole village proud. </span><br /><div><br /><div><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">The rest of the festival went well. There was much more competition this year with other associations and community members often selling the same items. Association Tamyourt didn’t gain as much as in the previous festival, but we came out positive in profits thanks to some faithful customers. There were a few great bands in the concert roster, including the nationally famous groups Udaden and Rouicha. I was particularly excited to see Justin Adams and Juldeh Camara perform on Saturday night. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">A few days after Moonfest, my parents came to visit! We spent a fantastic two weeks hanging around my site, hiking in the High Atlas, visiting Marrakech, Essaouira, and the Imouzzer Falls down by Agadir. I was happy to finally show them where I’ve been living and working the last 18 months and introduce them to my local friends and counterparts. Several people showed such immense kindness and hospitality in helping me welcome them that we scratched our original plans to travel up to Fes and Ifrane so we could spend more time in my village. Their visit gave me a renewed sense of appreciation for Lalla Takerkoust, and Morocco in general. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Once the parents went home, I returned to normal life in village. I busied myself with English and French tutoring and elaborating a new project proposal with the local sports association. I’ve applied for another USAID small project grant to purchase exercise machines (treadmill, spinning bikes, step machines) for a new youth and sports center being built by the soccer field. The grant has been approved, but we’re waiting on USAID to release the funds for the fiscal year. The recent budget cuts are causing some delays, and I hope it comes through. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-IuR3MlFvqVLf5PIWTjRsyMnLHbFWijqDTcqIj4SPFfnq25x7BxhoodNzjb_qBkE3_W8Et2pmcsqvFWM5qPBKK9zyklGV-1SuHoMxDYl6z90SNaC3ojQR934jMzsfC0uWgM0pYvC57lc/s1600/build.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671920272896430722" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-IuR3MlFvqVLf5PIWTjRsyMnLHbFWijqDTcqIj4SPFfnq25x7BxhoodNzjb_qBkE3_W8Et2pmcsqvFWM5qPBKK9zyklGV-1SuHoMxDYl6z90SNaC3ojQR934jMzsfC0uWgM0pYvC57lc/s320/build.jpg" /></a></span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">The Women’s Association building is coming along nicely. We were lucky enough to get a visit from the Canadian Ambassador himself on Halloween. He and a small delegation came to check up on the construction site before the Embassy sends the next allotment of funds. They were happy with the work accumulated thus far, and the women can be proud of their accomplishments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The Kaid (equivalent of town mayor) and Communal Council helped us set up a welcoming tent and we of course prepared an impressive spread of Moroccan pastries and breads for the Ambassador to taste. In return, he presented Naima with a fancy wooden box of Canadian smoked salmon. After the delegation left, the women came to me inquiring what in the world was in that box. I wonder how they will divide up this gift. I can just picture them divvying out single pieces of smoked salmon to each member. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>It’s definitely not a type of food they’re used to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But, the gesture was nice and the whole visit was quite positive. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhid8nSdgWEK6Y_mw8gALp-G5mUdRrHjDuoVFphmUrSsxircZ_rvjCY6n7VGcIKc_4oexgmsbqHrFd6zz4ef9ulwfh-cwc9-rFuA_6adjmOI8frLLpZKbzCDwsFcCU0MfNcs9DcpB7KcXs/s1600/gift.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671920277592427506" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhid8nSdgWEK6Y_mw8gALp-G5mUdRrHjDuoVFphmUrSsxircZ_rvjCY6n7VGcIKc_4oexgmsbqHrFd6zz4ef9ulwfh-cwc9-rFuA_6adjmOI8frLLpZKbzCDwsFcCU0MfNcs9DcpB7KcXs/s320/gift.jpg" /></a></span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Today is the eve of the Eid Al Ahda. Tomorrow, many rams go under the knife. I look forward to participating in this week’s festivities. Things have evolved a great deal for the better since last year at this time. </span></p></div></div>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-27879103439838741382011-09-24T23:59:00.003+02:002011-09-25T00:14:50.787+02:00<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">As my mother reminded me yesterday, it’s been a while since I posted an update on Lalla Takerkouste, the women’s association, and life in Morocco. Summer has come and gone, as has Ramadan. Work at the bakery came to standstill in late July and August because the tiny loft becomes an inferno in high summer. That with the addition of heat emanating from gas stoves and the fact that everyone is fasting all day long killed any remaining motivation to work. During the summer, many Moroccan families living in the hot interior regions move out to vacation with relatives on the coast or up in the mountains. I followed suit. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">In June and July, I took a couple trips to Essaouira, probably my favorite city in the country, to help out with an AIDS and health awareness campaign with other Volunteers and to enjoy the cool coastal winds. I took several exhilarating kite surfing lessons and wound up severely bruised from a technical mishap with my kite on the beach, but I don’t regret having done it. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">In August I opted to escape Morocco altogether for a large chunk of Ramadan. I joined a small group of fellow Volunteers on a lovely trip around central and southern Spain. We visited, Madrid, Toledo, Cordoba, Granada, Sevilla, and spent a week at a beach resort in Marbella. The trip involved generous amounts of sangria, tapas, wine, and many games of cards. We returned to Morocco via a short ferry ride from Algeciras to Tangier, in time to spend the last 6 days of Ramadan in village. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Naima had been holding down the fort all summer, as she was required to stay for her job at the pharmacy. She and I had gone up to Rabat in July to settle paperwork for the Canadian<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid-HBooOrRPxQLRWTF4MH_ok1JZz2WWVQ7yZjFqvtYCq2s9kYB6-_mTpILpyMWtfRfpKqdJX-VYqD2xxIm33j7e0HOtq-VMoBuYGX5LtC2_2gUlyEpJZkGKS4NFzvwh9OLVZFsCkvh_kc/s1600/building.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 268px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 205px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656052239712928642" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid-HBooOrRPxQLRWTF4MH_ok1JZz2WWVQ7yZjFqvtYCq2s9kYB6-_mTpILpyMWtfRfpKqdJX-VYqD2xxIm33j7e0HOtq-VMoBuYGX5LtC2_2gUlyEpJZkGKS4NFzvwh9OLVZFsCkvh_kc/s320/building.jpg" /></a> Embassy grant. She’d received the first chunk of funds and launched the construction of the new Association building (foundation pictured on right). Luckily, her brothers and a couple other allies in the community have been giving her guidance on how to go about directing the labor, since she has no experience in that field. The building needs to be finished by the end of the year, at which time we will hopefully receive the solar-powered fruit dryers promised to the association since 2008 by CDRT (Development NGO in Marrakech). Once the building is finished, the women will finally have an adequate place to work freely, baking goodies and drying fruit. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">In the meantime, there is a big international music festival next week in Lalla Takerkouste, called Moonfest (</span><a href="http://www.moonfestworldmusic.com/"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">http://www.moonfestworldmusic.com/</span></a><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> ). All the local associations will have stalls to display and sell their products and the women are hoping to make a killing selling their sweets, crepes, and soup like we did last April. The festival will be shorter this time, but there should be many more visitors, including tourists and people from Casablanca and Rabat. Because the loft is too small to operate in, I’ve donated my house for the preparations. Today began the association take-over. We hauled ovens, ingredients, and other materials into my spare room and will spend the next 6 days baking away. Let’s hope it all goes well!</span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-78664369152212365652011-06-09T12:41:00.003+02:002011-06-09T12:52:27.271+02:00All In A Day's Work<div><br /><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">After days of doubting and pondering how to proceed with the next 11 months of my service in Morocco, yesterday everything seemed to just come together. Following the Spring Festival at the Barrage in April, work at the Women’s Association began to wane and I was worried the bakery project was losing fuel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I had turned in my project completion report to Peace Corps and handed over the Association treasury to <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVyKkKRthcK3Al7rBQ0t56lfVRq0rgiZYlAlQ42K9BkmQYixjyiKrl3Cbof5hOwI8BPA6IKINi8uda-xccHkx80vRqBWgqoxnF7u9sRnI6jEo1GhNVBLFIoOjpFeHKG7VqJoQt3QAEi6o/s1600/lake.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616170664781622594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVyKkKRthcK3Al7rBQ0t56lfVRq0rgiZYlAlQ42K9BkmQYixjyiKrl3Cbof5hOwI8BPA6IKINi8uda-xccHkx80vRqBWgqoxnF7u9sRnI6jEo1GhNVBLFIoOjpFeHKG7VqJoQt3QAEi6o/s320/lake.JPG" /></a>Batoul. I wanted to see if the members would continue to propel themselves forward with the bakery. A few of the women stopped coming to work, therefore discouraging other members to work as well. The reasons I was given for their reluctance to show up were varied and hazy. Some weren’t getting enough monetary compensation, others didn’t get along with certain members, some had family matters to attend to. I had also stopped going every day partly because I needed a mental break and in part because I felt the members should upkeep their product demands in the community on their own, without me around to handle deliveries and money exchanges. </span></p><br /><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">By mid May, 4 women bobbed back up to the surface and returned to work diligently. We decided to move out of the leased locale because rent was robbing them of the majority of their profits. They moved back to the tiny loft donated by Naima’s father, while I sent a grant proposal to the Canadian Embassy in Rabat for the construction of a new venue. The Commune had recently signed over a piece of land for the Association, and they’ve been dreaming of having a proper building to work out of for years. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>I was prompted to apply with the Canadian Embassy by a Moroccan Peace Corps staff member but honestly didn’t hold very high hopes for it. However, two weeks ago, the Embassy called to say they were interested in our project. We scrambled to send them a few more requested documents and then sat down to wait. </span></p><br /><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">As June arrived, bringing with it the first tastes of summer weather, I began fretting about the prospect of sitting through the next 3 months of hellish heat, with Ramadan looming 8 weeks away and not many activities in store. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>I holed myself up with books and television shows for a few days, beginning to wallow in my uncertainties. </span></p><br /><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Yesterday I opted for a change of pace and called up my new friend Delphine, a French woman who lives in my site with her Moroccan husband and their beautiful baby boy, Ismail. I suggested we go for a hike along the lake and maybe venture for a swim. The two of us spent an absolutely beautiful day touring the villages and orchards, visiting a few of the other Europeans living in the area. We finished at Brigitte’s, a German leather artist who’s lived at the Barrage for the past 12 years with her 4 children. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>They have an ultimate utopist hippies’ lair on the water, 7 km outside of town, with a quiet grassy beach that Delphine and I took full advantage of. I’ve been here for 13 months and this was my first swim in the lake! I can’t believe I’ve waited this long. I even coaxed (dragged) Haddock to come in for a swim, though he wasn’t as big a fan. He much preferred wreaking havoc with the neighborhood guard dogs. </span></p><br /><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">On our hike back to the village, I received a call from the Canadian Embassy, informing me they’d selected our project for funding! I hurried home to spread the good news to the Association members and found them in the midst of creating new delicacies. They were trying out new Algerian recipes they’d found online, courtesy of the laptop my dad donated to them in February. On top of a new wholesaler client they’d found in Marrakech who ordered 50kg of cookies, they were making another order for some women at the governor’s office. They seemed proud and motivated, which made me so happy. I ate a celebratory dinner at Delphine’s house, with good laughs, good drinks, good stories. Some days can be pretty lonely and rough, but it’s days like these that make it all worthwhile.</span></p></div>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-37077732771631072002011-04-16T09:46:00.005+02:002011-04-16T10:52:17.270+02:00The Festival<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9aX4HGEAwlmu6hbFsKm2JFLcsiO5t-aWFIziOwUb8aLbniNSE-vbtjMYvmKAXFLMhWWqGVfa4l7QGhKC916Ns7gfKFq3RPRVwcelcU9ro3P8gTiJ0XKdPPTaJkY7_hPmQOv4rdR2iTdg/s1600/display.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 254px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 185px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596098293383527538" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9aX4HGEAwlmu6hbFsKm2JFLcsiO5t-aWFIziOwUb8aLbniNSE-vbtjMYvmKAXFLMhWWqGVfa4l7QGhKC916Ns7gfKFq3RPRVwcelcU9ro3P8gTiJ0XKdPPTaJkY7_hPmQOv4rdR2iTdg/s320/display.JPG" /></a> <br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Spring break in Morocco has come and gone, and we’ve survived the first annual spring festival in Lalla Takerkouste. The days leading up to it and especially the seven days during it were exhausting to say the least, but it was well worth our efforts. This festival has given me a unique opportunity to really see how Moroccan women operate and work together under stress. I saw some true colors. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">It started the eve of the festival. Batoul and I had ordered a set of glass display cases nearly two weeks prior with the village welder, but each time we went to check up on it, we receive<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLXsbabtgx_6ThLyzViyeZFdRBpOCdWc8xJ96vtM5QEpZlp0KYojP727VJ67zpSujgPpSee-FEfBAIHT99wLq20ZX3T2eaus-FkSLQCDutJ1WaS9cCgw92OtYFiAmUClfA_YhMd4YI2R8/s1600/truck.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 248px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 176px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596097754422689506" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLXsbabtgx_6ThLyzViyeZFdRBpOCdWc8xJ96vtM5QEpZlp0KYojP727VJ67zpSujgPpSee-FEfBAIHT99wLq20ZX3T2eaus-FkSLQCDutJ1WaS9cCgw92OtYFiAmUClfA_YhMd4YI2R8/s320/truck.JPG" /></a>d new excuses as to why they weren’t ready. The down payment was made and there was no chance of a refund. We had about 10 platters heaped with freshly made sweets and nothing to display them in. Naima, who barely stands at 5 feet, marched over to the welder’s on her lunch break and let him hear it. She told him, “Take off that mustache of yours and put on some lipstick, because you are not a man!”. By that night, somehow, he delivered three gleaming and beautiful display cases that became the envy of the festival participants. The next day, we piled all our platters, equipment, and a few young women on the back of a villager’s pick-up truck and slowly paraded our delicate cargo on the rocky dirt road to the festival grounds in the town center. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">We started selling sweets (or Helwa in Moroccan) practically the minute we arrived. It took us a while to get relatively organized. The first few hours involved one girl accidentally knocking an entire plate of cookies on the ground while another one wearing ridiculously pointy cowboy boots with heels tripped on the gas burner and crashed against the side of the tent, nearly bringing the whole operation down. Then, just as we’d managed to set everything up nicely, a hail storm came out of nowhere, pelting bullet-sized hailstones all over our display cases. But, through all that, we kept on selling. Each evening, the women brought a large vat of Harira (Traditional Moroccan soup) and we made Moroccan crepes (L’Msmen) on the newly purchased L’Msmen grill. The commune set up a stage and had a DJ and live music groups animate into the night. A couple of the girls and I were logging 12 hour days working at the stand while the older women worked all day at the Association making more Helwa to replenish our quickly disappearing stock. During the evening rush hour, as I played cashier and had 6 women yelling out orders in French, Arabic, Berber, Ryals and Dirhams, and shoving bills at me, I got flashbacks of my 80 hour workweeks in busy South Beach restaurants. I don’t know if I would have made it through this week without that experience under my belt. </span></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7e0KJ3Yp9tDtGeBoggqu4xHaQqfckDAecvZ3IaKhrtK7ktBwr3bcaCsQV0rGrH0dmtPJhjQC9vVgxoFfQLxVh5C-nOeBEWVrN0xv4Fwlt5FI9XJTX-BPclE2SLxcsL3aVej_CyRJOjJs/s1600/clapping.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 227px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 196px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596094224982679154" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7e0KJ3Yp9tDtGeBoggqu4xHaQqfckDAecvZ3IaKhrtK7ktBwr3bcaCsQV0rGrH0dmtPJhjQC9vVgxoFfQLxVh5C-nOeBEWVrN0xv4Fwlt5FI9XJTX-BPclE2SLxcsL3aVej_CyRJOjJs/s320/clapping.JPG" /></a> <br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">During the day, the Commune organized activities for the kids. A local artist did drawing and painting workshops and I helped out one day with a waste management education session. About 75 kids showed up and I thankfully had a translator help me out. It was chaotic but I think I got the basic message across about trash and hygiene. A group of three boys who attended the session stuck by my side every day, helping to pick up trash and bringing me an endless stream of paintings and drawings. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">By the end of day seven, we were all weary and ready for rest. I crawled home and slept for 12 hours. I think I’m still recovering. After crunching some numbers, it looks like the Association will be able to pay rent for a few months with their festival profits. The members are happy and looking for another festival in the region to participate in. </span></p></div>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-19622816859310994082011-03-28T11:29:00.002+02:002011-03-28T11:49:22.350+02:00Just Another Sunday<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">After a weekly visit to my town’s market, I saw Batoul, an Association member and close friend, making a fire for their Hamam on my way home. She said I should go see Naima (Batoul’s sister and Association President) at the Association. She had some updates to give me regarding the upcoming festival in town. So I dropped off my groceries and went to meet her. She was having mint tea with Latifa and Malika, who’d just finished their order of bread for the day. FtaH, Naima’s nephew, was off delivering. Once the 2 women left, Naima and I discussed the festival. The Commune has recently decided to organize a type of fair in town during school spring break. It will last a minimum of two days, April 5-6 (but may extend for the rest of the week if the turnout is good). There will be stands available for local associations to display and sell their products. One of the stands is reserved for us. We’ve got a lot of work to do in the next week, preparing pastries and figuring out the logistics. The Commune has also asked that I help them coordinate some environmental activities: trash management education, community clean-up and tree planting activities. (Finally, something related to my educational background!). </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">For the next couple hours, Naima and I organized the Association locale. We moved all the equipment we don’t use on a daily basis to the empty room, on top of the newly purchased table. Batoul and I had spent the day in Marrakech yesterday, buying the remainder of the equipment for the SPA grant. As we were emptying one of the large cardboard boxes of plates and bowls, I reached in to shift some items around and saw a sudden flash of dark fur swirl out of the box. I screamed and jumped upright. It was the biggest mouse-rat I’ve ever seen! Well, I’ve seen bigger in my house in Benin. But, it’s been years since I’ve been so close to one. Naima was in the other room and yelled back in alarm. I told her it was just a rat. She’d just filled two mouse holes in the room with pieces of rock and glass. I saw the rodent run straight for one of them and banged into the wall. He couldn’t find a way out. We slowly started emptying the rest of the equipment to move to the other room, wondering if the thing was still around. I eventually spotted it behind the flour bucket. As I moved it, the mouse-rat made a run for the oven. Naima and I cornered it there, emitting sporadic giggles and shrieks <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>from the gross excitement of having a rat in our midst. We could hear its great mass clunking around between the gas tank and the storage cupboard. We shook the oven around until the rat finally exited the room and scurried out the front door to the gardens across the way. Hopefully it’s been terrorized enough never to return. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">We finished organizing all the equipment and ingredient stock, making sure to keep all the foodstuffs in closed containers. We don’t have enough storage buckets for all the kilos of nuts, sugar, and flour we purchased for the upcoming festival. It will be good to get that display case and closed cupboard we ordered from the welder. Any day now… At 1, we went home for lunch, and returned a couple hours later to work with the women. A good group showed up: Naima, Rachida, Saida, Aisha, and Malika. Batoul was at home for her Hamam day. I’d made a comment to her about it yesterday while in Marrakech. I’d said, “what is it about the Hamam that renders women out of commission for the entire day?” She’d just laughed, then patiently explained yet another cultural norm I’d thus far failed to comprehend: The Hamam is a once a week event. It takes hours to prep the Hamam (if it’s in the home), scrub yourself down, and gather the energy afterwards to get yourself out of the hot steam room. It’s true, I’ve felt it. One is completely drained after that experience. Batoul gets a sort of flu half the time she goes. That’s why I’ve been staying away from the public bath. My flash bucket showers with never enough hot water are quick and sometimes painfully cold, but it gets my blood flowing fast and leaves me with enough energy to go about my day, most of the time. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Anyway, we made 4 kg of Qrishlat (little goldfish cracker-sized cookies with anise and sesame) today and discussed our gameplan for the festival. This will be good practice for the larger Moonfest taking place in September, and hopefully any other festivals we can attend during the summer. We are making Karbozel tomorrow: Crescent -shaped pastries filled with marzipan. I need to buy a carton of eggs and some margarine in the morning. </span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-33181693643706485952011-03-14T21:45:00.002+01:002011-03-14T22:40:58.928+01:00The Bakery<span style="font-family:Calibri;">I’ve finally made some time to conjure an update of my work in Lalla Takerkouste. The last couple weeks have been a whirlwind of activities at the Association, which has been a welcome change in routine for me as a Peace Corps Volunteer. In early February, I received a Peace Corps S<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDDVm2TO95X7CkQv3iOfk8_ZPY10qF_0b9crYLvV8CKoW6PRA4dtKUNSxSmgkBUoxrUVkaETWp5MCCSowJvhR5-89y6pX5t-nK7zooeSi7cAxYyRwuVmxYm9EstQqkg_znjKKFTNnCAaU/s1600/20110221_22.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584043089317896866" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDDVm2TO95X7CkQv3iOfk8_ZPY10qF_0b9crYLvV8CKoW6PRA4dtKUNSxSmgkBUoxrUVkaETWp5MCCSowJvhR5-89y6pX5t-nK7zooeSi7cAxYyRwuVmxYm9EstQqkg_znjKKFTNnCAaU/s320/20110221_22.JPG" /></a>mall Project Assistance (SPA) grant to set up a bakery at the Women’s Association in the village. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>This wonderful news came just before I went home for a brief vacation in Ohio. With the immense help of my family and friend Caitlin, I took the opportunity to host a Moroccan dinner to share my experiences and talk about my upcoming bakery project. Just before going to Ohio, my Moroccan friends Naima and Batoul spent a day teaching me how to make couscous and tagine, so that I could replicate the feast in the States. We served traditional Moroccan salads and bread, Couscous with vegetables and caramelized onions, beef tagine with prunes and almonds, and an assortment of Moroccan baked goods, some of which were made by the Women’s Association members. All of the guests who attended the dinner, plus other family friends wanting to lend a hand, graciously donated funds to supplement the SPA grant. I returned to Morocco quite excited to get to work!</span> <div><div><div><br /><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">On February 28<sup>th</sup>, two Association members and I began purchasing bakery equipment in Marrakech. We spent hours in various house-ware shops and covered market stalls in the old city hunting for all the items on our list and negotiating with store owners before transporting it to the village in an ancient little covered pick-up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>On March 4<sup>th</sup>, we set up shop and started operating from the newly rented locale. It’s an old house on the edge of the village, near the river, and right next to the oli<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieqyT4QdDDgaRTTrpv_-T0xfcIoj-eC7OXeqonA4EruApJJKrRaEouEkijkmBRm2e4_e7y6-7ABTLtm7zrqHreHgVlD94jgRj6PS-hXZ5mEsZPQ7AZ7bJEdwPHhtho2eTH1CY6_Cm10FA/s1600/cookies.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584043108591937586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieqyT4QdDDgaRTTrpv_-T0xfcIoj-eC7OXeqonA4EruApJJKrRaEouEkijkmBRm2e4_e7y6-7ABTLtm7zrqHreHgVlD94jgRj6PS-hXZ5mEsZPQ7AZ7bJEdwPHhtho2eTH1CY6_Cm10FA/s320/cookies.JPG" /></a>ve and fruit orchards. For the past 10 days, a group of 5-6 women have been spending a minimum of 6 hours<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>in the afternoons and evenings baking Qrishlat (little tea cookies we served with the dates and nuts at the dinner) and Ghriba (sesame cookies). Two women have also started working from 6-9AM to make traditional pan bread. They deliver it to the tagine café owners each morning, who’ve been selling them like hot cakes. We are currently the only source of this type of bread in town, and the demand is quite high! </span></p><br /><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">The funds collected at our Moroccan Dinner in Ohio has been extremely helpful and will continue to be so in the early stages of the bakery. We’ve been able to purchase start-up ingredients and some extra equipment that hadn’t made it on the SPA budget. I’ve been monitoring all the expenses with the Association Treasurer and we’re aiming to get the bakery on its feet as soon as possible, so that we can save the funds for other projects. For example, we would like to do a computer literacy class for the women and students in the village and purchase internet modem sticks. This would permit students to do online researching for school, and allow the women to look up new baking recipes. </span></p><br /><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Yesterday, March 13<sup>th</sup>, we had an opening ceremony, along with a visit from Peace Corps staff from Rabat. We gave the staff a tour of the locale with our newly purchased equipment on display, along with samples of tea and cookies. The Association boomed with dancing, laughing, singing women all afternoon. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmq0od2ymWEl4vwa7MGhiHK5hcKbIjTII5r1dTpLwcB1s00vP_9y8jO9RpX7C5oZJdiqc9DhUGiNVOE7fszQ6pu4w73fX9rwRvqng9oynjvOzWDqu7w9VD95-2uqJEENsNeppa4c6tOLk/s1600/dancing.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584043097752333842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmq0od2ymWEl4vwa7MGhiHK5hcKbIjTII5r1dTpLwcB1s00vP_9y8jO9RpX7C5oZJdiqc9DhUGiNVOE7fszQ6pu4w73fX9rwRvqng9oynjvOzWDqu7w9VD95-2uqJEENsNeppa4c6tOLk/s320/dancing.JPG" /></a></span></p><br /><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">There’s much work left to be done, but we’re advancing, little by little!</span></p><br /><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p><span style="font-family:Calibri;"></span></o:p></p></div></div></div>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-72578974782773695382011-02-04T11:03:00.004+01:002011-02-04T11:16:32.629+01:00The Olive Mill<div><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%;font-family:'Arial','sans-serif';" ><span style="font-size:78%;">I had a really interesting day yesterday: I went to visit my host mother in the morning (Malika) and we got to talking about olive oil. I inquired if there were any old-fashioned mule-powered olive mills in one of the villages here. She said there were but wasn't sure if they were using them right now because the olive harvest was bad this year. She offered to take me to see one in the afternoon. We met again at 3pm and walked into town, first stopping by the pharmacy to say hello to Naima. We told he<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-9kFS3vMXxhhieKt9od8jr02Dg9dnOCSB_03zxpXm6W5roVNZASC1Wo4YpkOk964rTCGWAFdpm1L7gPebcg_YnyxDSot3HmqQIT12pEK-Lg5sGfVBKfFESEImPM1RERJiSb1R_UmIs78/s1600/mountains.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569775588200770418" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-9kFS3vMXxhhieKt9od8jr02Dg9dnOCSB_03zxpXm6W5roVNZASC1Wo4YpkOk964rTCGWAFdpm1L7gPebcg_YnyxDSot3HmqQIT12pEK-Lg5sGfVBKfFESEImPM1RERJiSb1R_UmIs78/s200/mountains.JPG" /></a>r of our mission and she said we should go see Abdul's mill out on the road to Marrakech. She knows him and his family well and they have a little roadside shop selling various olive oil and argan products. It's about 2km away and Malika wanted to take the bus. As we were talking logistics, in walked Abdul himself!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He owns a car and immediately agreed to show us the mill and drive us there. He's about 60 years old, speaks some English mixed in with German. Malika and I piled into his car with one of his construction workers and went to the farm. We entered the gated orchards and were greeted with a handful of parked 4-wheelers and a couple houses in construction. Abdul invited us to his house, a total bachelor pad; the kind of place you'd imagine some old renowned author to be hiding out in. Olive trees and dried out flower pots and fountains surrounded a courtyard sprinkled with roaming chickens, cats, and two enormous peacocks. We passed by decrepit couches scattered on the mosaic tiled verandah and entered his lair: One long room filled with more sofas and wicker furniture. Opaque laced sheets were draped loosely across the ceiling while vases of dried flowers and piles of old books filled every table. I loved it. He motioned for us to go sit on a sofa next to his bed while he disappeared to his kitchen. The coffee table in front of us was overflowing with “stuff”: Empty bottles of wine and orange juice, a plate of cracked pumpkin seeds, more books, an ashtray full of half-smoked cigarettes. Abdul handed us each a glass, placed a bag of dates in front of us, and perched himself on the edge of his bed. We held on to our empty glasses as he lit up smoke after smoke and told me about himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Abdul is originally from here but studied in Germany and married a German woman. He spent 30 years there, raising 2 daughters. After his wife died, he retired and moved back to Morocco about 2 years ago. He indicated each of his family member’s portraits on the wall surrounding his bed. The biggest one was of a gorgeous young woman with long auburn hair: his late wife. He said he’s happy here, back in his homeland, running his farm, enjoying the sun, his whiskey and cigarettes. I kept wondering how Malika was taking all this in. She smiled and nodded even though we were speaking mostly English and German. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></span><div><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%;font-family:'Arial','sans-serif';" ><span style="font-size:78%;">Abdul then took us next door to a house he’d recently begun leasing to an English-Austrian couple: Kevin and Bettina. They look to be about Abdul’s age- in their 60’s. Kevin was sitting on the patio, in his sweats and rubber boots, smoking and drinking “Speciale” beer. Bettina and her 3 little dogs gave Malika and me a tour of the house. They’d moved in a month ago from Portugal. The house was beautiful and spacious, all tiled and painted in blues and whites. Afterwards, she offered me a glass of wine or whiskey and I self-consciously declined, feeling slightly embarrassed to even be offered that in Malika’s presence. We sat on the patio and chatted a long while as Bettina, Kevin, and Abdul puffed and drank away. Kevin has lived in several Arab countries working with the British military and is retired now. Bettina is a golf teacher and works in partnership with Hotel Palmeraie in Marrakech. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>I told them of the bakery project we’re working on with the Women’s Association, and the prospective fruit dryer project we hope to be working on this summer. Abdul had heard about it all through Naima and offered to help in any way he can. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%;font-family:'Arial','sans-serif';" ><span style="font-size:78%;">As the sun set and the cold surrounded us, we bid goodbye to Bettina and Kevin and finally went to see the olive mill across the street. Abdul was slurring his words considerably more now and his breath smelled of <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4413tTN_KYCNuymHKDvTk3MZkS-5hQzoCNuunrtiKeow83W_OH7zju0rGkJrs8XAXMCf0lgvoqmuH1gZKWuFLgZKg0ghVpCTxphNC6qQxld17eUKJ6IO_grv7ztcHg1EjlVtI1wBGHn4/s1600/Mill.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569774501967884386" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4413tTN_KYCNuymHKDvTk3MZkS-5hQzoCNuunrtiKeow83W_OH7zju0rGkJrs8XAXMCf0lgvoqmuH1gZKWuFLgZKg0ghVpCTxphNC6qQxld17eUKJ6IO_grv7ztcHg1EjlVtI1wBGHn4/s200/Mill.JPG" /></a>wine, but he was lucid enough to give us a pleasant tour of his domain. I photographed the mill (not in operation but cool nonetheless) and we visited the orchards and vegetable gardens. We looped back to his house and he offered to sit a while before driving us home. We hesitated but Malika seemed okay with staying a while longer, so I agreed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We sat next to his bed again, huddled around his space heater, and listened to his comparisons of Europe versus Morocco: Morocco is full of bandits, but there is sunlight and life is good. Europe is efficient and correct yet stressful and has a tendency to seep the life out of you. Around 7, we made a move to go home. Abdul graciously and carefully drove us back to town, where we met Naima closing shop and gave her a recount of our adventurous afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Malika seemed pretty happy with the way the day had turned out, despite that it wasn’t at all what we’d expected. I learned there is a wealth of personalities in this place, and I hope to meet more of them in the future. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p></div></div>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-74440084781349681842011-01-23T09:44:00.000+01:002011-01-23T09:47:09.390+01:00The Sculpting of an Infant<p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">(Journal Entry from Benin 2007)</span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"> </p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">The sculpting of an infant. He called it an art. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Get a stool and go watch them in the next room. You should know how to do it.</i> I walked over to the curtain of the bedroom and peered inside. There sat the grandmother with her frail grandchild on her knees. The old woman wore a wrap up to her chest, her calves resting on the edge of a large basin set under her bare thighs. The tiny, transparent-colored infant lay splayed on her smooth dark skin, about to receive her first bath. I sat next to the baby’s mother to watch. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Watch and learn.</i> </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>The grandmother worked with firm, experienced hands. She didn’t handle the newborn with that touch of someone afraid to break the delicate creature just out of the womb. At her side were three buckets of water. One steamed, one stood quiet, and one held a mixture of both. The woman dipped a piece of fabric into the lukewarm water and squeezed it onto the baby’s skin. She lay the tiny girl on her belly and spread her buttocks to allow a trickle of water to clean the crevice. This was done repeatedly. As her right hand dipped the rag back in the water, her left hand squeezed the two buttocks cheeks together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She re-opened them for the trickle. She turned the baby on her back and repeated the process from that side. Water ran through the baby’s genitals and her minute arms reached out with stretched fingers at the sensation. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">It is to render them more sensitive</i> she said. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>Next was the head. After wetting the soft skull with the rag, the grandmother took a fishnet sponge sopping with soap suds and rubbed it in circles around the baby’s cranium. Soap covered the entire head. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">It must be getting in her eyes</i>. The baby cried at the sting; the rubbing continued. I looked up to the grandmother’s beautifully shaped head. She was well-sculpted. Her hair was cut short to a simple black fuzz. I marveled at her smoothness; her bare shoulders and jutting collarbones. She was a strong woman, making a strong baby. Every part of the infant was lathered and scrubbed with the fish net. Contact with the gritty texture forms a tough layer of smooth skin.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>With amazing confidence, she took the baby by one arm and dangled her whole weight on it. One arm, and then the next. The infant with puffed up eyelids gave little shrieks of high-pitched surprise, per perhaps pain. The grandmother held the two feet together in one hand and dangled her upside down. Before another sound of shock could emit the baby’s mouth, she’d taken her by the head and was dangling her by the neck. Setting the infant back on her thighs, the woman turned the baby’s head so that the chin touched the shoulders. One side, then the other. I held my breath, thinking it would surely crack that tiny neck in two. But the head held on to the body. The motion was fluid, natural, easy. </span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Then came the body shaping. She squeezed warm water onto the tiny chest, pressing hard, one hand supporting her back. Then she turned her over and squeezed hard on the back, running her forefinger straight down the spine and rubbing in circles at the tailbone. She ran her hands down her back and up her thighs to the buttocks, cupping firmly to form a round rump. The grandmother looked up at me and flashed her white-gapped teeth.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"> She must have nice round butt cheeks</i>. She did the same to the calves, pressing the flesh upwards from the ankles to the knee-caps. I thought of the people’s legs here, how I’d always wondered at their shape; long and thin with such high-set calf muscles. They are a well-sculpted people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>Thus concluded the first bath. Lotion and baby powder was applied generously. The baby had the rest of the day to sleep, suckle and grow. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>The following day, I watched the second bath, eager to memorize the steps. At the end, the baby girl suffered her first feminine sacrifice. Her grandmother pierced the shaking and sobbing newborn’s ears with her bare hands. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Now you are a beautiful girl</i>. </span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-16347431704325466192011-01-19T22:12:00.001+01:002011-01-20T09:22:42.614+01:00The Boa's Den<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">(An old journal entry from Peace Corps Benin)</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span></o:p></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:date year="2007" day="8" month="6" st="on">Friday, <st1:date year="2007" day="8" month="6" st="on" ls="trans">June 8, 2007</st1:date></st1:date>.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span></o:p></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">I just went on a simply memorable adventure with two village hunters. Caitlin and I got up at dawn this morning to hike up the Shakaloke hill. We sipped on warm cups of mocha out of my thermos and drank in the scenery. Upon our return, Caitlin hastily left for Adourekouman, her village, in a government vehicle with her university colleagues. Once the excitement of the fancy automobile driving through the village had died down, I was called over by one of the town drunks sitting by my neighbor’s new little shop. I usually avoid any conversation with this drunk, because he tends to ramble in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Idaatcha</i> until I become so confused he finally explains in slurred French that he wants me to either have a drink with him or buy a round for him and his friends.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"></span>Today, seeing as I’d just refused <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">sodabi</i> from a bunch of women up the road and was then informed that my refusal meant that I had to buy them a bottle of the drink, I decided I should at least go and tell him hello and that my name is in fact Felicie and not Sylvie. He was sitting with a hunter named Richard. We exchanged words, and the conversation developed into something much more interesting than I had imagined. They asked me when I was planning on leaving the village to return to my foreign land and stated that I should never leave. I told them I would be replaced, and they replied no replacement would ever be as athletic and mobile as me. Apparently, over the two years I’d lived in Camate, this drunk whose name I’d never bothered to learn, had never ceased marveling at how much I run, bike, and hike. In <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>his opinion, this was a good enough reason for me never to leave Camate. Or, he added, I should at least stay another ten years. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"></span>Conversation moved on to the wildlife in the hills around the village. Richard the hunter talked about what he hunts. He informed me there was a big boa constrictor near the village of Ekpa that recently laid 26 eggs! Seeing my curiosity and excitement at this bit of news, he offered to take me to see the newly hatched babies. I said “ok”, I was ready. He looked at me in surprise. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Really? Are you sure? </i>I nodded with a big smile and he got up to go change into his hunting clothes as I went home to put on mine. </span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Soon after, I heard his hunting dogs at the door. We set off in the company of one of my neighbors, Apolinaire the hunter. Fortunately, Apolinaire speaks adequate French, compared to Richard. We hiked to Ekpa, about two kilometers, and then climbed up the hill behind the Ifa Fetish house guarding the village entrance. Somewhere up there, the boa had her den. Hunters had been after her the past four months because she was reportedly feasting on villagers’ guinea fowl flocks. She had fled and sought refuge in a cave. We arrived to the mouth of the cave and Richard crawled in on his belly. The opening was barely two feet high. Apolinaire asked me if I was capable of going in. I was nervous, but decided that if they believed there was no danger, I was ready. </span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Bush rat droppings and moist, rich dirt blanketed the entrance. Richard was armed with various snake sticks and a rifle. He’d brought his flashlight, and I had my headlamp and camera. Apolinaire went in next, and I followed. The crawl space went upwards and became more and more narrow. I saw three iron traps set with open jaws, waiting for their slithering victim. There suddenly seemed to be little oxygen in that cramped space. Richard invited me to crawl up to the hole where I could see the babies he’d been trying to coax out. They explained the mother lay deeper in the hole and was not about to come out. I nevertheless imagined her storming out of the hole, mouth gaping, ready to bite our heads off. There was no hope of a quick retreat. The hunters urged me to go as deeply as possible and to shine my lamp down to the right. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Light attracts them. </i>I finally shimmied up past the hunters to the mouth of the hole and did as they told. I strained to see movement. Finally, I saw one. A shiny whitish head was peeking out from the rock, a hesitant tongue flickered. The men asked if I wanted them to try and get one of the babies out. They found my seeming anxiety humorous, so I figured there really was no danger. Try as he might, no boa came out, so Richard withdrew from the cave and Apolinaire helped me bring my camera back up to the hole to blindly photograph the vague area where I’d seen the baby’s head poke out.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"></span>Back out in the sunlight, we all looked at one another and laughed. We were plastered and encrusted in dirt. Richard went back in to re-set the traps while Apolinaire and I chatted amidst the rodent droppings and sleeping dogs. He asked if my stay here was almost over. It seems to be on everyone’s mind. They want to know when I plan to leave them, and they all say I should never go. He too said that if I get replaced it is not likely that this person would be so ready to be with the people. It is rare that someone would want to crawl way up a cave to see baby boas, and get so dirty in the process. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">You are as courageous as a man</i>, he said. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">If I were God, I’d make it so you stayed</i>.…</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"></span>We walked back to Camate via the hilltop ridge. There was a phenomenal view of Camate at an angle I’d not yet seen. I grinned all the way home, very satisfied with the excursion. We sure turned heads, walking back; the three of us covered in dirt, one with a rifle, one barefoot, and well, me…</span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-41257986208824683572011-01-18T19:55:00.000+01:002011-01-18T19:56:08.080+01:00Amzmiz-Anougel Hike<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Soon after ringing in the New Year in Essaouira, Jacy, Margie, and I headed to the mountains for some hiking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We took the bus from my site south to Amzmiz, an almost-city sprawled at the foot of the High Atlas. We first roamed the large Tuesday market, ducking into a dank kebab vendor’s stall for a cup of mint tea among a crowd of weathered mountain men huddled over steaming plates of bean stew. The quarters were so tight and the ceiling so low, Margie and I felt like Alice in Wonderland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We met up with Donniell, my sitemate in Amzmiz, and spent a languid afternoon at Maroc Lodge, playing cards and sipping beverages poolside. That night, Donniell made us a delectable dinner of steamed artichokes and garlic mayo, curry pumpkin soup, and a dessert of movie snacks fresh from America as we drooled over the film <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Julie and Julia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></i></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">The following morning, the three of us set off on our hike. We climbed the quiet little road to Anougel, a mountain commune I’d visited once by car with Batoul from Lalla Takerkouste. As to be expected, the views were magnificent. It took us a solid four hours to reach our destination, passing a few picturesque Berber villages along the way. We walked straight to the hikers’ guesthouse I’d seen before. It had been open and seemingly busy back in June, and I’d even talked to one of the managers about costs for a bed. Now, in chilly January, the door was firmly locked and there was no sign indicating it even was a guesthouse. We were tired and quite hungry. The prospect of hiking another 4 hours back down to Amzmiz loomed dreadfully. A young man walked by and gave me a questioning look as I hesitantly knocked on the door. I explained in Tash that we were looking for a place to sleep. He said the guesthouse was closed. They must only operate through Moroccan tour guides, with advance notice. I told him I’d come in June, and I knew Batoul, who works at the Commune down the road. I also added in Tash that we were hungry or “dying of hunger” as they say in Berber.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The young man seemed quite amused and said “ok”. He retrieved the key for the guesthouse, let us in, and agreed to 30dh/person for the night. The house was basic but full of charm; the walls painted a bright pink, with stripes of blue on some of the pillars. I repeated that we were “dying of hunger” and he eagerly invited us to eat at his family’s house. We met his grandmother, a short, stout woman who loved the fact that we could communicate in Tashlheet. She apparently was accustomed to seeing French hikers come through because she’d adopted the classic “ouai” when she spoke. We drank tea and ate chicken tagine with the grandmother and a group of young women in another charming pink and blue sitting room. All the houses were built against the mountain side. The floors slanted noticeably downhill and the low ceilings all had skylights. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">After lunch, the grandmother invited us to visit the rest of their house. There were a series of narrow staircases and winding hallways joining several houses together. The livestock was kept somewhere at the top of the houses, interestingly enough. We sat on one of the rooftop terraces and drank in the view; snowcapped mountains and green river valleys. The women instructed us to go explore the natural spring in the canyon down the road while they heated up the hammam for us. We gladly did as we were told. As darkness fell and the biting mountain air set in, the steamy little hammam felt like heaven. Feeling clean and exhausted, we happily sat down for another tagine dinner with grandmother. We chattered aimlessly in Tashleheet until they brought out a basket of mandarins and bananas for dessert. She encouraged us to eat as many as possible then lowered her voice and whispered to me that she can’t eat bananas. I gave her a questioning look, so she glanced uneasily at her grandson watching a soccer game a couple meters away before telling me through a mix of Berber and explicit charades that they made her privates itch. I quickly muttered a translation in English to the girls and they stopped eating. I wasn’t sure I’d understood correctly, but she repeated the charades several times, adding that if her granddaughter ate them, she had no problems, it was just her. I nodded sympathetically and we eventually bid everyone goodnight before hurrying back to the guesthouse. It was unbelievably cold. We dove under a minimum of 4 heavy wool blankets each and fell fast asleep. I smiled to myself as I realized I wouldn’t be able to look at a banana quite the same for a while. </span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-87149548370997626192011-01-17T20:32:00.000+01:002011-01-17T20:33:14.329+01:00New Year’s in Essaouira<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">At the end of December 2010, I received a visit from Margie and Jacy, friends who’d served in Peace Corps Benin with me. We hadn’t seen each other since 2007, when we were all still in Africa. Now both of them are in law school and had come to Morocco for their winter break. After they braved the blizzards on the East Coast and waited out the painful 48 hours of chaotic delays at JFK, we reunited with a seemingly endless stream of reminiscent stories from Benin plus three years of catching up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>After a day in my village, we headed for Essaouira to spend New Years with a group of Volunteers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>About a dozen of us PCVs and our holiday visitors rented out a Riad in the heart of the medina for a couple nights. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">On the 31<sup>st</sup>, Margie, Jacy, and I walked across the beach to the horses and kite surfers with the aim to go riding. I go there each time I visit this city, and I’ve dragged my friend Martin out horseback riding a couple times. I’ve learned a bit how the horse guides operate and managed to track down the one named Grek to get a good deal. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I made sure to tell him we all knew how to ride and wanted good horses. Grek gave me his horse Silver, a beautiful grey. Jacy got Djambo, a young chestnut, and Margie got a big bay that looked an awful lot like Martin’s last horse, who the guides had affectionately nicknamed “son of a whore” for his apparent lack of spark. As we got moving though, it became clear he was a much different steed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He was spunky and rather jittery, and we later realized he didn’t have a traditional bridle on. He wore a glorified halter because as Grek explained, the horse otherwise tends to grab the bit in his mouth and run away. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">We had a pleasant ride out, crossing Igrounzar River towards Diabat village and meandering through dune trails and the old palace ruins Jimi Hendrix is said to have visited in the late 60s. On the way back, the four stallions were rearing to run. As soon as we stepped onto the beach, Margie’s horse took off at a full gallop as she leaned back on the reins in a vain effort to stop him. This is when the non-bridle detail became especially noteworthy. It’s not nearly as effective at stopping a horse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Once we caught up to her, Grek had her get down and decided to give him his horse’s bridle. Margie understandably argued that if the bay horse doesn’t like the bridle, then she shouldn’t ride him with it on because he may lash out. Grek demonstrated that there was nothing to worry about but she wouldn’t have it, so he agreed to ride the bay while she took his more docile horse. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Once that was settled, Jacy and I galloped our even-tempered stallions side-by-side down the beach, feeling like we were in some sort of Ralph Lauren or Virginia Slims commercial. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We eventually turned around to see Margie far behind, fighting to get her “calmer” horse to move. We watched her silhouette in the distance, arms flailing and legs kicking as the horse plodded along passively. Grek laughed and told her “I told you so” as they switched horses again. This time we all got a good couple gallops in before returning to the horse camp. It was smooth and exhilarating, a worthwhile 100dh! </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">That evening, after an afternoon of wandering the enchanting blue and white alleys of the medina and chomping on 5dh fresh sardine sandwiches, everyone gathered on the ramparts to watch the sun set over the Atlantic; an appropriate way to bid farewell to 2010. We returned to the Riad to drink wine amidst good company and humorous storytelling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Champagne bottles popped and a stream of silly toasts rang in the New Year. It was a memorable night. I rushed to bed after getting a warning bout of heartburn at about 1:30. My head was spinning so much though that I instead pulled on my running shoes, grabbed the house key, and dashed out into the cold deserted streets without a word to anyone. I ran a long loop around the medina, navigating somewhat drunkenly through the alleys I’ve thankfully grown to know well enough. I found a couple shops still open and bought a bag of chips before hurrying back to the Riad. The run and the junk food rid me of the spins, though it wasn’t my finest moment. I fell fast asleep. Thus began 2011. </span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-11204644723685879712011-01-17T13:14:00.000+01:002011-01-17T13:17:07.030+01:00Wed, Nov 17, 2010.Mabrouk L3id! Today is the day, many sheep die. I went for a run at 7 and returned an hour later to hear loud prayer chants resonating across the commune, announcing this holy day of the Great Feast. I hurried to be at Naima’s house by 9am, in time for the sacrifice. I found Naima, her mother, and her older sisters at home with the children. They were still in their pajamas, busily at work in the kitchen. I sat and joined them for tea and cookies while the men made their way back from the Mosque. Fatima was making pan bread. She’s the quietest of the sisters. She sat in a corner of the kitchen pretty much all day. Batoul and Naima talk so much it’s surprising to see their sister is so different. Malika is the workhorse among the sisters. She’s always cleaning and getting her hands dirty. She has two children, Jalila and FtaH. There were 3 of Naima’s brothers at the house. One of them I frequently see on his motorcycle around town. The two others are from Agadir. One has an adorable 4-year old girl named Hiba, and his wife is 8-months pregnant. The other brother is father to a gangly and sweet little 10 year old girl named Acima, a 12 year old boy who always hangs around FtaH, and a new baby boy named Rbi3. The grandfather of the family is Ahmed, husband of Rkoush. Together, they make an adorable family.<br />After the men had their breakfast, they prepared the courtyard for the sacrifice. The oldest nephew helped the three brothers and their father with the huge task. They had 3 sheep to kill, skin, and cut up. One of the rams, the first to be sacrificed, was one of the biggest sheep I’ve ever seen. He was about the size of a Shetland pony: Tall, strong, and majestic. He had large curled horns on his proud head. As I sat in the kitchen chatting with Batoul and cooing over little Rabi3, I saw one of the brothers in his black hooded cloak pulling the beast past the doorway. Another smaller ram lay tied against the wall, braying. The women said they don’t usually watch the sacrifice, so before I knew it, FtaH ran in to fetch my camera and take photos. I hurried out to watch. They’d already slit the throat of the biggest ram. He lay with his head barely attached, as a pool of bright red blood covered a large part of the courtyard. They were bleeding him. He was still alive and kicking. At one point, his body heaved as if the animal was taking a deep breath, and his severed esophagus made a gurgling sound. The nerves to his brain were also severed, so I kept reminding myself the animal couldn’t feel anything. His legs kicked violently as blood continued to squirt out of his neck.<br />The women kept calling me inside to have more tea and pancakes. I finally went in but later witnessed the second sacrifice. Now that there were two dead sheep in the courtyard, there was much work to be done. Malika and Naima helped sweep all the blood down the drain. The men hung up the sheep and skinned them after blowing air through a hole in its leg so the skin would detach more easily. They handed the women the organs to clean up. The liver and heart were brought to the kitchen to be boiled as they cleaned the stomach and intestines of all their contents and removed the lining of stomach fat. Later, the boiled liver was cut up into squares, wrapped in fat, and skewered for a noontime barbecue. Every house in Morocco was doing the same thing; preparing a lunch of organ and stomach fat kebabs. The first kebabs were brought to me to eat sprinkled with salt and cumin, wrapped in bread. I was uneasy about eating sheep liver but I had to try it. It didn’t taste too bad. The stomach fat didn’t go down as easy, but I swallowed it all slowly, getting away with eating just one.<br />Afterwards, as everyone busied themselves with cooking kebabs or cleaning all the organs, blood and bits of sheep, I ran home to grab hydrocortisone cream for Acima, who’d developed hives from new clothes purchased especially for the celebration. I ran into my neighbor the Haj on my way back out the door. He asked me to come say hello and have a kebab. I decided to accept his invitation despite some previous electricity pirating issues in the past. They are my new neighbors after all. They’d moved in to the new house the day before. The walls are all unpainted and some were missing the last coat of cement, but otherwise it’s looking good. He gave me a little tour and took me to the kitchen where his sister and wife were cooking kebabs. This family had sacrificed a smaller sheep and a goat. Goats have less cholesterol, so some families kill a smaller sheep plus a goat for those with cholesterol problems. We all ate a kebab together while the Haj’s two young children giggled excitedly and played peek-a-boo with me. Before long I thanked them and excused myself from the awkward silences, as Acima was waiting for my hydrocortisone cream. I went back to Naima’s, put the cream on her niece, and sat in the living room with the women a while before continuing to Malika’s house in early evening. She was boiling sheep meat in the kitchen while Larbi was cleaning up the last of the entrails of their sheep on the roof. They insisted I stay for dinner: a platter of steamed meat served with salt, cumin, and bread on the side. I ate a couple mouthfuls and announced that I was “meated-out” and getting heartburn from all the sheep. It wasn’t a lie. They know of my aversion to meat so they didn’t push it. We sat together a while chatting. Larbi told me this year was special because he’d been given en entire five days off work at the mine for the Eid. I joked that he’d better spend it eating sheep to fuel his frail body for the remainder of the year working non-stop.<br />At 8:30, Malika and I joined Naima and her nieces to go watch the musicians in the village center. We sat in the street among a gaggle of women and girls waiting for the music as the Boujloud and Tamashut ran around terrorizing youths. There were 3 Boujlouds and several Tamashuts. The Boujlouds dress in goat skins, covered head to toe in it. Every time they passed by, the unmistakable billy goat stench wafted in my face. I wouldn’t make it 5 minutes in those costumes. These young men spend an entire day running around the village making grunting noises and chasing people with sticks. From my understanding, the Tamashuts are supposed to resemble cats. They paint their skin black and stick cotton balls on their faces. They look more like they’ve been tarred and feathered. Naima explained that each day of the Eid, a different group of boys dress up in the costumes. The stronger, older boys are Boujlouds and the younger, weaker ones are tamashuts because the costume isn’t as constricting. Their aim is to drive out evil spirits from the village. They run around smacking people with sticks until they give them a dirham. I was smacked a couple of times.<br />The music began at 10pm or so and lasted a few hours. Young men and children entered the circle, shuffling and bouncing along with the Berber music. The girls and women remained seated and huddled on the outside, sporting their elegant new clothes and giggling secretively with their friends. Naima and I retired from the cold and hurried home to our beds by midnight. Thus ended my experience of this joyous Moroccan holiday.Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-81094296421510938952010-11-15T10:40:00.000+01:002010-11-15T10:45:40.482+01:00<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">One morning last week, I awoke inspired to bake a cake. After spending a lengthy amount of time attempting to sift through flour with a plastic strainer to get all the little black termites and larvae out, I turned on the oven to realize it was leaking a lot of gas. It seemed as though the regulator knob on the oven was faulty. Since the whole gas-operated oven business and the image of minor flame explosions makes me uneasy, I gave up baking and at 11 headed to Malika’s house to practice Tashlheet. She was sitting at her little boutique, hoping to sell clothes and accessories with the Eid el Kbir coming up. We chatted a while and I told her about my oven. She said she’d come take a look at it later to see what the deal was. As we were talking about the Eid and other miscellaneous things, she brought up the word “Takèt”, which I didn’t understand. I’d heard it before but forgot the meaning, like half the Tashlheet vocabulary. She said I absolutely needed to know what it was and took me to her sister in law’s house next door to see one. It turns out it’s a traditional mud stove, just like the ones I saw used in Benin. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I’d met the sister in law before, Larbi’s brother’s wife. She’s the one that had sat in their living room one day looking at Larbi’s sickly body and said “look at you, you’re just waiting for death”. She was surprised and very excited to have me in her house. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Malika ushered me into the traditional kitchen, while the woman and her teenage daughter Raja started a fire in the Takèt to demonstrate. As smoke billowed all around us in the tiny room, they put a big clay pot on the mud stove and brought out already cooked bread to show me how they prepared it. Then they gave me a complete tour of the house, concluding in the modern kitchen where I examined their gas oven to see if I could figure out a difference between theirs and mine. I couldn’t. The sister in law wanted to give me a gift for coming to visit. Malika and I refused tea because we’d left the boutique unattended but she insisted on giving me a big white plate decorated with painted blue birds. She then went to her bedroom to fetch a container of almonds and poured fistfuls into my hands. I didn’t know where to put the nuts, so Malika had me stuff my pant pockets with them as we hurried out the door before the woman could give us anything more. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Later on, Malika and I walked to my house to look at my oven. She was just as stumped as I was about the problem so we decided to take the whole thing to the welder. We disconnected the hose from the butagaz bottle and awkwardly walked across the village with the oven. The welder took one look at it and said “your hose is dead”. We’d failed to see there was a big gash in it, hence the leaking. I’d been sold a bad hose at souk. He replaced it with some high quality stuff he uses on his welding machines and even screwed in a makeshift knob on my oven door since the original had fallen off within a week of purchase. He just charged me for the hose, 10dh, and as I fished it out of my pockets, a slew of almonds poured out onto the ground. The welder grinned at me and said “so you like almonds?”. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">We transported the oven back to my house, where the welder’s assistant safely reconnected it to the butagaz and I was back in business. I went on a cooking frenzy the rest of the afternoon. I baked chocolate cake, a tarte a la moutarde, and made carrot ginger soup. Luckily I had fellow PCVs Sami and Dave coming to visit for the night to share the feast.</span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-14621807802854041322010-07-14T12:01:00.000+02:002010-07-16T09:32:13.463+02:00Conference on the Coast<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0fq-ChnwevtBlMs7KkUR3fr5DTda4z3hkmEWCi0lCWk4dCzs-C-hgvdFbOBOPIuQ4-Nq2iN6V8yqU3LBy3yMQwHJCISCmPZaGTINyj40IYFCJzck6Wn1Z0B_ve3uGc8NMscroDUckZ_o/s1600/cdrt+award.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494403044999247842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0fq-ChnwevtBlMs7KkUR3fr5DTda4z3hkmEWCi0lCWk4dCzs-C-hgvdFbOBOPIuQ4-Nq2iN6V8yqU3LBy3yMQwHJCISCmPZaGTINyj40IYFCJzck6Wn1Z0B_ve3uGc8NMscroDUckZ_o/s200/cdrt+award.jpg" /></a><br /><p><span style="font-family:'Arial', 'sans-serif';font-size:10;">During the last week of June I received a call from Abdelkader, the director of CDRT, inviting me to participate in their annual summer youth conference called “Université d’Eté” in Essaouira July 9-11. He also wanted to me come to the office the week prior to the conference to assist in the preparations with their youth committee. I was happy to be given a task and eagerly accepted. I headed into the Marrakech office on Monday morning, July 5. Abdelkader was busily meeting with professors from the Science University, so he directed me to their secretary, who was preparing a brochure on the Essaouira conference. The secretary explained the concept of the Université d’Eté in brief and introduced me to Soukaina, the conference youth coordinator. She is an economy student at the University of Marrakech and has been involved in these summer conferences for 5 years now. I was impressed when she showed me the detailed schedule and a task list for the youth committee members. She asked for any helpful feedback on their organizational methods. I said I’d have to wait until after the event to see how it goes. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:'Arial', 'sans-serif';font-size:10;">During all these preparations, Soukaina and her colleagues were in the midst of final exams at the university. She invited me to come back the following couple days to help more in preparations. I intended to go, but the next morning, was plagued by sudden flu symptoms. I awoke with a pounding headache and paralyzing body aches. I barely moved from the house the next 3 days. The stress of moving out of homestay and settling into my new house must have caught up to me. <o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:'Arial', 'sans-serif';font-size:10;">By Friday morning, though, I was feeling better. I set off for the bus stop at 5:30am, fumbling around in the pre-dawn darkness. The neighborhood pack of stray dogs was assembled near my house and started barking when I arrived. But, they know me well and thankfully subsided when they recognized me. They wagged their tails and followed me in the dark. The bus stop was void of life. I stood alone, guarded by a pack of stray dogs, for the next 30 minutes, hoping a taxi would go by. I finally resorted to taking the bus at 6:15 and barely made it to the 7am departure point at the Science University in Marrakech. We didn’t leave until 9am, as to be expected.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:'Arial', 'sans-serif';font-size:10;">About 100 participants rode on 2 University buses to Essaouira. Everyone was between 20 and 30 years old. A group of older CDRT members and professors followed in cars. I sat next to Ailla, a gangly, chatty political science graduate student from Western Sahara. He was eager to discuss politics with me, which I politely avoided. He persisted by asking if I think Obama is really any better than Bush and what my opinion is of 9/11. I said the latter was tragic, and left it at that. He finally accepted that he wouldn’t get anything else out me and resorted to questions such as “are you married?”, “what are you doing in Morocco?”, “Do you live alone?”. <o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:'Arial', 'sans-serif';font-size:10;">We arrived at the OFPPT center in Essaouira around noon and were welcomed by the cool Atlantic winds of this city that I’ve come to appreciate so much. OFPPT is a vast technical school complex at the entrance of town. We were put up in the dorms: rooms of 8 bunk beds on a hall way with co-ed showers and toilets. Co-ed showers at a Moroccan conference?! That’s practically unheard of. Everyone was rather surprised at this, but accepted it and moved on. This group of upper class youths pursuing higher education is not really the most accurate representation of rural Moroccan societal norms. Several young women wore no veil, had tight jeans and form-fitting short sleeved shirts that didn’t go down past their thighs. They were dressed like Westerners, and somehow, that shocked me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>Many girls do wear the head scarf yet somehow it seems more like an accessory than anything else. They are always color coordinated, with gleaming jewels and pins adorning the fabric. Most of the girls and even boys brought suitcases twice the size of my overnight bag. We were only spending two nights!<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:'Arial', 'sans-serif';font-size:10;">I admit I felt rather out of place among all these university students who all knew each other and had their cliques established. I felt like I was back in high school trying to make friends, with little luck. Soukaina, the event coordinator, was clearly quite busy with her group of girls on the organizational committee, so I couldn’t talk much to them. I was in their dorm room, yet even when we were there, they chose to speak Arabic to each other as they did their make-up. They all speak impeccable French, which is why I was surprised they didn’t want to speak it with me. <o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:'Arial', 'sans-serif';font-size:10;">Upon arrival, we were served lunch at the school cafeteria. It turns out the OFPPT Essaouira branch is primarily a hospitality and restaurant school, so we served by a crew of eager culinary students. Waiters in first class attire including red bowties brought us 3 course meals on neatly set tables with sparkling glasses and silverware. I ate lunch with a French-Moroccan girl named Sarah. She is an elementary school teacher at the French school in Marrakech and attended the conference as a representative of Widad Association. Each participant was there representing some sort of developmental association in the Tensift/Al Haouz region. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>Widad Association focuses on promoting and supporting unmarried women with children, a group of society that is severely discriminated against in Morocco because it’s against the law for women to have illegitimate children. Sarah was born in France, raised in Marrakech, went to college in Toulon, and has now returned to live in Marrakech. We hit it off and went to go grab a coffee on the beach while waiting for our first afternoon activity with the conference <o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:'Arial', 'sans-serif';font-size:10;">The opening ceremony was held at the provincial palace. There were many speeches and discussions, but most of it was done in Arabic. Sarah was able to translate some for me, except when the speakers turned from Moroccan Arabic to more classic Arabic. The guest of honor was Mr Ramon Antunez, a professor at the International University of Andalusia in Spain. He spoke to our group about how Andalusia went through the process of decentralization or regionalization, because that is the new movement happening in Morocco right now. Mr Antunez gave a power point presentation in broken French, and later answered questions in Spanish while someone translated in Arabic. I was lost most of the time, fighting off drowsiness with little success.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:'Arial', 'sans-serif';font-size:10;">On Saturday, we divided into 4 groups to attend different workshops of our choice: Income Generating Activities, The role of the University in regional development, Environment and Development, and Art and Culture Development. I attended the Environment workshop along with 18 participants. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>Luckily, the presentations and discussions were done in French. Two professors gave presentations on climate change and biodiversity in Morocco, focusing particularly on the natural resources that should be valued in the Tensift region. During the presentation, I kept thinking this would have been useful knowledge during Pre-service training. To hear a Moroccan describing the environmental concerns of the country was something we never heard in Ouarzazate. In Asfalou, we even found ourselves wondering what the dire environmental problems were, apart from the trash which wasn’t even in colossal amounts because most households recycled bio-degradable waste and burned the rest. Trash is a serious problem at the Barrage though. During the discussions session, I hoped to get some proposed solutions from the group of university students in the room. I figured they may have some ideas on projects to clean up waste in rural villages. The issues were only skimmed over and there was a lot of talking with little being really said. At any rate, it was an interesting workshop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I did learn some things, most importantly I learned that Naima and I need to brainstorm on waste management projects ourselves because no one else seems to be doing anything about it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:'Arial', 'sans-serif';font-size:10;">We finished our morning session at 2:30pm and were supposed to return after lunch for more discussions, but the program changed and we were given the rest of the day off. I met up with Martin and spent a lovely afternoon, eating lunch on the ramparts and riding horses on the beach! I’d put “galloping on horseback at the beach in Essaouira” on my Peace Corps Morocco bucket list ever since the Gnaoua Festival two weeks ago. Here was my opportunity to cross that off the list. We each paid 100dh for an hour. My horse was a grey named Jimi, after Jimi Hendrix. Apparently, Hendrix spent some time on the beach of Essaouira and found inspiration at an abandoned fortress in the dunes, which we visited on horseback. On the way back to the horse and camel center, the guide said I could gallop if I wanted. So I went for it. I got to feel the exhilaration of the wind blowing in my face as the horse sped along the beach. I passed a couple participants walking from the youth conference. They seemed surprised to see me come out of nowhere, on a galloping horse. <o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:'Arial', 'sans-serif';font-size:10;">In the evening, Martin and I met up with four other Volunteers in town for dinner at a fancy Italian restaurant in the medina. We agreed to splurge for a true European meal. The restaurant was tastefully decorated, with jazz music playing in the background. I had a calamari salad and a big glass of red wine for 110dh. Thus ended another splendid day in Peace Corps Morocco. <o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:'Arial', 'sans-serif';font-size:10;">On Sunday we concluded the conference back at the provincial palace with a series of speeches, workshop summaries, and feedback in a mixture of French and Arabic. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>Everyone received certificates of participation and we took a group picture. After lunch, everyone piled on the buses to head back to Marrakech. I said goodbye to Sarah, who was staying a few more days in Essa. We agreed to meet up once she returns to Marrakech. The ride back was incredibly hot and sticky. I sat by an English student named Hassan. He speaks better English than French. I was hesitant to make small talk with him at first, but his English is really good and we had a nice conversation. I told him he should look into applying for a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>Corps language coordinator position, but I warned him working with a small group of newly arrived, frustrated Americans was no easy task! <o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:'Arial', 'sans-serif';font-size:10;">It was 110F in Marrakech. Hot air wafted into our faces when we got off the bus. We were all drenched in sweat, exhausted, and ready to go home. I caught the last bus to the Barrage and got home at 9:30pm. The weather was very windy, dusty, and dark. Haddoc was waiting for me, thirsty yet alive and well. The house was dusty from the wind storm that day, but otherwise in pretty good shape. Haddoc hadn’t broken into the kitchen or chewed anything up. Let’s see how he survives me being gone for two weeks at PPST <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>(Post-Pre Service Training) in late July!<o:p></o:p></span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-70939039120775389252010-07-08T17:17:00.000+02:002010-07-08T17:18:43.099+02:00July 4th Weekend<p><span style="FONT-FAMILY: 'Arial', 'sans-serif'; FONT-SIZE: 10pt">I received some visitors the weekend of July 4<sup>th</sup> to celebrate the holiday, my birthday, and our end of homestay. Cara, Sami, and Dave arrived on Friday evening from Tiznit. We caught up on the last few weeks and cooked gourmet Kraft macaroni and cheese, provided by Cara. My kitchen was not quite equipped to handle cooking a meal for 4 people, even though it was a Kraft mix. We had to cook macaroni in my tea kettle because the only other pot I had could only hold 2 cups of water. For the next 3 days, I had elusive noodles stuck in my kettle spout, coming out unexpectedly as I poured hot water in my cup of Nescafe. But, the mac and cheese was delicious, a taste of home.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="FONT-FAMILY: 'Arial', 'sans-serif'; FONT-SIZE: 10pt">On Saturday afternoon, we were joined by Martin from Essaouira, and Donniel and Nathaniel from Amzmiz. I decided to bake a quiche and a tarte a la moutarde for my guests. It was the first time I was using the oven so when we first turned it on, all the dust on it started burning and smoking. But we cleaned it up and my pies were a success. After dinner, I managed to skype with the family back home. They were having a big reunion at the parent’s house for the grandparent’s 80<sup>th</sup> birthday party. Everyone on the Reid side of the family was there except Quade, Quinn, and me. The Bruce’s, Ralphs, Tom, Carol, Charlie, and even Clement and Audrey were there. It was nice to see everyone. They seemed to be having a great time. Daddy-Daddy entertained me with his silly comments and funny faces. I showed them my group of guests via my computer. We couldn’t hear each other well, but we got a few phrases across. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="FONT-FAMILY: 'Arial', 'sans-serif'; FONT-SIZE: 10pt">On Sunday morning, Naima, my counterpart, brought us a plate of Lmsmen, Moroccan crepes. She had also lent me some ponj’s for people to sleep on, and baked chocolate cookies for my birthday. She’s so sweet! I spent all morning taking care of rental agreements at the cyber with my landlord and came back exhausted from the ordeal. While I’d been out, Cara had gone back to Agadir, Nathaniel back to Amzmiz, and the others had visited the souk. I got home to find Donniel making us one of her delicious vegetable tagines in the tagine pot Nathaniel had brought me. The group had also bought me three house plants! Aloe, lemon verbena, and a plantana. How very thoughtful! After lunch, Donniel went home and Martin, Sami, Dave and I went on a walk to the lake. It was surprisingly breezy and slightly cool out, so we weren’t baking in the afternoon sun. We went to check out the popular weekend picnic and swimming spot by the lake. It’s definitely not someplace I would go without a male friend. The lakeshore was packed with half dressed Moroccan men lounging in a sea of trash. Music was booming as people swam and grilled food. Trash was everywhere and there were maybe 4 women among all the men. Condoms and beer cans were everywhere. We didn’t linger. At least now I know what it’s like out there so I can be sure not to go, especially on Sunday. In the evening, Martin made a chocolate cake in a cake dish he’d brought for my birthday. Sami and Dave made vegetable stir fry and rice. We played cards, ate great food, and enjoyed another great evening among good friends. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-15129324505660262832010-07-08T16:50:00.000+02:002010-07-16T09:42:14.072+02:00New House and More<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-anOrguvocKnW3QY4khnYh_U6daW19EzWD2QEMMsuJVIPhZKXFDav5aL70UCJe2bMA2mtzHfoQuM_gTS-6NylHb40DA7hRvhGDbaPfiEtSPLw8I7IAS5XO9f8DYFqMQj41VMQcj0u08c/s1600/IMG00997-20100715-2040.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494406139601126738" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-anOrguvocKnW3QY4khnYh_U6daW19EzWD2QEMMsuJVIPhZKXFDav5aL70UCJe2bMA2mtzHfoQuM_gTS-6NylHb40DA7hRvhGDbaPfiEtSPLw8I7IAS5XO9f8DYFqMQj41VMQcj0u08c/s200/IMG00997-20100715-2040.jpg" /></a><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">As of July 1<sup>st</sup>, I am living in my own house! The new found privacy and sense of independence of freedom did not come too soon. I didn’t realize how much I’d gotten used to living on my own in the last 4 years until I spent 4 months living with Moroccan host families. I was lucky to get two very nice families, but that fourth month was challenging and a true test of patience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I found myself finding reasons to spend days outside of site so I could escape my host mother’s constant inquisitive demeanor and at least some of her cooking. I’d had enough of the strictly bread or couscous diet. In her defense, Malika made efforts to be flexible and understanding and was therefore probably less imposing than other host families have been with fellow Volunteers, but I still couldn’t wait to live alone again, and on my terms. At the same time, these daytime excursions have been a great way to get to know the region in which I live. There’s much more exploring to be done!</span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">So, when I returned from Essaouira on June 28, I set to work tracking down my landlord and getting the rental agreement signed. This was no easy feat. As promised, he’d done the necessary work on the house; patched up the hole in the wall of the courtyard, closed off the wall to the latrine/shower, and installed doors and windows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In addition to my Peace Corps rental agreement, the landlord, Mohamed, also wanted to get an official rental agreement typed up in Arabic and stamped by the commune. This is not always practiced when renting village houses, but I can understand why he would want to do it. The one cyber café owner in site knows how to do it and we had a rough time getting a hold of him. Three times we made the 20 minute trek across town to his cyber only to find the doors bolted shut. The tailor next door said the cyber man had supposedly lost his keys and therefore couldn’t open shop. By day five though, we finally found him and he typed up the document. Mohamed also signed my rental agreement, and I gave him my first month’s rent. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">In the meantime, I’d already gotten a key to the house and moved in. Malika helped me sweep the cement chunks and dust out of the rooms on the evening of June 30. Freedom was within reach, finally, and I just couldn’t wait another night to move in. After throwing the last bucket of dust out the door at 9pm, I ran down to the town center to find a man with a motorcycle wagon who could transport my things from Malika’s house. By 11pm, I was alone in my new house and jumping for joy in the courtyard. I can now walk around in my underwear when its boiling hot out and I don’t have to worry about being seen by my teenage host brothers or my host father. I can get up when I want, eat what and when I want, and come and go without explanation. Oh the simple joys in life.</span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">But, I am not completely alone in my house. I have a an adorable four-legged companion: a dog named Haddoc. I adopted him from Sara, a fellow Volunteer in my region who decided she didn’t want a dog anymore. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>Sara brought him to Marrakech by feeding him Benadryl and managing to place him in a souk bag and sneak him onto the city bus without the driver seeing him. By the time I was ready to take him home, the drugs had worn off and I couldn’t get him in a bag so secretively. The driver saw me coming with a dog in my arms and shook his finger “no”. I walked him about a mile out of the city to the taxi stand. There, I got at least part of him in a bag and held him on my laps as we drove to the Barrage. I named him Haddoc, in keeping with the tradition of naming my pets after the Tintin et Milou comic book characters. He’s 100% mutt, and about 4 months old. During the first two days, I found him surprisingly calm for a puppy. But, it must have been a combination of the Benadryl and the adjustment to a new house and owner. It turns out he’s just as wacky and energetic as any puppy, and I hope the puppy stage doesn’t last the entire 2 years. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">The most challenging thing is poddy training him, as he was apparently not trained to do his business outside the house. But, despite his fascination for chewing on trash when we go on walks, he stays with me without a leash, and can keep up on 5 mile runs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He’s definitely going to keep me occupied the next several months. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p><span style="font-family:Calibri;"></span></o:p></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-74208662484004357292010-07-08T15:58:00.000+02:002010-07-16T09:37:06.199+02:00Gnaoua Festival<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzOk0D-eb3ZrkNEIQEdp6M7uBlsVPWwhx9_efbbm1u-AJtL37QdypbbJjgI42di9MrfcUrM8tYBq9xIqJHr8S10pcqdCrsPjy3Jt71ObRqQj_Kge6yUoU6w4xxKMGEPEIXpBopfw2gUMQ/s1600/ALCS+gnaoua.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494404828191228194" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzOk0D-eb3ZrkNEIQEdp6M7uBlsVPWwhx9_efbbm1u-AJtL37QdypbbJjgI42di9MrfcUrM8tYBq9xIqJHr8S10pcqdCrsPjy3Jt71ObRqQj_Kge6yUoU6w4xxKMGEPEIXpBopfw2gUMQ/s200/ALCS+gnaoua.jpg" /></a><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">On June 22, 2010, I headed to Essaouira again for the annual Gnaoua Music Festival. I was fortunate to be invited to participate in a Training of Trainers for HIV/AIDS awareness projects with other Volunteers. The training was coupled with participation in a HIV/AIDS testing and information booth with a local association during the Gnaoua Music Festival. We spent the two days before the festival discussing HIV/AIDS in Morocco and how to raise awareness without crossing over cultural and religious taboos associated to it. It was my first time being involved in an AIDS training and I found it to be inspiring. Hearing other Volunteers speak of their experiences in Peace Corps and in the States encouraged me to look into doing some kind of AIDS and STI education project at my site. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">About 25 Volunteers participated in the training and the Gnaoua booth with the ALCS (Association de la Lutte Contre le SIDA) office in Essaouira. I had been invited to attend because I speak French and can therefore communicate with the target audience: Gnaoua festival goers, particularly young Moroccan men because they represent the majority of the attendees. During three days of the festival, the Volunteers working the booth were given red ALCS t-shirts and baseball caps as we handed out fliers and lured people walking by to go get tested and get more information on AIDS and STIs. ALCS was providing free, anonymous testing for HIV and Syphilis, with results in 20 minutes. Our jobs were to inform people that they could get the test for free without giving their names, and that ALCS has offices around the country providing free support and services for people living with HIV. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>Standing outside for hours during midday heat, beckoning passersby who often did not want to be bothered was draining to say the least, but many people were quite receptive and friendly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>Hundreds of people were tested during the festival. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I did get to enjoy free time during the festival of course. All the volunteers working the booth stayed in a Riad at the medina. This riad was called the “work house”, while a few doors down, some volunteers had rented another riad for those coming to enjoy the festival on their vacation time. This was called the “party house”. In the evenings, we had ample time to socialize and enjoy the concerts around the city. I didn’t attend many concerts because they were extremely crowded and mostly full of teenage Moroccan men high on glue and/or drunk. Lots of groping and pick pocketing was involved, as in any music festival around the world. During those three days, the small, usually calm medina was transformed into a city crammed with 400,000 blazed festival goers. I mostly enjoyed sitting around with friends, listening to music, sipping on wine, and eating a good home cooked meals by fellow volunteers. </span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-22301902468784289682010-06-05T21:46:00.000+02:002010-06-05T22:06:43.347+02:00First Month at Site<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">First Month at Post<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I can’t believe it’s been nearly a month since I arrived at site. I’ve been keeping busy with getting to know the village and surrounding towns, going on long runs, meeting with the women’s association and work partners, and doing my best to adjust to the growing heat of summer. During the last half of May, I had my first meeting with the president of the communal council of Lalla Takerkouste.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Naima and I went to present a project proposal provided by CDRT regarding the solar powered fruit drier. We went on a Sunday, souk day, because that’s when many people come into town and request to meet with the president. The proposal was written in French, and was actually a brief first draft sent by Abdelkader, (CDRT Director) presenting the project and listing the roles and responsibilities of each party: the beneficiary association, the commune, and CDRT. The commune is supposed to provide a locale for the machine, CDRT provides the material to build the machine and training for using it, and the association does the work. We wanted to present the proposal to see what the commune had to say about their ability to participate in the project. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Most of the meeting was conducted in Arabic so it went right over my head. But they sprinkled in some French when addressing me. We had to explain to the commune my role here in the community and why I was working with Naima’s association specifically. The president also asked me what kind of financial assistance I was bringing to Naima and I had to clarify that I was a human resource assigned to work with all interested and willing members of the commune, yet my main project was to work with CDRT and Naima’s association. There’s some underlying political tension between her association, the Kaid (sort of like the mayor), and the communal council. From what I’ve gathered, the commune and Kaid have a reputation for seizing projects from associations in order to take their money. However, they aren’t quite sure what to make of me and this fruit drier idea. They barely scanned the proposal and went straight to the section describing the commune’s responsibilities in the project and said they needed us to present more technical information and a budget before they could sign any type of project agreement. This seemed fair enough, so I arranged to meet with Larbi and Abdelkader at CDRT to go over that.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">It took another two weeks to finally meet with Abdelkader at the CDRT office in Marrakech, and we spent most of it going over what model of solar powered fruit drier would be best for the space Naima has set aside for the project. That I know of, there are two other fruit driers in the country set up for use at the rural association level, and this may be the third one. Therefore, it’s a new concept and they’re still working out the kinks on the best functioning machine. Abdelkader has a background in engineering, while the paperwork and political side of the project is more Larbi’s specialty. In the coming weeks, we will hopefully tackle the signing of an agreement so we can move forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>At any rate, I feel as though I’m getting a good start on work, because I am partnered with an extremely motivated women’s association and an NGO armed with highly educated, resourceful members.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Weekend in Essaouira<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">On May 28, I went to spend my first weekend away from site to celebrate my CBT friend Martin’s birthday in Essaouira. Sami, Dave, and Cara from CBT all came up from the Tiznit region in the south, as well as a few health volunteers around Essaouira. We rented a Riad in the medina and spent a lovely two days catching up on site stories and exploring the city. Essaouira is right on the ocean, between Agadir and Casablanca. It’s a small city yet very popular with tourists. All the buildings are painted white with vibrant blue doors and shutters. Everything seems to follow this color scheme. Even the taxis are blue and white. The medina is smaller and calmer than the clamor and whirlwind aura of Marrakech. There are endless kiosks and tourist craft boutiques, but the shopkeepers aren’t nearly as aggressive at trying to lure you into their store. Essaouira has a strong presence of culture and art as well, with many beautiful crafts and paintings adorning the cafes and riads (typical medina houses). The best part of Essa is the constant cool breeze blowing in from the ocean. It supposedly doesn't get nearly as hot here in summer as the interior regions. We walked along the city ramparts, watched the sunset over the Atlantic, and roamed past the rows of blue boats at the marina. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">After hearing about the other volunteers’ sites, I affirmed that I have once again been really lucky with my Peace Corps assignment. The fact that I speak French and can easily communicate with my counterparts is a huge help in getting things done. Some of the others live in tiny douars (small villages) of 10 houses with no kiosk and no transportation in or out. They have to walk up to 2 hours to find a taxi or get to their souk town. I have a city bus that stops by my douar, several kiosks that sell fruits and vegetables every day, a weekly souk, and I’m only 40 minutes ride from Marrakech. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I returned from my weekend away feeling recharged and ready to face another month of host family homestay. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Larbi’s Birthday<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">June 3<sup>rd</sup> was my host father’s birthday. He turned 57 and had previously informed me he’d never celebrated a birthday in his life. Meanwile, Malika doesn’t even have a birthday. Her identification card states she was born in 1961; no day or month. So on June 3<sup>rd</sup>, I bought some birthday candles and decided to bake Larbi a cake. I showed Malika how to make banana bread and she had her son Mehdi record every ingredient and step in Arabic so she could replicate it later. In the evening, we had a little family birthday party in the guest salon. Malika and I wore traditional dresses, Larbi put on a nice shirt, they bought a bottle of soda, and we lit the candles. Larbi was very grateful and beamed from ear to ear after blowing out the candles. It made my day to see him smile. The banana bread was a hit. Hicham ate about half of it himself. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">House Hunting<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">One of my key assignments during the first two months is to find a house to rent for the next two years. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>Peace Corps set a maximum monthly rent allotment of 500-600DH (roughly $65). Most volunteers in the Marrakech region have trouble finding housing at that price, because so many Europeans live here and hike up the rent. Many end up getting approval for a higher cost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My host family arduously wanted me to stay with them for two years, which is something I could do if I wanted. But, the prospect of living up on the roof with little privacy and control over my schedule for the next two years wasn’t my cup of tea. Plus, in the last two weeks, the weather has been getting excruciatingly hot and the non-insulated cement room I call my bedroom turns into an outright inferno. I’ve even resorted to sleeping on a rug outside, under the stars, which is actually quite pleasant.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">At first, Naima and Malika told me there weren’t really any good houses to rent in the douar, and all the available apartments were on the other side of the river, in the Arab side of town. Rent there is expensive, and I would be victim to much more harassment. All the young men and drunks come by the busload from Marrakech every weekend, along with tourists to rent 4-wheelers and party on the lakeshores.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The berber douar is calmer, safer, and separate from the weekend hustle and bustle. Anyway, once I convinced my host family that I couldn’t survive the heat up on the roof and I needed my own house, they were more than happy to help me find one. Malika was paramount in getting the word out and before I knew it, I was visiting a couple different houses a day. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>All of them are in varying degrees of completion or degradation, but most consist of 2-3 rooms, a kitchen, a latrine, and a central cement courtyard. I finally found one that I really like, however it’s not quite finished. It’s got a vast courtyard, 3 rooms, and a kitchen with a sink and cement countertop. There’s a big man-sized hole in the wall of the courtyard leading into another abandoned, unfinished house. Some of the windows and doors haven’t been installed yet, but my favorite part is that there’s roof access. Iron rods stick out from everywhere up there, but there’s a magnificent, panoramic view of the village and the mountains. With Malika and Larbi’s help, I negotiated the rent at 600DH and the landlord agreed to get everything finished and secured by July 1<sup>st</sup>. Today, June 5<sup>th</sup>, the Volunteer warden for the Marrakech region came to do a ‘house check’ and approved the house. So now I have to cross my fingers that the work gets done and I can sign the rental agreement in the next couple weeks! I am so excited to live on my own and get settled in a house!</span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-14918917230712300512010-05-12T17:20:00.000+02:002010-06-05T17:59:42.268+02:00First Week at Post<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYsD9Z7M4lx8UD0zUS9oYDdryaNjPiQoJnPQ4zcTaTCeENXPxrmaj0RwkIG9-ht55j1hyavyxrUZetBhXsSMzBLmdKsh46KNTxAlNggDn-WUFna2S0YmbamnSunOCCVwjvewJ4r7KnhWQ/s1600/20100515_22.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479319476568381570" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYsD9Z7M4lx8UD0zUS9oYDdryaNjPiQoJnPQ4zcTaTCeENXPxrmaj0RwkIG9-ht55j1hyavyxrUZetBhXsSMzBLmdKsh46KNTxAlNggDn-WUFna2S0YmbamnSunOCCVwjvewJ4r7KnhWQ/s320/20100515_22.jpg" /></a><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;font-size:85%;">After a few more days of administrative sessions and lots of socializing in between in Ouarzazate, the Health and Environment sector trainees wrapped up Pre-Service Training with a swearing-in ceremony on May 5<sup>th</sup>. The ceremony took place at the Ouarzazate Palais de Congres, a lavish building with plush auditorium chairs and the ever-present photograph of the King. The Ouarzazate governor, the Director of Peace Corps Morocco, the US Ambassador, and three trainees gave speeches before we took the oath. It felt strange taking that oath again. It brought me back to the Benin swearing in ceremony in the field outside Lokossa, 5 years ago. All the new Volunteers there had sported matching fabric outfits for each sector. We’d sat through the ceremony in plastic chairs under makeshift open tents, with traditional musicians performing a dance and drum routine. Afterwards, we’d joined the mad dash to the snack and soda pavilions only to get out-run by the all the Beninese host families and find only crumbs leftover. In Morocco, we all pretty much wore Western business casual attire. Two people out of 69 trainees wore traditional outfits. Afterwards, we were ushered to the cocktail hall for Moroccan sweets, smoothies, and tea while we took group photos and chatted with the governor. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;font-size:85%;">On Thursday, May 6<sup>th</sup>, I took the bus to Marrakech with all my belongings. The winding roads across the Atlas Mountains proved challenging once again, as I fought off nausea and exhaustion from the previous night’s celebrations. To avoid dragging my obscenely heavy suitcase, backpack, and handbag across town, I opted for the more expensive route and bought out an entire bush taxi to take me to Malika and Larbi’s door in Amzour. Malika was waiting with open arms. I felt like I was home. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;font-size:85%;">I’ve been keeping pretty busy since I’ve arrived. On Friday I went to see the Gendarmes in Amzmiz, 25 km south of Amzour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I presented myself and began the process to acquire a carte de sejour. Morocco does not require a Visa, but after three months, we must get one of these cards as proof of residence and to be able to go in and out of the country. That’s what I understand from it anyway. It’s a painstakingly long process involving loads of paperwork, passport photos, a 100DH fiscal stamp, the presence of a host family member with all their identification papers, and lots of waiting. Luckily for me, there are two Volunteers in Amzmiz, and the Gendarmes here are friendly, efficient, and accustomed to the process. I returned on Tuesday with more documents and spent about 4 hours with the commandant but managed to leave with a receipt document that will be my carte de sejour until the actual card comes in, inch’allah. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;font-size:85%;">On Saturday, I spent an afternoon in Marrakech with Malika and Hicham. We took the bus in and visited Jema’l’Fna and the medina for a few hours. Malika went to all her customary wholesaler stores to buy gowns, sandals, and undergarments to resell at a tailor shop in Amzour. The vendors seem to know her well. She’s quite the businesswoman. The covered souk is full of textiles, crafts, spices, and so many people. I was burning up and dizzy from all the movement, yet I was happy to visit the city with a local. We walked around the square, munched on roasted peanuts, bought Hicham an ice cream cone, and then took the crowded bus back to the Barrage at 6:30. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>We all went to bed early that night. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;font-size:85%;">On Sunday, an Italian tradesman who works with Naima’s association brought another order of baskets for the women to weave. His name is Nicola and he works with various associations in Morocco and India to fabricate textiles and re-sell them from Italy. He brings the raw material, shows the women how to make the product, then comes back to buy their work. This time, he brought 15 straw baskets and bags of turquoise sequins to be woven all around the outside of the baskets. One of the women, Aicha, already knows how to do the work, so she showed the others, including myself. I spent several hours weaving, which they greatly appreciated. It’s arduous and tough on the fingers. Nicola wants to pick up the baskets on Thursday already. Aicha gave me a basket to work on at home. I’ve been doing a little each day but I’m not even halfway done yet. Even if 15 women each took a basket home to work on, I don’t see how they could get it done in 4 days, with all the other household chores they accomplish each day. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;font-size:85%;">I returned to Marrakech on Monday to meet two current Volunteers in the region for a day of shopping. Donielle is posted in Amzmiz, so I met her on the bus to the city, where we met Sara from Tahanaout. We went to the outskirts of the city to a brand new shopping mall and Carrefour supermarket. It reminded me of the Midtown mall in Miami. We definitely didn’t feel like we were in Africa. The shopping center opened in April so some stores aren’t open yet, but there’s a United Colors of Benetton, an imitation of Starbucks, a food court, a TGI Friday’s, swank restrooms, and a movie theater. The Carrefour has all the French brand names of groceries, great produce, a liquor store called La Cave, and an extensive electronics and household items section. I bought cheese to make quiche for my host family. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;font-size:85%;">In the afternoon, Sara and Donielle headed home and I managed to set up a meeting with CDRT through my program manager, Mohssine. I met with my counterpart, Larbi Didoukane, at a café by the Science University on the northeast side of town. He took me to the CDRT office nearby, located in a quiet residential neighborhood of villas and bougainvilleas. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>The office is large and well-equipped, with several secretaries and interns busy at their computers. We had a meeting with the Director and the President and discussed my role in their capacity building project with partnered associations in the region. CDRT works with 100 associations in a vast area around Marrakech, reaching as far west as Essaouira. Because I am based in Lalla Takerkouste, they’d like me to first work with the women’s association there on the fruit drying machine project. Then, they’d like me to meet with all the partnered associations in the commune and identify the ones capable of carrying out a project, then help them realize it. We discussed the philosophy behind their work and this capacity building project in particular. Overall, it was a good meeting and I’m excited to see where it goes. They have some paperwork to do regarding the fruit drying machines, and then Abdelkader, the Director, would like me to go visit the manufacturer once they’ve identified who can build the machine. In the meantime, I have to explain to Naima that the machines won’t be ready by apricot season this year, which is in less than two weeks.</span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;font-size:85%;">I think I’ll be moving about a lot with the position, namely to Marrakech. It’s a lot of transportation costs, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out. I headed back to Amzour and chatted with Naima at the pharmacy before heading home at 8pm, thoroughly exhausted and famished. Malika had squash duwaz and coffee waiting for me. Duwaz is a common, simple and tasty dish here. It’s basically a mixture of vegetables and sometimes meat pressure cooked for a long time and served with bread. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;font-size:85%;">On Tuesday, after visiting the gendarmes in Amzmiz, I went to the town’s weekly souk, which is absolutely enormous. I met with Donielle for a lunch of tajine at her house. She’s pretty much my post mate and I get along real well with her, l’Hamdulah. There’s another Volunteer there, who’s currently vacationing in the states. I’ll meet him in a few weeks. </span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;font-size:85%;">Today, Wednesday, I finally baked a quiche for Malika and the family. She’d been eagerly anticipating that since I mentioned it during site visit. It definitely went better than the rice mush dinner in Asfalou. It was quite delicious even. Mehdi really like it and already requested that I make more. Maybe next time I’ll make tarte a la moutarde…</span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-29676328040853312052010-05-02T14:03:00.000+02:002010-05-02T14:05:08.173+02:00Last Week in Asfalou<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">We’ve finished up our last week of training in Asfalou. It’s been a long and rather boring week, as far as training sessions. We returned all pumped up from our site visits and after telling all our stories about the past week, we were extremely reluctant to sit through hours of class, learning language and whatever administrative information we still needed to cover. Our LCF was a bit more lenient though, and we were able to convince him to let us have loads of study time. I spent most of it swapping music and movies with other trainees or playing minesweeper. We went to souq in Ouarzazate on Sunday. It’s gigantic. I bought some gifts for my host family: head scarves, perfume, a shirt for my host dad, and a pair of bright green plastic house shoes for my host mom because the ones she has are 3 sizes too small. She’s got the same size feet as me! Imagine that, a Moroccan woman with boat feet too. I also got some coloring books for the kids. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">On Wednesday, we went to the souq in Timdlin to buy ingredients for a host family party. We all enjoy going to souq because it’s a great way to practice bargaining, learn the price of things, and interact with vendors. Not to mention there’s a growing selection of fruit, and we all love going to a particular peanut vendor. He sells honey-coated peanuts, sesame flavored cookies, salted peanuts, golden raisins, and roasted chick-peas. The dried dates at souq are delicious as well. They come in a wide variety of qualities, and levels of moisture. A kilo of good quality dates cost less than $2.50. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">On Wednesday night, I decided to cook an “American” dinner for the family. The night before, I had told Najat, Brahim, and Khadija that I would make some sort of rice dish. I went with a Chinese stir fry type theme and bought hot peppers at the souq. I was planning to cook for four people, but then the entire family showed up right at 7:30pm. There was Fatima and her husband, Zahra with her son and husband, Maryan, and Halima. The sisters were picking up Khadija so that they could all travel to Marrakech in the morning. They’re going to visit their brother Omar there. Anyway, the dinner party grew to eleven people. The pressure was on. All the women crowded in the kitchen to see what I was doing, and Najat had Brahim running back and forth from his boutique getting spices and ingredients for me. I was intimidated to cook in front of all these women. Their husbands were pressed to get back to Timdlin so they kept telling me to hurry. It turned into a bit of a fiasco. The rice was not of stir-frying quality, so it turned to mush. The hot peppers were hotter than I thought. I mixed the spicy vegetables with the rice mush and threw in some eggs. Najat and I heaped the sticky mound of food onto a big platter and brought it to the table of guests. It didn’t look very appetizing. Plus, Zahra had told me a couple weeks before that they always add orange or red food coloring to their dishes because in Morocco, food is not considered palatable unless it’s got an appetizing color. My rice mush was looking rather pale, with only green vegetables sprinkled in. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">Anyway, everyone dug in with their spoons. It was tasty, yet extremely spicy. Khadija, who complains to Najat all the time about there being too much spice or salt at dinner, took one bite, gasped, and clamored for a glass of water. Everyone had the sniffles and huffed and puffed all through the meal, but they kept eating. The plate was scraped clean, l’Hamdullilah! Gou-Brahim said “we will always remember Felicie and her rice dinner now”. They told me numerous times it was delicious, but I still felt like I’d flopped the dinner. Anyway, I’m happy I did it. I’m sure they appreciated the gesture. I now know a bit more how Najat feels every day. She constantly has to cook and make tea at a moment’s notice. The number of guests can increase ten-fold in a minute and she is still expected to prepare a delicious meal in a timely fashion. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">After dinner, Khadija and her daughters got ready to leave. They showered me with hugs and kisses. Khadija didn’t want to let go of me. She’s quite short next to me, so she buried her head in my chest and weeped for about a minute before joining the others in Grou-Brahim’s car. I was touched by how attached they were. I’m really going to miss this family. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">Thursday we took our language proficiency interviews. It basically entailed 15 minutes of conversation with a Tashlhit language tester. Our minimum level requirement is Novice High, I scored Intermediate Low. I think I could have don’t better if I’d studied, but I was worn out and just figured I’d do fine with my French. I managed to communicate to the tester in Tash where I worked in the states before coming here, that I served in Peace Corps Benin doing environmental projects, and what I’ll be doing in my new site. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">We had our host family party in Asfalou Friday afternoon. Our amazing cook Rqia made cakes and donuts for 50 people. I had told my host family about the party on Monday. On Wednesday, Najat said she wouldn’t be able to go because Brahim wouldn’t allow it. He doesn’t let her go anywhere that includes a lot of men. This upset me a bit, even though she just laughed it off. I asked Brahim if she could go and he said only if there were separate rooms for men and women. None of the other host families seemed to have made this request, but we decided to have the party at Rqia’s house and she said we could do two rooms. All of us were wondering if people were going to show up. Our family members seemed so nonchalant about the whole party idea. When we asked if they were coming, they shrugged and said “inch’allah”. But, sure enough, at 4pm, everyone was there, dressed up in jellabas and colorful scarves. My host mom was the last to arrive, after I’d begun to fear she was still not allowed to come despite the separate rooms. Rqia and her sister busily ran back and forth between the two guest rooms and we all sat in semi-awkward silence for a while. We loosened up little by little, and with the help of the kids to create distraction, we were all laughing and chatting by the end of the afternoon. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">On Saturday, I got hennaed again by Najat’s sister. The women had been planning this all week. Apparently it’s a customary sending off procedure. She covered my hands and feet in beautiful designs. It looks really cool; I just don’t like the part where I have to sit for 3 hours and not touch anything until it dries. I sat with my hands in the air and my feet propped up on a pillow, nodding off in front of the TV. Najat took me to my room and had me lay down for a while until I could wash it off. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">In the evening, Brahim invited me, our language trainer, and the other trainees to dinner and music at the hotel by the river. He’s taken me there several times to listen to berber singing and to hang out with his friends who run the place. We had a nice last evening in Asfalou. I cant believe it’s been two months already. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-79627635396478972702010-04-23T14:41:00.000+02:002010-04-23T14:42:22.532+02:00Lalla Takerkoust<p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Lalla Takerkoust, April 23, 2010.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I just spent an invigorating few days at my site. On Saturday morning, I took the bus along with several other trainees from Ouarzazate to Marrakech. It’s a long and difficult ride across the High Atlas but the views are absolutely spellbinding. Each bend in the road (and there are many) presents a better view than the last, though I had to keep my eyes<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>closed much of the time to keep carsickness from getting the better of me. We arrived in Marrakech in early afternoon, and about 7 of us had lunch by the souk and walked to Jamè Lfouna, a large mosque in the center of the city. The square next to it is surrounded by shops, restaurants, and hotels, and bustles with snake charmers, monkeys, and tourists. I went to find the hotel recommended by Peace Corps to spend the night as the other trainees continued to Rabat or East into the mountains to their sites. I wound up not being able to get a room because my photocopied documents didn’t suffice, so after trying several hotels and huffing and puffing around town with my heavy backpack, I decided to head straight to Lalla Takerkoust.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">The bush taxi ride barely took 45 minutes. I craned my neck eagerly, my eyes glued to the landscape as we neared the village. The land around Marrakech is very flat and I got excited as the terrain began to undulate more and more. In my opinion, the more hills there are, the more hiking opportunities. Lalla Takerkoust is split in half by a river and large dam built in 1938. One side is newer, populated by the families of the dam workers and now by miners, many of which are Arab. The older side is primarily berber, made up of the original inhabitants of the village that was displaced by the construction of the dam. The new side is more commercial and houses the weekly souk, post office, a pharmacy, internet cafes, and several shops, kiosks, and restaurants. The older side is much quieter, with just a couple kiosks. I am staying in old side of the village, known as Amzour. My post has just the right mixture; quaint, withdrawn from the city and surrounded by rolling hills and mountains, yet equipped with a variety of amenities to live comfortably. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Moroccan Host Family Number Two<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">My host family in Lalla Takerkoust is quite different from the Maali’s in Asfalou. My host father is a small, wiry man named Laarbi. He is 56 but looks 70, with a weathered, gray-bearded face, several missing teeth, and a worn down posture. He thankfully speaks very good French and I learned a great deal about him in the first couple days. He is a gardener in the orchards of a big mine 15km east of Lalla Takerkoust. He works 6 days a week from 7am to 3pm, and has had no holiday or vacation in the last 15 years. Up until 3 years ago, he used to walk over the hills to the mine and back every day: 30 km. He now takes a bus. His salary is quite meager, and he hasn’t managed to get a raise because there are so many unemployed people around seeking to work for less money. All this hard work and no savings to show for it has turned him into a rather cynical man, and he has a gruff demeanor but once you manage to see past it, he’s quite nice. His wife, Malika, is a stocky, gregarious woman of 50 with loads of pep. She speaks no French, which is perfect for me to learn Tash. The first couple days were tough as far as communication, but she is relentless and loves to talk, so I’m catching on. The Tashlhit spoken here is a little different from the Ouarzazate region. They understand all the words I use, but they have some different vocabulary so I have to re-learn many words. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Malika and Laarbi have two sons, Mehdi who is 15, and Hicham, who is 10. They both go to school and spend the majority of their time out of the house. Because Laarbi didn’t get married until he was 37, he is accustomed to doing many household chores himself. I was surprised to see him doing his laundry, making us tea at snack time, and even helping Malika cut up vegetables for dinner. Brahim Maali would never do that sort of thing. Malika is also a bold, outspoken woman who doesn’t hesitate to go out into the village. She is Vice President and Treasurer of the women’s association and sells clothes and jewelry in surrounding villages. As my community partner put it, “she’s not afraid of anyone”, which is rare in this culture for a woman I think. The combination of her social omnipresence and the lack of other females in the household makes for a sometimes messy home. Their house is new and only half finished, so much of it is bare cement walls and floors. The kitchen is well-equipped and usually littered with piles of accumulated dirty dishes and food scraps, but she’s a fantastic cook and showed me how to make breads and tajine and plans to show me much more. After the customary 2-3 days of being a guest, she let me help her wash dishes and cook. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">My room is on the roof, with a splendid view and apt outdoor space for doing laundry. I had to coax them into letting me sleep in my own room because they were reluctant of leaving me alone at night. I spent two nights sleeping with Hicham and Malika but when they found me sleeping on a couch outside one morning to escape Malika’s monstrous snoring, they decided to clean up the dusty storage room on the roof for me. Laarbi chuckled for hours about it because he also can’t sleep in the same room as Malika and her snoring. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Amzour Women’s Association <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">The women’s association I will be working with is headed by Naima, my community partner. She’s 28, had has a History degree from the university in Agadir. She works at the village pharmacy 6 days a week and spends all her free time working on projects for the association. About 8 women, including my host mother Malika, are active members. They started the association less than a year ago with a larger group of women, but many dropped out as they lost interest or didn’t find the monetary benefits they’d expected. At any rate, the remaining members are extremely motivated and active. They work from a tiny loft donated by Naima’s father, making Moroccan pastries and breads to sell to shopkeepers in town. They are working on getting a larger workspace to get the fruit drier from CRDT NGO in Marrakech and hope to get some larger ovens to make bread en mass for local restaurants and guesthouses. Naima has many contacts from working at the pharmacy, as a large part of her clientele is local Europeans, regional shopkeepers, and tourists. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I helped the women make little anise-flavored croquettes in the evenings as they were working on an order for 8kg. They sell them at 15DH/kg, with a profit of about 6DH/kg (less than 1USD). The association also pays two young women/ teenagers to tutor elementary students in the evenings. Maybe I can get one of them to tutor me in Tash. Naima and I have discussed all sorts of potential projects we’d like to work on. I told them about my projects in Benin, and they really liked the recycled art with bottlecaps. Some of the kids started collecting caps for me already. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">On Tuesday, Malika and I were invited for tea at a retired couple’s house. They’ve both been to Mecca and are referred to as L’Hej and L’Heja. Their son Jalil is an established artist specializing in recycled metal sculptures. He lives with his parents and has transformed the Moroccan villa into a veritable piece of art. The doors and walls of the courtyards are painted vibrant shades of blue, with ornate moldings and welded metal decorating every corner. L’Hej, is big supporter of Naima and put her in contact with CRDT. He heard of my recycled art ideas and took me to meet Jalil at his art shop in town. He indeed does remarkable work, which he’s exposed numerous times around Morocco. We drank tea in his office and discussed the possibility of working together. He also liked my bottlecap idea and wants to create a sculpture with them. He’s ready to work with me and let me learn some of his trade, which I’m super excited about!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Running in Lalla Takerkoust<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I didn’t wait long to communicate to Naima and my host family that I love hiking and running. As advised by Peace Corps, it’s best to gage the level of conservatism in a locale before going out running on the first day. They were very receptive to the idea and supported by wish to run the Marrakech Marathon next year. Naima was excited to hear I was a runner and said she would accompany me in the mornings. She’d wanted to start but was scared to go by herself, especially because if the villagers saw her out and about alone in athletic gear they’d start making stories about rendezvous’ and promiscuity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We decided to meet at 6am, and sure enough, she was at my door at 6 sharp. I ran and she walked most of the way, but she loved it and diligently accompanied me every morning. Word got around and two other women joined us for an hour run/walk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Naima says at least five more have expressed interest in running with us! There’s a basketball court at the school fields that isn’t used much as the boys prefer soccer. Some girls play basketball during gym class. I told Malika’s 14 year old niece I liked basketball and would like to play with them sometime and she came back from school one day with a petition of 15 girls who want to start basketball training with me on Saturdays! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-63194709942818367132010-04-16T10:41:00.000+02:002010-04-16T10:42:47.425+02:00Site Announcement<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Yesterday was the big day. We were given our post assignments for the next two years! Folders were passed around the room with our names and site names, most of which were quite difficult to pronounce. I have been assigned to the village of Lalla Takerkoust. It’s in the Al Houz region, only 30 km south of Marrakech. It’s a town of 3500, with a paved road running through it. There is a dam that generates electricity for the entire Marrakech region, and a large lake attracting many Marrakech families for weekend picnics on the shores. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I will be working with a women’s association who is supposedly extremely active and motivated. I hope at least one of the members resembles my host aunt Zahra! Their key project right now is to build a hybrid fruit drier (gas and solar powered) for local income generation. So I may have access to quality dried figs and apricots! My Peace Corps program manager also informed me I will be working on the NGO liaison pilot project very soon. I am to work with an NGO based in Marrakech called Centre de Developpement de la Region de Tensift (CDRT). It’s made of a team of physicians, engineers, and technicians who work on projects such as hybrid fruit driers in the region. So I will be traveling to Marrakech frequently to work with them. I am extremely excited about all this. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I am the first volunteer in this village. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I will know much more in a week. Tomorrow I’m going to Marrakech to meet with a current PCV working on a similar project in another village, and we will travel together to Lalla Takerkoust on Sunday. </span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-32897663452584903452010-04-15T13:46:00.002+02:002010-04-15T13:47:47.526+02:00Earth Day Celebration Part Two. April 13, 2010<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Our second day of celebrations proved to be just as successful as the first, except today all the participants were on time. At 2pm, the Zituna men came to pick up our 26 olive trees and we all headed to the school armed with paper, colored pencils, and markers for the kids. Brahim and a couple other men set to work digging holes for the trees around the schoolyard while we gathered the 40+ kids in the classroom to tell us what the environment is and then draw a picture of it. They were enthusiastic and put forth effort in the activity, which was gratifying to see. Because most of them had included trees in their drawings, we discussed why trees are important for us and the environment. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">At 3pm, Zahara showed up as promised with the women’s group. She had had them draw pictures of the environment in her classroom, so while the children went outside to plant trees, we had the women tell us about their drawings. Many women had drawn flowers, their houses, the irrigation ditch, and the well. Water, or lack thereof, was the focal point of the drawings. Zahara was paramount in helping with the discussion. She has a way of keeping their attention focused, as they otherwise have a tendency to break off into a million simultaneous conversations. The women asked us to explain global warming and even asked why there was so much talk of melting ice caps on television. This was a poignant reminder of the power and impact of the media and particularly television in all corners of the world. We drew the classic greenhouse effect diagram and tried to explain that even though Asfalou doesn’t seem to have a pollution problem, not burning tires and plastic in the hamam and outdoors still plays a part in reducing the greenhouse effect.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-20030652836665754772010-04-15T13:46:00.001+02:002010-04-15T13:46:56.666+02:00Earth Day Celebration Part 1. April 12, 2010<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">So, Monday was day one of our Earth Day celebrations in Asfalou. As planned, the six of us plus Saïd walked to the school at 9am to meet the students, teachers, women’s group, and olive farmers’ association for a village trash pick-up. The schoolyard was empty except 5 young boys, who we assumed were there not to pick up trash but just out of curiosity as to what we were doing there. The two school teachers had made us believe on Friday morning that all the students would be there, along with the Zituna (olive tree association) men, and the women’s group. We came equipped with about 20 empty cement sacks and a poster displaying what trash items are ok to burn, and what should be buried instead. We’d drawn items such as sardine cans, plastic bottles, broken glass, and aluminum as non-burnable, and then cloth, paper, and cardboard as burnable. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">The school director soon arrived from Ouarzazate, and my host dad Brahim came too. The director said the village was apparently not excited about this activity, unfortunately. The school only has class in the afternoon on Monday, which is why the schoolyard was empty. But, by 9:30, 3 more Zituna men arrived and about 25 kids appeared with gloves and rakes and shovels. Brahim and the school director were invaluable in helping us instruct the kids. We went over our poster, which had Arabic translations for our drawings, then we all spread out. A little squabble of 10 year old girls followed me. They’ve somehow decided I am their favorite trainee and whenever we go to the school or to meet with the women’s group, they appear at my side and fight one another on who gets to stand next to me and hold my hand. It was quite sweet at first, but it’s gotten a bit stifling at times. Regardless, the children here are adorable. We spent over an hour around the village collecting trash. More children showed up with shovels and wheelbarrows. It was quite an undertaking. We filled our bags and went to dump them in a big hole at the foot of the mountain behind the school. We each collected several bags full of rubbish, and probably the most unpleasant part was picking up used diapers. The stench at times was nauseating. There are a LOT of diapers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The women’s group didn’t show up at the school until we were nearly done with the trash collection. They didn’t seem ready to collect trash but Zahara organized the group and sent them to a different side of the village to do their own trash pickup. We buried all the trash and concluded our efforts with tea and tajine at the school provided by my host family. It wound up being a pretty successful day. I think the fact that villagers saw us Americans and the school director (who doesn’t even live here) getting dirty collecting their trash (and diapers) hopefully made a decent impact.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3626588803443304498.post-70516164427163482682010-04-15T13:45:00.001+02:002010-04-15T13:45:55.210+02:00Weekend Get-Away, April 10, 2010<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">We’re back in Ouarzazate for the weekend. This was one of our two weekends “off” during training and we all decided to come to Ouarzazate to be “American” for a day, essentially. We came here after our morning class on Saturday and spent the afternoon checking e-mail then went for a deliciously refreshing swim at another hotel. Afterwards, we had a cards and movie night in our hotel room. It was quite fantastic. The six people from my training group piled in the room, and we borrowed a movie projector from Peace Corps staff to watch it in ‘big screen’. We ate popcorn and vented about language classes and culture shock. Then we were all able to sleep in peacefully until 9 am without our host family members knocking on our door to inquire if we were still alive and well.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">We had thought of spending the weekend in another town, Telouet, 45 km up river from Asfalou to do some hiking. Telouet is supposed to be a beautiful spot in the mountains with a kasbah built into the cliff-sides. But, the road turns to dirt after Asfalou and only tourist jeeps travel that road. Finding an affordable bush taxi and still having enough time to enjoy the place was merely impossible in a day and a half, so we opted for the familiarity and accessibility of Ouarzazate. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Last Sunday, I went for an epic walk with my host dad and Hassan, his 21 year old cousin. Hassan is going to law school in Marakech and was back in Asfalou for spring break, so we could converse a good deal in French. The three of us walked barefoot in the river for a few hours, then stopped at a village 15 km upriver from Asfalou. We were famished and sought a shopkeeper in the desolate village to sell us bread and sardines. I can’t get over how rural villages are so void of people. There are just mud houses and sand and emptiness. Where is everyone? Brahim says they’re either in their houses escaping the sun, or down by the river working in the wheat, barley, and olive plantations. After our snack, we followed the dusty road all the way back to Asfalou, arriving just before nightfall. We hitched a ride in the back of a pick-up for a couple kilometers, then followed the narrow and harrowing path alongside the irrigation ditch for the last mile. I have found my match for ‘hiking on the edge’. It turns out my host dad is as much of a dare-devil as I, if not more. He made me jump across crevices, walk along disintegrating cliff edges, and traverse the river over sketchy bridges made of rotted planks and cement bags. I had fleeting moments where I actually feared for my life… but we made it home safe and I was extremely satisfied with the thrill of the day. We’d walked a total of 27km! <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Training this past week was hectic to say the least. We’ve been assigned the ambiguous task of organizing an Earth Day celebration with the village. So first we had to use our meager community assessment tools to identify partners to work with and to identify what the environmental concerns of the village are. This would probably not be so hard if we had a good knowledge of the language and a couple months to do it, but we just have one week and one person who can translate for us. I don’t really expect it to be a hugely successful project, as I understand that training is meant to give us some experience in community interaction so we know how to improve our approach when we do the “real thing” at our final post. But, we set out to do our best. We met with the local school, the women’s group, and the olive tree association of men to set up Earth Day celebration. The plan is to do a village-wide trash clean up Monday morning with the school, then we will do an informative session on what trash can be burned and what should instead be buried. On Tuesday afternoon, we will be going back to the school to plant olive trees in the schoolyard and have the students draw images of the environment and how to protect it. We are providing the trees and the drawing material. With Zahara’s help the women are hopefully going to attend as well. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Feliciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01733973387787220300noreply@blogger.com1