blog

Morocco: Unedited

Mon, 25 Mar 2013 12:36:37 +0100

Beholden to no one, the fearless mika (plastic bag) soars majestically, tossed every which way, possibly the cheapest barometer known to man.

Its flighty escapade comes to a halt as it intertwines with the branches of a fallow apple tree.

Across the field, a hand grabs the top edge of the transit’s side window and pulls upward. Ali, the driver, wedges a screwdriver forcefully into the crevice between the door and window - a simple yet sure fix to the woes of a 20-year old tumobil.

Anzar (rain) pours down in abundance, a blessing from Allah and a boon for the farmers who are at the mercy of the whims of the meteo (weather).

A taxi driver rolls down the window and grabs the lone windshield wiper from the dashboard. Reaching out the window into the whipping wind and with a clearly rehearsed-before motion, Mohammed wipes the windshield with his left hand, blurring the distinction between man and windshield-wiper.

The passenger uses the rolled down windows to his advantage and chucks out the wrapper of a just finished 1 dirham cookie bar. The wrapper joins with the legion of already floating litter, complementing ever so nicely the celestial dance of particles in the air.

Potholes, big and small, pepper the road at routine intervals. The frequent freeze-thaw cycle of the region and an inattentive provincial government nearly five hours distant seem to be the main culprits.

Drivers swerve often not only to avoid these ruts in the road, but also any oncoming vehicles; many segments of the road narrow to one lane. An earnest driver might achieve a sustained speed of 35 kilometers per hour (~22 mph).

Signs blown over from the fierce High Atlas winds lay on the wayside for years, replacements or needed maintenance unlikely for many more.

…

There are growing cracks in Morocco, cracks that loom in the shadows but grow nevertheless.

There are the obvious cracks of mud walls - defenseless against the onslaught of sun, rain, snow, and wind.

Walls slowly crumble away and at times completely collapse.

Inside such shelters one finds the hardened, cracked, and creased palms and hands of subsistence farmers and shepherds.

Cracked lips and cracked feet.

The cracked soles of far over-used sandals.

Faces cracked like an unopened walnut by decades of hard daily labor under the harsh African sun. Faces unencumbered by fanciful lotion or chapstick.

Decades-old djellabas, capes, and turbans tatter and tear from the tug of time.

Other cracks lay under the surface – more subtle, yet perhaps more substantial.

A growing chasm and disconnect between Arabs in cities and Berbers in the mountains and desert leads to animosity, overt racism, and a dwindling sense of cooperation and desire to improve the country together.

Millions of jobless youth grow weary under a listless malaise, spending their days smoking hashish, drinking mahiya (home-made fig liquor) or “Berber whisky” (tea), and lazily watching FC Barcelona or Real Madrid soccer matches at cafes.

An intense hyper-focus on separating the sexes as much as possible and the cultural taboo against dating leads many men –as young as 15 – to a steady routine of visiting city prostitutes as reprieve and an unhealthy relationship towards women that seems to contribute to the mounting issue of sexual harassment in the streets.

African immigrants from countries such as Senegal and Togo find themselves severely ostracized and ridiculed.

A profuse amount of refuse litters both rural and urban areas. Men, women, boys, and girls – educated and uneducated - all fall prey to the practice and convenience of littering.

The struggle against nature to stay warm is unabated – there is constant deforestation, constant gathering of thorny scrub brush to start fires. Topsoil erodes, dirt becomes rock. Desertification lays rule over the kingdom.

Religious tension grows, as Islamists and secularists pull society in opposite directions. The inability and lack of freedom to not be Muslim frustrates some. For others, the appearance of non-veiled women and the so-called Westernization of Morocco is equally as frustrating.

Strikes and protests are commonplace, hardly worth batting an eye over. Teachers, students, health workers, taxi and transit drivers, entire communities – all seem to have a predilection for these demonstrations. Public and civil service suffers as a result. Children find themselves without school; nurses and doctors go missing for weeks at a time; transportation to and from cities comes to a screeching halt.

Girls struggle between the cultural expectation of domesticity and personal ambitions. Many have their education and professional dreams cut short by the parental demands of home and the labor-intensive, cultivated-by-hand family fields.

Fearful of reprisal for expressing their views, people speak about the makhzen (authorities) in hushed tones. Rappers and journalists alike have seen the ensuing result firsthand.

Bribes as low as 20 DHs can get one out of a speeding ticket or infraction from a police officer; even less can speed up paperwork with the necessary signatures and stamps at the local commune.

Unheeded traffic signs and signals; slim, narrow, and windy roads; aggressive driving; lack of road maintenance; and driver intoxication all lead to an extremely dangerous transportation system.

Taxi drivers refuse to use counters with foreigners, instead opting to “bargain” for hyper-inflated fixed prices. Carpet sellers in cities perform a gamesmanship of dramatic proportions, profiting as much as possible off the ignorance and gullibility of visiting foreigners.

Hamad, a truck driver in his late twenties who grew up shepherding at a very young age with no schooling whatsoever, shows his phone to his friend, who then relays his phone number to another. Not only is Hamad illiterate, he is also innumerate - indicative of a country where only 56% of those 15 and up know how to read and write.

Driss, a ten year old, is pushed by his little brother, Haddou. In retaliation, Driss calls him an “uday” (Jew) disparagingly, probably the Moroccan equivalent of “faggot”.

…

Reality is as beautiful as it is ugly; singing about beautiful mornings is just as important as talking about slums.

The complexity of Morocco is hard to put into words.

It is simultaneously intensely beautiful and profoundly ugly.

It is a world where donkey carts wheel flat screen televisions in the narrow alleyways of cities.

A world where a complete stranger will graciously invite you for lunch and tea at his house (and even urge you to spend the night), but will later in the day abrasively cut in line at the bank or store.

A world where a fully veiled Casawiya (Casablanca woman) walks hand in hand with a friend wearing a tank top and tight jeans.

A world where a teenager Rabati enters a McDonald’s with an iPhone listening to Lil’ Wayne and checking his Facebook, yet still harbors a strong aversion to the US because of his visceral anti-Semitism and identification with Palestinians.

A world where stunning ocean views are dampened by the eyesore of litter.

This is a world I previously knew nothing about.

My horizons have been widened, expanded, stretched, and strained and I can only hope I am the better for it.

The two years I’ve spent in Morocco have been formative – dare I say transformative- and I will never forget all of the varied moments I’ve had here, both the good and the bad.

I’ll forever remember the convivial farmers and shepherds - with nary a tooth, taped and re-taped bent glasses and tightly wrapped turbans - who bowl you over with their overwhelming friendly greetings: “Baaasssou!! MAYD DIS T3NIT!???” (Bassou! HOW ARE YOU DOING???)

I’ll remember the long, jostling one-hour transit ride to Imilchil on Friday mornings for souq, the bustling open-air market that brings everyone in the region together. I’ll remember the sellers to whom I’ve been loyal customers: my “chicken guy”, my “fruit guy”, my “dates guy”, my “raisins guy.”

I’ll remember the women with their traditional shawl over their shoulders, their eyes piercing through their otherwise veiled face with radiant and sometimes playful intensity.

I’ll remember Zaid, a happy-go-lucky 20-something-year-old shepherd with a 2^nd grade education, who greets me with an entirely charming, “Good, my friend?!?” every time we meet, or exclaims, “America!” every time I run through the village on a jog.

I’ll remember my close friends Marwan, Abdou, Khalid, Atman, Haddou…people who have never once made fun of my strange (but of course endearing) accent or tried to convert me, and who have fed me like family.

I’ll remember the children, with their dirtied faces and worn clothes, the four-year old wearing the cutest mini-djellaba imaginable.

I’ll remember the striking ubiquitous blue of my favorite city in Morocco, Chefchaouen.

I’ll remember the doors – doors that conjure up images of a different world, a different time and space in history.

But most of all, I’m going to miss my village.

The jagged edges of the mountainside, the bare but earnest grittiness, the apple orchards and the parceled-out fields, and most significantly, the wonderful people who share everything they have and have opened their arms to a stranger and accepted me as one of them, a member of their tribe Ait Haddidou.

Mismnch?

(What is your name?)

Isminu Bassou Ouhaddidou. Metsherrfin.

(My name is Bassou Ouhaddidou (indicating I am a member of the tribe Ait Haddidou). Nice to meet you.)

P.S. Enjoy this video tribute to the last two years of my life in Morocco!

A Day in the Life of Bassou, the Peace Corps Volunteer

Tue, 01 Jan 2013 16:19:43 +0100

With a sharp intake of breath, I muster up the superhuman courage reserved deep within to vacate the wholly awesome (and awesomely holy) refuge of my -40°F rated North Face Dark Star sleeping bag and two blankets.

I lumber to my feet, the cold air greeting me with unsolicited rawness and familiarity. Despite burning firewood with the furnace idgam (last night), the temperature has climbed back down to an unfriendly 42°F.

The count-down to warmth and equilibrium starts.

Hurriedly I pull on my wool socks, followed by Carhartt pants, a long-sleeve thermal, and a sweatshirt. For good measure, I tack on a final loose polyester jacket and beanie.

I exit the bedroom, my breath trailing closely behind me. Frost on the ground shows itself plainly. It’s close to 9am, yet it’s still barely above freezing. I duck so as to not hit my head, enter the kitchen door, and begin boiling a tea kettle of water for coffee.

I open the refrigerator door and pull out some bread dough sg asnat (from yesterday). I take a grapefruit-sized portion and work my magic.

Knead, dust with flour, knead, slash with knife, sprinkle with salt and pepper, slide into oven.

I turn on the butane tank and nervously hold a lighter up to the outgoing gas. A flame bursts out and I pull out my hand as quickly as possible. Hair from the bangs, eyebrows, and knuckles have all fell unfortunate victim to these frightening outbursts from the unruly oven (and its smaller cousin, The Stove-Top).

I pour myself a cup of coffee from the French press and enjoy it outside, sitting on a bench gradually built from mud bricks, cement, and sand by yours truly. I lean my back against the mud wall, small bits and pieces of straw and rocks exposed.

The sun creeps above the enclosing stone wall of my house and scatters across the yard. I may not be photosynthetic, but the sun invigorates me.

I savor the home-made loaf of bread with olive oil, continuing to bask in the glory of sunshine.

A donkey brays off in the distance, reminding me that we’re not in Indiana anymore.

A few minutes later, a loud habitual cry emanates: “Woooooah, tijlay!” (whoa, eggs!). Excited, I rush to grab my sturdy plastic bag and within ten seconds flat, I’m out the door.

Like a rapacious eagle scouting its prey, I search for the two-wheeled cart and find it around the corner. I greet Mohammed, the cart owner and yeller-of-tijlay!, and wish him salaam (peace). Inside the wooden cart is an assortment of plastic containers, women’s clothes, and a basket of eggs. Ɛchra n tijlay (ten eggs) are placed into my bag, I pay, and a goodbye is said (llahy3awn, literally “May God [Allah] help you”).

Mohammed continues to wheel the cart around the village, yelling “woooah, tijlay!” as he passes houses.

And I continue my rendezvous with the sun, coffee, and bread.

I wolf down a cheap 1DH (dirham) cookie bar, spoon out a yogurt with raisins, and hydrate myself with half a liter of water (remind me again what a gallon looks like?). I pull open the squeaky and make-shift wooden door of my bathroom and relieve myself into the four-inch hole in the ground.

I pull on my running ensemble: quick-drying short-sleeve shirt, followed by long-sleeve shirt and second short-sleeve shirt, UnderArmour running beanie, running gloves, running pants, and newly acquired Asics running shoes from Casablanca.

A hop, skip, twist, stretch, and jump or two later, I’m ready to do business.

Let’s hit the road, Jack.

With another sharp intake of breath, I close the door to my Americanized and safe abode and enter the world of rustic Moroccan village life.

An older man of perhaps 80 years of age passes by with an aznar (over the shoulder cape). The guy is someone I’ve seen around but with whom I don’t believe I’ve conversed before. In accordance with Moroccan custom, I greet him with “salaam 3laykum!” (peace be upon you).

Ingrained habit towards foreigners manifests itself as he returns the greeting with an instinctive but unfeeling “bonjour”.

I continue my walk towards the paved road. It’s close to 12:30p and children are returning from elementary school. A group of young boys enthusiastically exclaim, “Salaam, Bassou!”. They ask how far I’m going to run, and I jokingly ask if they are going to come with me. They grin, replying that they are tired and unable. Next a group of young girls pass by. I greet them and their response is mostly giggles. I can’t help but smile. I move on, and my perpetual instinct to greet everyone is almost extended to the chickens and mules along the dirt path.

At long last, my sneakers hit asphalt. I jump up and down three times out of habit, swing my arms behind my back a few times, and boom! The crazy aroumi (Roman/foreigner) is off into the races yet again.

Scores of women are treading back home, bundles of gathered wood or the final remnants of wheat and alfafa from the fields laden on their backs. Many of their husbands are gone for the winter – travelling far north or south, where warm weather enables them to work construction or continue their shepherding.

The women seem to be split in their responses to my running: about half stare perplexedly or look away, while the other half smile – the more vocal and less shy of them even greeting me. I make a conscious effort to avoid eye contact, so as to not appear “improper”. Gender relations are still very conservative and any mixing between genders outside of family is relegated to furtive exchanges and flirting (oh my!) in the dark at night time.

After about 20 minutes, I pass the aghbalou (spring). A long truck with a Spanish “vehiculo longo” label on the back and full of sheep and goats stops. Out goes the driver; he’s carrying his prayer rug and orienting it east towards Mecca. It’s time for dhuhr, the 3^rd Muslim prayer of the day.

Several young women – probably 18-24 years old – are washing clothes and blankets in the spring water and letting them dry on various near-by stones and boulders. They smile cheekily (are they trying to flirt [oh my!] with me?) and look my way as I continue on towards the next village. I pick up speed and maintain top-notch running form, naturally.

A familiar man sees me and yells out, “llahytik saHa!” (may God give you health/strength!). I make it to the village outskirts (about 6km in 30 minutes), and make a U-Turn for the return trip.

As I run, my thoughts toss and turn.

I think about my failures as a PCV; my (seeming) inability to help my community and get projects off the ground; the frustrating and at times entirely crippling lack of motivation or sense of self-sacrificial cooperation required of the community to do a Peace Corps sponsored project; the barricade of petty bureaucracy and corruption that every PCV – not just in Morocco - can identify with.

I think about how quickly time has passed, how 650+ days have come and gone in this “cold land with the hot sun”. I doubt whether I’ve done enough for my community, for Morocco, and for Peace Corps. Inevitably comes the saving grace (albeit bit of a platitude) that Morocco has done much more for me than I have for it.

The sweat starts pouring and my thoughts (are forced to) clear. I’m getting closer.

As I make it to the final stretch towards “home”, I gather up the energy to sprint. By now, the neighbors along the street know that I run the “last leg” as hard as I can, and children try to tag along as I pass the “finish line”. Afterward, I quickly sit down and recuperate on a small cement marker, meant to indicate the level of flood water. Several children – many of whom look like they came out of a charcoal mine - run towards me and ask where I ran. Soon and sure enough, they want to race me along the street. I oblige, letting them run for about five seconds ‘til I chase after them. The women sitting outside the houses smile and laugh as I create a “scene”.

After about ten minutes of lollygagging, a.k.a. “community integration” and furthering “global understanding”, I make it back to my house, roam(s) of children in my wake. They follow me because they like to ask if they can play my guitar, or have their picture taken, or beg for money. Very rarely do I grant the first two wishes, and never the third. I use my exhaustion to my advantage and preemptively tell them I’ll see them later and implore Allah to look after them.

…

If there’s one thing I’m terrified of in Morocco, it’s showering.

An absolutely and thoroughly terrifying experience, showering is not something for the weak of mind or heart, especially in the winter.

It’s no wonder Moroccans and PCVs alike avoid showering like the plague.

Showering three times a month is setting The Bar pretty high; impressive and solid work, I’d say.

I may or may not set the bar a bit lower (and such things might be better off left unknown), but let this be known, loud and clear: squatting over a squat toilet and pouring buckets of semi-hot water over yourself, trying not to shiver in between pourings, is not exactly fun.

Character-building, perhaps.

Fun? I don’t think so.

…And so I wash my face with care-package-shipped Aveeno and call it a day. I mask my stink with some Drakkar Noir after-shave, change clothes and head on out with my bike to the auberge for lunch.

I meet Khalid, a 20 year old with a friendly disposition who has been working at the auberge for about two years. Khalid finished middle school (8^th year) late at age 16 and then dropped out. The owner of the auberge, Hassan, is off with his family for a break – his wife and kids live in a magical place in Morocco that doesn’t require one to wear more clothing items than fingers: the Sahara. A simple meal is had with Khalid and his friend Said: slow-cooked lamb with bread.

Afterwards, I begin another English lesson with them. Most of my students (i.e. young men) in my village want to learn English so they can (aspire to) marry an American/European one day and emigrate, but that’s OK. I’ll take what I can get.

The previous lesson I pretended I was a client at the auberge and told Khalid, “I’m really cold, can I have another blanket?” Khalid regurgitates this phrase with amazing clarity and recall.

I try to teach him the word, “sheet”, as in a linen sheet. His pronunciation dithers and morphs the word into something else less wholesome.

You can’t win all of the time.

Around 5p or so we wrap up (with a linen sheet?) and I head on home.

The only food I have remaining from souq (market) in my house is potatoes, so I make lfrites (French fries) and a few hard-boiled eggs. It’s not exactly the most balanced or delicious meal in the universe, but like I said, you can’t win all of the time.

It’s rapidly getting dark and so I load up my furno with The Goods: small pieces of wood, cardboard, paper, and ifssi. I light up the pieces of paper and before I know it, my bedroom is back up to a respectable and happy 76°F. I watch an episode (or two or three) of Community on my laptop, put in a final large log of wood, then entomb myself into Mummy Bag, Blankets et al.

The bedroom light is turned off, replaced by the small luminance of my Amazon Kindle e-Reader.

I read.

Sleep gathers.

I decide it’s that time again, and turn off the light once and for all.

I wrestle yet again with my recurring thoughts from my run…

…

Ask me, at least for now, and I’d say Peace Corps might not live up to its iconic image in terms of its program outcomes or effectiveness, and Peace Corps volunteers might encounter much more failure than success, but while you can’t win all of the time, you sure as hell can and do win some of the time.

Call all of these moments a “win”, for the record: making a 60-year shepherd bowl over with laughter after saying some apt Berber proverb or mildly funny quip; having small children look up to me (both figuratively and literally) because I’m the mujtahid and ichwa (hardworking and smart) American who runs all the time, reads books while waiting for transportation, and occasionally gives health lessons at the elementary school; scoring the highest in language amongst PCTs (Peace Corps trainees) and giving the Tamazight speech at the swearing-in ceremony; biking over 240km for a Bike4SIDA (AIDS in French) event with other PCVs and educating about HIV/AIDS awareness; organizing and implementing health education at this year’s Wedding Festival single-handedly (while hosting 16 people at my house!); volunteering at the Special Olympics and meeting athletes from Arab countries all around the world; and having small but triumphant successes and moments of hilarity while teaching English.

On the (long and almost completely flat) road for Bike4SIDA!

Taking blood pressure readings at the Wedding Festival

Teaching Wedding Festival-goers how to make an oral rehydration salt (anti-diarrheal medicine)

Photo Credit: Molly

Special needs children at the Special Olympics event in Bouznika

Mostly sentimental anecdotes, you counter? Yeah, probably.

But do they matter?

For me, personally: absolutely.

For Morocco and Moroccans: perhaps.

Perhaps is perhaps not good enough for sustainable development, but the final yawn knocks me out cold – all this in my cold room in the ‘cold land with the hot sun’.

I sleep.

Tomorrow will be another day, for better or for worse.

Eggs will be carted.

Donkeys will bray.

Another sharp intake of breath will be had.

And rest assured, another curious Day in the Life of Bassou, the Peace Corps Volunteer will be had.

Until next time, thanks for reading.

Life in Morocco, imik s imik

Wed, 07 Nov 2012 18:44:58 +0100

The tiflout [door] closes shut behind me.

Promptly and without fail, a piercing chorus of “Bassou! Bassou!” from neighbors rings out, reverberating through the air.

I smile, wish them peace, and embark on my tawada [walk]. As I stride along the dirt road, not just the proverbial one, but five (yes, five) chickens cross the road.

A grand symphony of nature erupts: a donkey brays, a cow moos, and a rooster…cock-a-doodle-doos.

I walk further along the lgudron [main road] and stare at the scene outside: a shepherd gazes with a quiet resilience and pride into the distance, armed with his grazing flock on the heavily eroded mountainside; an elderly Amazigh [Berber man], donning not one but two djellabas and a white cloth turban, uses a trowel to edge out an irrigation canal; women squat squarely in the fields, using scythes with deliberate and diligent speed to harvest the alfafa; an 8-year old tarbat [girl] carries her baby sister on her back with a linen wrap, while her 10-year old brother hurls out a series of unintelligible sounds to the donkey on which he sits.

Source

The scenery is quietly beautiful – not breathtaking, but mesmerizing in the jagged roughness of the gray rocky mountainside, and the green (or on off-days, semi-green) fields shaped by backbreaking human effort, decades and perhaps centuries of manual labor.

Ichiran [boys] scurry about in a frenzied game of soccer in the horizon, while their younger siblings can be seen huddling around a pile of trash, picking up pieces of cardboard and plastic bottles, to be used for toys.

Source

I walk towards the ighrem [center] of the village, away from my house. A small girl with a worn face and ratty hair asks for a dirham. A group of boys find entertainment nearby throwing rocks at a stray dog. Zaid, a shepherd with a 4^th grade education, sees me on his bike and greets me with a cheerful and emphatic “Good, my friend?!” – said in the most endearing Moroccan English accent, and with a 100% success rate in making me smile.

…

There are days in Morocco when the bad overshadows the good – days when the constant begging, the never-ending barrage of questions about Islam or marriage or who I am or where I’m from or what I do or why I’m here, the conversion attempts, the stares, the confused looks, the inability to talk easily and deeply about ideas and convictions, the cultural and bureaucratic obstacles to work…all seem too much to bear.

But then there are the glorious highs of Peace Corps that outshine and outstrip the bad, the golden moments that reassure you in the midst of your existential crisis in Africa (while squatting over a squat toilet with a bucket of semi-hot water over your head) that joining Peace Corps was in fact a good - perhaps even great - decision.

In Peace Corps, it’s impossible to take in the good without some of the bad.

Case in point: I’ve been running in my village for over 5 months now.

It’s taken several months for the shock of villagers seeing a foreigner running along the street to wear off (it’s clear they’ve never seen anyone run before), and I’ve had my fair share of humorous things happen to me. In the beginning, people would ask me perplexedly what I was doing, or where I was going, and I’ve had older men and women– upon seeing me sweating profusely and breathing heavily while running– say to me, “Barraka! Ad tmmt!” [enough! You’re going to die!], or “chwiy b chwiy!” [little by little/slowly!], or “Is thenna?!?” [are you OK?!?].

But imik s imik [little by little], running has become quite enjoyable. Now, before departing I am asked how far I am going, and along the road, men – and even the occasional women – will greet me enthusiastically with “tazla! riyada!” [running! exercise!].

Mostly, I run by myself.

But the other day on my morning run, the cutest 8-year old and his buddies decided to run alongside me. The boy - with the most disarming bright smile and laugh, cheap $1 throw-away plastic sandals, and grinning like a Cheshire cat - kept looking up at me intermittently like he's on the top of the world. The entire time he's saying how difficult and tiring the run is, and how strong I am. Even the women on the road, carrying large loads of wheat on their backs, couldn't help but smile.

…

Like any human place, my village has flaws.

Yet despite the grittiness of the place - the bare trash, the visible lack of material possessions, the lack of educational or extracurricular activities, the strenuous life and toll of shepherding and farming, and the inhospitable and punishing climate - there is a subtle charm to it, a wealth of qualities and values to be gleaned: a wealth of community and close meaningful relationships between family, neighbors, and friends; a wealth of hospitality, generosity, and treating guests [let alone those that barely speak their language] like family; a wealth of tradition and preservation of one’s culture; a wealth of kindness, good-humouredness, and a steady happiness unconcerned with one’s bank statement.

The 600+ days I’ve spent in Morocco have taught me a lot about life and culture and people.

It’s taught me that it’s OK to relax, to slow down, to stop and sit and greet and chat and joke and laugh over tea even if there’s “work” to do.

It’s taught me that things tend to happen best when one simply lets them happen, that things often pass in their own time.

It’s taught me that there’s more to life than money, more to life than the latest styles in clothes, cars, gadgets, or cosmetics.

It’s taught me that happiness doesn’t have anything to do with what you have, that the most important things in life aren’t those that can be bought or sold, but rather the human relationships that are forged between people that care for each other.

It’s taught me the art of self-reliance and the value of patience, it’s built self-confidence and an empathy for those born without the same fortune as those well-off, and it’s shown me that it’s possible to build friendships and close bonds with those whom we do not share the same culture, lifestyle, language, or religion.

Peace Corps continues to shape and mold me. My eyes have been opened to a world I previously knew nothing about and I am as much a student as I am teacher here.

When I sit back and think about all of the accomplishments I’ve made here in Morocco, all of the small but hugely triumphant successes, all of the shared laughs I’ve had with Moroccans, and all of the ways I’ve grown as a person, I can only thank Morocco and its people, for I have received far more from them than I have given or will ever give to them.

MTV Cribs: Peace Corps Morocco edition

Mon, 24 Sep 2012 00:46:17 +0100

I suppose I could say a lot of things here.

Like how my rural isolation makes it difficult to get to a cyber café (if you like rickety old-fashioned rollercoasters, you’ll love the “transit” van that travels 130km to the nearest city to the east).

Or how I’ve been “busy” travelling – both back home to the good ol’ US of A, to Europe, and within Morocco – and haven’t had the time to sit down and write.

Or how I was occupied/exhausted/asleep/hibernating for Ramadan.

Or how I’ve been running around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to prepare, organize, and (successfully) work at this year’s Wedding Festival.

But, excuses are cheap, easy, and fly off the tongue (or keyboard) rather effortlessly.

So for now, I’ll just accept and posit that I’ve neglected my blog for the past three months (sorry!) and I’ll do my best to rectify this serious blunder in the near future…inchallah!

In the immediate time, help yourself to a bowlful of popcorn and enjoy the following 10-minute video:

Simplicity is sophistication?

Tue, 29 May 2012 10:17:17 +0100

If simplicity and brevity are indicators of sophistication, then I'm afraid I'm reached an all-time high level of sophistication...

Leonardo da Vinci's words, not mine.

Here's a video of my attempting some Berber Proverbs (direct link here):

P.S. At some point, I will try to make a "MTV Cribs, Peace Corps Morocco Edition" video...also, I doubly apologize for the last two thoughtless and incomplete blog posts...I promise my next one, I will catch you up to speed and provide some commentary on how things are going, how I feel about Morocco, etc. In about a month, I will finally going home to the States to see family! At this point, I think I'm going to be in for some serious culture shock...what is a dishwasher again? And a microwave, and my own personal car, a piano, bagels, sushi, steak, pulled pork sandwiches, adobo chicken, air conditioning, central heating...I've forgotten what life used to be like!

A quick lazy post

Wed, 25 Apr 2012 08:08:46 +0100

Azoul, hello.

Please pardon my perfunctory post at the present; I have not had the time to write a proper post, though enough time has passed that it behooves me to make an update while the internet is still within reach.

The last month has been busy – I did some health lessons at my elementary school; helped out with a charity event where used clothes, among many other things, were donated to my village; and worked, taught English, and played many sports/activities with children at a Spring Camp in the big city of Meknes.

Here is a YouTube video of me and 2 other PCVs dancing to Beyonce’s “Move Your Body”, for the final talent show of the first week’s camp (direct link here):

And some quick photos:

Peace Corps: Unedited

Thu, 22 Mar 2012 13:39:45 +0100

I’m not sure if I’m being brave for doing this, but I’m afraid that I haven’t necessarily been telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth (so help me God) here in my blog.

I’ve been avoiding some unpleasant truths, sidestepping some harsh realities of life here: I’ve been doing some editing, if you will – perhaps to paint a more genteel, simplified, and inspiring picture of life as a Peace Corps volunteer, or to prevent any pointed ugliness from spilling out underneath the “mysterious” and “adventurous” garb of Morocco that I have outlaid.

The truth (if there is ever such a thing) is…Peace Corps is tough.

It ain’t no walk in the park. It’s not for everyone.

It’s challenging.

Extremely challenging.

Guaranteed it will challenge you physically, but more than anything, it will test you mentally in ways you’ve never been before.

Many Peace Corps volunteers have a love-hate relationship with their service. Some volunteers love it, grow to love it, or grow in their love for it. Some hate it, grow to hate it, or grow in their hatred for it. Many vacillate between the two. Many consider quitting at some point in service, and approximately 30% do just that before finishing.

Peace Corps is a wild adventure, with tumultuous tumbles – it will jolt you and your sensibilities side-to-side, up, down, and all in between. (Transportation in the US, with “air-ride” suspensions, cushioned seats, and “climate control”, will be a piece of cake – an oh-so-delicious cake - upon reentry.)

Peace Corps, if I’m to un-edit the editing, is beautiful and ugly. Uplifting and depressing.

It is at once exciting beyond measure and terribly frightening.

It puts you completely out in the open with no room to hide.

It puts you in the spotlight of spotlights, as a singular source of curiosity, laughter, banter, gossip, and as a representative for all that is good or bad about America.

And yet, there’s often a side to Peace Corps that gets overlooked in rosy-colored and self-congratulatory blog posts about the “mystique” of Africa, or the ecstatic feelings of happiness or contentment a PCV might experience over the course of one’s service.

There is very little one can do to prepare for or anticipate the unique situations into which Peace Corps volunteers find themselves placed. These situations are sources of amusement, musing, and self-doubt.

At times, a PCV will not know what to say, what to do, or how to feel…

Matalan (for example)…

What do you say?

What do you say when an Amazigh (Berber) tells you, slightly joking but mostly serious, that there is “walu l’insƐnia g lƐalam” (no humanity in the world)?

What do you say when an Amazigh tells you, “ġurš zher” (you are lucky), and looking forlornly at his hardened and creased palm, fingers, and hand, asks you, “mani zherinu?” (where is my luck?)

What do you say when an Amazigh tells you that “tsƐ u tsƐin fl miya n Arabn gan išfarn” (99% of Arabs are thieves)?

What do you say when an Amazigh tells you the proverb, “igudi mayd ijran? Idrus mayd tssin?” (a lot of ‘what happened?’, hardly any of ‘what does she know?’)

And what do you do?

What do you do when two boys show up at your door, one tells you that the other has no parents, and requests a hand-out?

What do you do, after apologizing for not being able to give out money, said boy quickly changes from a seeming amiability to an obvious anger, declaring, “tšqit…samHak” (you are difficult…you should be sorry)?

What do you do, when an acquaintance texts you with a request for a guitar?

What do you do, when you find yourself in a culture that finds throwing rocks at dogs acceptable behavior?

What do you do, when your neighbor makes an open proposal to marry his daughter, as though such arrangements can be made and decided in a minute or two?

What do you do, when your host father says you should give 50 DHs to your host sister?

What do you do, when your host father says you should buy them a sheep for ‘lƐid kbir’ after Ramadan?

What do you do, when a 60-year old man, after inviting you for tea and bread in his house, inquires as to the status of your…”aġanim” (bamboo stick)?

And how do you feel...or perhaps, how should you feel?

How do you feel when your name is called out a dozen times every time leaving the house? Does it make you feel good, like some celebrated rock star, or does it make you feel like a fluorescent goldfish in a bowl with no sense of normalcy or anonymity?

How do you feel when you don’t feel free to openly talk and communicate with the opposite sex, because to do so would be “šwiya Hšuma” (a little shameful)? Does it make you feel like a caged bird?

And yet, how do you feel when everyone in your community continually asks you whether you are going to get married to a Berber girl? Or whether you are or will become a Muslim? How many times does it take to slide from cultural peculiarity to exhausting annoyance?

How do you feel when your community starts saying, “safi, tgit Amazigh!” (you’re a Berber now), or “ismnš Bassou Ouhaddidou” (your name is Bassou Ouhaddidou, indicating I have become a member of their tribe Ait Haddidou)? Do you accept it with pride or does it just cause incredulity and doubt - doubt whether one truly ever becomes ‘integrated’ and not seen as an outsider?

How do you feel when it’s been over a year with zero (or nearly zero) contact from certain family members or friends? Does it get to you? Does it harden you? Does it make you feel depressed?

How do you feel when you are unable to understand what is being said around you? How do you feel when people are unable to understand you – not just your halted and accented language, but you as a person, why you would ever leave the ‘good life’ of the US? Does the lack of understanding and being understood make you feel helpless? Less of a person? Do you feel like a robot, with memorized responses to questions or memorized jokes?

How should one feel as a Peace Corps volunteer in such situations? Is there even a right answer to such a question?

…

If we are to return to the truth, the truth is…Peace Corps is a double-edged sword.

It will sharpen you as a person, making you wiser, kinder, more compassionate, and more understanding of what it means to be a lone foreigner in a foreign place (no inshallah needed).

But it will also cut you down, wound your pride, shoot down your ego, and strip you of your sense of manhood/womanhood and independence.

You will experience what it was like to be a precocious child again: one who must relearn how to eat, how to speak, how to go to the bathroom, how to interact in social situations, how to be polite.

At times Peace Corps volunteers find ourselves wounded nearly mortally, wanting to crawl back to the comfort and familiarity of the US, family, and friends, with easy transportation, easy communication, good food, good drinks, good quantity of resources, good quality of resources…in short, the good life.

Yet just at the moment a PCV becomes overly exasperated at the privation of ice cream, sushi, and juicy hamburgers, or the lack of contact with family, friends, and the modern world…just when a PCV feels he/she is doing nothing worthwhile, that his or her work is having little to no effect, let alone being appreciated…just when a PCV is about to lose all hope, some brilliantly funny or inspiring experience, conversation, or “moment” comes along and sweeps us right off our feet, reminding us why it is we joined Peace Corps, and how incredible and irreplaceable our Peace Corps service truly is.

Ain’t that the truth.

Note: YouTube video commemorating one year in Morocco here.

I make fire. Fire good. Very good.

Sat, 25 Feb 2012 06:05:53 +0100

For now, suffice it to say I will let the video below do all the talking. And a few pictures for good measure.

I have a few more videos up my sleeve, and a post about the immense struggles (coupled with the redeeming joys) of being a PCV (i.e. an attempt to capture the simultaneously ugly and beautiful aspects of Peace Corps service) is bubbling and brewing in the upper register.

Ar mnb3d, enshallah… (Later, Allah/God willing).

That's all folks. Thanks for reading/listening/watching.

First it was the frozen toothbrush

Mon, 30 Jan 2012 11:11:03 +0100

Oh, the weather outside is frightful.

But the lfurno, in all its blazing glory, is delightful.

First it was the frozen toothbrush.

Then went the pipes.

Walu rubini g lbit lma, Hašakum! (No running water in the bathroom, pardon my impoliteness!)

And still no running water in the bathroom (as of print), after about five days – must be the open exposure/vulnerability to the wind, as the running water in the kitchen returned after a day.

On the night of the 16^th, the atfl [snow] came again, all in one fell swoop.

I could barely open my front door, as there was a good 40+ cm (~16in) of snow pushed up against the door in droves.

The temperature inside my bedroom upon waking up the other day.

However, after an initial frustratingly steep learning curve in starting the wood-burning stove with just paper and cardboard, I have now come to relish in its aforementioned blazing glory.

Starting a fire from scratch isn’t such a chore now, and I can maintain my bedroom pretty comfortably at around 76° F (24° C), hitting a record 84° F for a few minutes. I’ve also been treated to some ifssi from a neighbor, a low-growing thorny scrub brush used as a fire starter and one of the only forms of vegetation that still grows on the mountainside, being inedible to the grazing sheep and goats as well as able to survive the lack of precipitation.

With ifssi, starting a fire is now as easy as snap, crackle, and pop.

Over the last several weeks, women could be (and can still be) seen walking donkeys laden with huge tied bundles of the scrub brush on their hide backs.

The ifssi and firewood, hand-chopped by yours truly.

For the first time, I find myself muttering, “Man, it’s hot!” and being forced to undress down to just a T-shirt (unspeakable!).

A couple days after the storm.

About a week earlier, I went with some friends to a cave nearby my village:



The waterfall.



So I had my friend Mustapha take a picture of me. I smiled and made what I feel is a natural pose. He would have none of this, instructing me to kneel into what might be considered a Moroccan photo pose, as I’ve seen this over and over when shown pictures from Moroccans…



Hakak, nk amġribi! [There you go, I’m Moroccan!]

There’s vegetation for you, I suppose.

To continue on the outdoor trekking streak, I also went for a small hike up to an old French fortress in my souq [market] town, an hour north by public Transit.



Souq. Merchants put down a tarp and sell fruit, vegetables, tea, oil, dates, peanuts, metal utensils, and such.



For most PCVs, my souq town would be considered pretty undeveloped, as it offers no ATM for money withdrawal, no cyber café for internet access, and no Dar Chebab (youth center) for structured, ready-to-go work opportunities with high school youth. But for me, it offers a veritable panoply of cement, sand, cereal yogurt, strawberry jam, chicken, bread, and spaghetti for the taking!

The road from my village to souq. Much of it is new; the paved road through my village has been in place for one year. Before it was all piste – dirt road.

A glimpse of the town where I go for internet access about twice a month…and cheese! - a little over three hours away by Transit (pictured above is a rather nice one; these are crammed with up to 20 people...or eight people, but with five cows - two formidable bulls and three calves). Notice the utterly decadent tiling, fanciful window awnings and metal dressings, as well as the paved road wide enough to fit more than one vehicle! (In the countryside, most paved roads are about the width of 1.5 vehicles, meaning whenever two vehicles cross each other, one, the other – or both, on occasion – have to swerve off to the shoulder to avoid crushing each other’s side view mirror. It’s great fun!

After an unfortunate lull in cooking output, partly due to laziness and partly due to the 40°F kitchen, I’ve resumed my culinary efforts in stride.

Recently I’ve discovered the secret to getting really “plump” fat bread – adding a pot of steaming water underneath the flame in the oven while baking the bread. It makes the product into more of a fat bread than a pseudo-croissant. The resultant consistency is perfect for eating tajines by hand with bread, as is the observed custom at all Moroccan dinner tables (which is itself an acquired skill, especially to do so relatively cleanly, not letting your whole hand devolve into an oily, greasy mess).

I’m also pleased to report that I’ve now taught English successfully three times in a row at my local association’s building! It’s been almost three months in the running, but it looks like I may have an audience of 6-8 men that are motivated and will keep with it, inshallah.

Before my first session at 3pm, I went to the center of town around 2 o’clock and tried to recruit some people to come – people with whom I had spoken before about my teaching English. Their responses were mostly, “inshallah”, which made me somewhat pessimistic that anyone would show, or alternatively that only two people would show and would then not want to come again, with such a small audience.

So it was with great and warm surprise that around 3:05pm, three guys showed up to the association. Over the next fifteen minutes or so, four more guys strolled in, making a total of seven men for my first English lesson!

The next week, despite two of the original men being out of town, I had eight men show up, both on the second and third class. I guess word is slowly spreading that “Bassou Mirikani” is teaching English, as I find myself greeting new students at each new lesson. I think I may have also found a new student in the form of the local nurse, who speaks Arabic and French fluently, but wants to speak English really well one day, inshallah.

The third lesson I held a lmunafasa [competition], dividing the audience into 2 groups and having a pseudo-Jeopardy game, asking a total of 31 questions like, “What is the opposite of small?”, “How do you say, ‘Manis tddud?’ in English?” (Answer: Where are you going), and “Name four answers to ‘How are you?’”, which was a big hit. I gave the winning team some Lifesavers and Jolly Ranchers.

There was even expressed interest in extending my English lessons another day – for a total of three days a week, two hours per lesson. For now, I will teach twice a week, and see how things progress over the coming weeks.

But things are looking upwards, workwise.

There might be a bathroom installation project in the works, and I found someone in my souq town who is fluent in English and might be a possible tutor, to improve my Tamazight and help with translation – particularly as I need/want to start prepare some health lessons before I begin teaching at my local elementary school.

Well…that’s all folks.

Thanks for reading. Always love to hear back from family, friends, and readers!

Parry the blow with pictures

Mon, 09 Jan 2012 13:34:53 +0100

Whoever first muttered, “A picture is worth a thousand words”, has my full-fledged and undying gratitude and support.

Seeing as how I’m not in the “writing mood” at the moment [i.e. the night before heading to the cyber café for internet access, three hours away], let it suffice to say that I hope the excess pictures in this post make up for the lack of words.

Christmas was passed in the company of five other PCVs, in a village about an hour outside Marrakesh. Afterwards, my friend Jim and I took our first vacation in Morocco, travelling along the southern Atlantic coastline, visiting Essaouira for two days, Taghazoute for a day, Agadir for a day, Tiznit for a day, then Sidi Ifni for two days. It was a nice respite from the numbing cold in the mountains, and interesting to contrast the different towns from each other. Essaouira was by far my favorite, followed by Sidi Ifni.



A small olive tree served as a mighty fine substitute for the evergreen Christmas tree of America.



The food. I contributed an apple cake, which other than a slightly burned outer crust, turned out pretty well.



The guys found this at a shop in Marrakesh. That is indeed George Bush and Osama bin Laden.



The vibrant scenery, with deep red soil and green greenery.



Going for a walk around town.



There is so much beauty to Morocco – the dynamic and varied landscape, the captive hospitality, the diversity of language and ethnicity and skin color, the mix of Africa, Europe, and the Middle East – but there is also some ugliness to be confronted. Trash is one of these (another is the discontinuity between the Arabs and Berbers, between the well-to-do urbanites and the marginalized rural poor).



And now off to the beautiful and historic Essaouira:



I couldn’t get enough of the doors in this town.



An old man with his cart.



Now onto Tagahazoute, a world-renowned surfer’s haven:

Landscape on the road from Marrakesh to Essaouira.

Argan trees, a species endemic to the Souss valley in Morocco and used to make cosmetic products and oil, among other things.

This is what I consider “middle class” Morocco: peach-colored cement houses, use of wood and tiling.

A goat on top of an argan tree.

Again, an ugly sight. Goats feeding on trash dumped in a valley just out of sight of the main road.

And now Agadir, a city which I liken to what Orlando might have been like in the 1990s (I didn't like it too much):

A McDonald’s, the second I’ve been to (first being at the train station in Marrakesh).

We each thoroughly enjoyed and downed a McFlurry for 20 DHs ($2.50 USD).

In Tiznit, we met and stayed with two Americans living there. Tiznit is known as the place to buy silver jewelry. I ended up buying a silver bracelet with the Tifinagh alphabet inscribed on it:

The taxi station in Tiznit.

And now onto Sidi Ifni:

Trash on the hillside.

And lastly, we walked about 10 km (~3 hours) to Legzira, famous for its limestone arches: