Jim's Peace Corps Saga

Three Holidays

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Sun, 02 Dec 2012 11:08:00 +0000

Thanksgiving, PCV style

Adam prepping tomatoes for stuffing

I was in a tiny village east of Rich last week, celebrating Thanksgiving with nine other PCVs.

I got there on Wednesday after a 12-hour trip from Rabat that included a 2-hour train ride, then a series of grand taxi rides for the remainder of the trip (about 400 km). Grand taxis are my least favorite form of mass transport here. All the grand taxis are either 5-passenger Mercedes or Peugeot station wagons. They never leave until they're “full,” that is, have six paying customers. So it's 7 people in a 5-passenger vehicle. Sometimes they'll stop and pick up yet another person. And they seldom count children as passengers. It can be a real ordeal, but often it's the only choice, so you just make the best of it. It was near dusk when I arrived in Rich and met up with a couple of other PCVs. We spent the last hour and a half in a tiny Peugeot van that seats comfortably four. We had ten. That's Peace Corps in Morocco.

Our feast.

For our Thanksgiving dinner, we had a real feast: the chicken type of turkey, my cauliflower-cheese pie, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, collard greens, a potato-eggplant casserole, stuffed tomatoes, cranberry-quince sauce, pumpkin bread, pumpkin pie, and brownies. After dinner we played Celebrity, a charades-like party game, till almost midnight, then talked until nearly two. The next day, we took a 3-hour hike up into the mountains.

And on Saturday, we all headed home. Only an 8 and a half hour trip for me this time, including my 45 minute walk home after I got to Kalaa. Most of it was by transit and grand taxi, too, though my friends Zoe &Adam were with me, so we always bought out the back seat (4 places for the 3 of us), which made it almost like luxury travel!

The two Graces and Zoe in "old
lady" shawls typical of Grace's site

Off to climb a mountain

Ashura

A couple days after I got home, I was surprised to find kids going from door to door, chanting and asking for treats– or money. They were dressed in robes and a few had masks on. It reminded me a little of Halloween. At dinner that night, I mentioned it to my host family. Yes, they said, it was tshura. - known as Ashura to Jews and Arabic speaking Muslims – which commemorates Moses' deliverance from the Egyptians, and which falls on the 10^th of Muharram, the first month of the Muslim (lunar) calendar. I was surprised because I didn't recall it happening last year.

I was even more surprised when all the women in the room asked me for money. “But you're not children!” I said. They laughed. “Oh, women go around, too!” “You're kidding,” I said. No, they said, still holding out their hands. I gave them each a dirham (about 12 and a half cents), which is what I'd given the kids. “Cheapskate,” they called me. It was all good-natured, but for me it was one of those jarring cultural moments. Not that the kids went door to door, but that women did too. It was a reminder of the role of women here in the bled (countryside), their lack of autonomy and control of money, that they were, in effect, on a par with children in relation to the man of the house.

Christmas is Coming

The fame of my cookie cutters has spread. Adam and Zoe ordered several sets, but with Moroccan themes – a camel, a tagine, a palm tree, a kasbah, and a Moroccan flag. The orders now number eight sets. My host brother Mohammed (a very fine dagger-maker) delivered them the other day. These designs were a little trickier than the traditional ones I had him make for me last year, so Fatima, a host sister, and I baked a test batch of cookies to try them out. And it's a good thing we did, because there were a few minor difficulties with them, which led me to modify the design a bit. But that didn't affect the taste of the cookies. They were gone in two days. All in the name of product development!

I went away for Christmas last year, but this year I'm planning to have Christmas at my house. I'll have a celebration for my host family on the 23^rd, insha'allah, then on the 24^th some of my PCV friends will arrive and we'll spend a few days of cooking, eating, and conviviality. I have a good-sized oven (rare in Morocco), so we're even going to try to roast a turkey! I'll send pictures.

On the Road Again

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Fri, 02 Nov 2012 14:06:00 +0000

Adam, me, and Ryan after the run

I was in Casablanca on the 21st to run the 5^th Annual Casablanca Half-Marathon, joined by my friends Adam Richie Halford, who ran the Marrakech Half-Marathon with me last January, and Ryan Scheidt. The weather was great – sunny and about 70 degrees – the course was pretty flat and beautiful – most of it along the corniche, the road that runs along the ocean, and past some sights – and each of us exceeded our pre-race expectations, so it was a big success overall. We had a celebratory meal at Rick's Cafe, a tourist spot that plays on the fame of the movie Casablanca, but which still delivers a good meal and good service. I had a T-bone steak, a cut of meat almost impossible to find in Morocco, along with mashed potatoes and a vegetable medley of green beans, carrots and cauliflower that was not overcooked, also a rarity in Morocco.

My time for the 13.1 miles? 2:03:50, or 9:24 per mile. That was five minutes and 15 seconds, or 24 seconds a mile, faster than my time in Marrakech. So what now? I told myself that if Casa went well I would run the full marathon at Marrakech this year. But I'm still undecided about that. The last 3 miles were pretty hard. Could I really do another 13? Not sure about that.

Odds and ends:

I'd intended the title to refer to the marathon, but it could just as easily apply to my life these last months. I've made a trip to Rabat every month since May, each of them 4 days or more. The two weeks straddling July and August, I took a vacation in Europe, with a one-day stop in Milan, 5 days in Berlin, 3 days in Dresden, and 4 days in Prague. It was great. In September I was away from home 11 days. So far in October, I've been home only half the time. Most of my travel has involved my big project, Spelling Bee Morocco, which is going national this year.

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One of my pomegranates, good to look at, but not so tasty.

It's pomegranate season, and it turns out I have a pomegranate tree in my courtyard (the other tree is an almond tree). Last year, the pomegranate did not bloom or bear fruit, but this year, under my TLC, it did blossom and has produced 6 pomegranates! Unfortunately, they look good, but they're not very tasty. They should have a tart sweetness, and the little kernels should be juicy. Mine are quite sour with big seeds in the kernels – not much pulp or juice at all. All show!

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Me, helping strip the sheepskin from the carcass

Leid Axatar (Eid Adhar) began a week ago. Given the timing and the upcoming Independence Day on the 6^th of November, it effectively means that most people are taking a two-week holiday. People return to their parents' homes and spend time with their families. Transportation is hard to find, and when you do, it's likely to cost 50-100% more than usual. Little work gets done. I'm staying at home during most of it, which is nice for a change, but I'll be glad when it's over. You can only eat so much meat. As last year, I helped my family slaughter a cow and two rams. By tradition, you eat mainly meat for the next week. I soon began to exist in a stupor of protein and fat.

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The weather has changed. We've had quite a bit of rain the last month (much needed – Morocco has been suffering from a drought for the last couple of years and for the last year especially) and turned cold. In the space of only a few weeks I went from covering myself with only a sheet at night to one blanket and now two for last week.

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That's it for now. I won't make any rash promises, but I will try to get back on track with regular blog posts. Incha'allah.

Results Are In

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Sun, 15 Jul 2012 12:12:00 +0000

The first ever Spelling Bee Morocco championship was held May 25 & 26 in Ouarzazate and was deemed a success by nearly everyone. We crowned champions in two events – the team bee and the solo bee. While it is great to introduce a new kind of event for Moroccan students and provide a touch of Americana, what is most rewarding to me is the emotional and psychological impact of the event.

Ibtissam Boulaghmane, the solo bee winner, told me after her victory that she had never won any medals before, that she was not good in sports, so she had never been able to compete for anything. But she won two at the finals – first in the solo bee and second in the team bee - and one at her City Bee. Plus the trophy, of course. She added that it was great to meet all these other kids, too.

At lunch, after the final event, as they were going around the table, telling me what their plans for next year were, one girl said, “This is it for me. No matter what happens on my baccalaureate exams, I am done with school. But what a way to finish! I will remember this for the rest of my life.” The other kids chimed in and told me her father and brother insisted that she stop school and adopt the traditional woman's role, which means she will live and work in her father's house until (if) she gets married.

Three 11th grade girls won the team competition. They
renamed their team "Heroines" after the win.

Despite stories like that, the role of women in Morocco is changing. One of the gratifying things about the Spelling Bee Morocco project to me is that it provides an opportunity for girls to compete with boys on the same playing field. And in this case, they excelled. Of the 27 qualifiers for the finals, 20 were girls. And all the champs were girls.

Another deeply satisfying aspect of the competition was that my younger son Joe helped me out a lot. He was in the country, visiting and traveling. He accompanied me to several of the trainings I gave to Moroccan teachers.

On one we went to Zagora, a southern city on the edge of the Sahara. Even in the spring it was very hot. In earlier days, it was the traditional staging area for camel caravans and boasted a famous sign saying “52 days to Timbuctou.” We also had a memorable day at the training in Kalaa, across the river from my village. It rained hard during the training, and it rained in the mountains. By the time we were done, the river had flooded and the road bridge was washed out. But the transit driver knew of a place a few miles north and dropped us of there. Following the lead of a few other locals, we tramped for an hour through flooded muddy fields in the near dark until we did, indeed, come upon an intact cement footbridge. Once on our side of the river, I soon realized we were on a road familiar to me from my running. The rain had stopped, and we had a pleasant hour's walk home along the dirt road lit by a starry sky.

My son Joe served as score-keeper for the finals.

Joe enjoyed the experience, too. When we were making arrangements for his flight home, he said, “I'd really kinda like to stay for the regional finals.” So he did, and he served as the official scorekeeper.

His involvement served another benefit, too. The day after the finals, a teacher who had been at the Kalaa training as well came up to me and said, “I want to tell you how good it was to see you and your son working together. We've been talking about this. You know here in Morocco we have the impression that in America, when kids are 18, they leave the home and don't come back again. Maybe they call on the phone once or twice a year, but don't come home. Now we see that's not always true.”

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Tidbits:

It's hot here now. In my courtyard (usually a relatively cool place), it gets into the 90s during the day. Outside, in the sun, between 110 and 115. I bought a fan. It helps.

I had my mid-service medical exams in Rabat a couple of weeks ago, and all is well. Hard to believe I've been here this long – 16 months, actually.

I've continued work on Spelling Bee Morocco, planning for our expansion next year into other regions of the country.

In a week, I'll be leaving for a two-week vacation in Germany and the Czech Republic – Berlin, Dresden, Prague. Really looking forward to it.

How I Spell Work

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Wed, 23 May 2012 08:32:00 +0000

When I’ve cried “busy” in recent blog posts, what I’ve been alluding to is Spelling Bee Morocco™.

It’s a project of mine that has taken up the lion’s share of my time since last December and involved a number of my PCV friends as well – Ryan Scheidt (website), Mark McEnery (graphic design), Mimi Duong and Fauve Johnson (City Bee organizers), and Maureen Sieh (connections and press coverage) – and many others who’ve pitched in here and there. The idea came from another PCV, Ben Pennington, who finished his Peace Corps service last October and is back in Tennessee writing, reading, and making music.

Trophies and medals for the
City and Regional Championships

Morocco is a land of many languages. Most people speak a dialect of Berber (there are three main ones, including Tamazight, the one I speak) or Darija, the Moroccan dialect of Arabic. In school, they are taught Modern Standard Arabic from the 1^st grade on. They begin French in 3^rd grade. In recognition of the role of English as the current lingua franca of the world, the Ministry of Education mandated the offering of English about 10 years ago. But it does not begin until 9^th grade and lasts only four years and there just aint much English spoken here.

So Spelling Bee Morocco™ aims to promote and popularize the use of English – through play, not testing. As a uniquely American creation, spelling bees also offer opportunities for cross-cultural education. Spelling Bee Morocco™ has two main activities – a competition and a website. The competition provides motivation and recognition for Moroccan students of English. The website provides information about the competition, but, just as importantly, it functions as an ESL resource for students and teachers all year long. The Spelling Bee Morocco™ competition is open to students through 12^th grade.

During the practice round at the Kalaa City Championship

We’ve partnered with the regional chapter of MATE (Moroccan Association of Teachers of English) for Ouarzazate, Zagora, and Tinghir provinces. Our hope is to develop a program that will become national in scope, but this first year we decided to restrict it to the region, get some experience, and work out some details. This is what we’ve done so far:

· Developed a website and created a Facebook page

· Applied for and received a grant from WorldConnect/Kids2Kids to support the cost of City Bees and the Regional Championship

· Held five trainings that introduced the spelling bee concept (pretty much unknown in this country) to about 50 teachers

· Registered 25 schools, which finished their school championships earlier this month

· Held four City Spelling Championships, which were completed last Sunday.

And this is what remains to be done:

· Hold our Regional Championship in Ouarzazate, the largest city in the region.

· Start all over again. Things have gone well enough so that we think we can expand it - and that's a whole new ball game.

Checking to make sure all spellers are in order in the
Solo Bee at the Kalaa Championship

Despite the challenges of introducing a new concept, working long-distance, organizing a multi-part event, trying to work to a schedule in a country where serious planning seldom seems to extend more than a day or two in advance, it has gone pretty well. On Friday and Saturday, May 25 & 26, twenty-seven of the best spellers in southern Morocco will converge on Ouarzazate for the first ever Spelling Bee Morocco Championship. As in the States, talent and desire will tell. The group includes one ninth grader. The remaining spellers are split about evenly among 10^th, 11^th, and 12^th graders. The spellers will compete in two events, a team spelling bee and a solo spelling bee. Teams of three spellers each from five schools will compete for the team title. Seventeen spellers will vie for the solo title.

I’ll be sure to let you know how it all turns out. In the meantime, you can follow “Spellbound,” the blog for Spelling Bee Morocco™ by providing your email in the app on the blog page. You can now also follow us on Facebook. Please go there and “like” us.

And now…I’m busy. I still have a championship word list to create.

The top finishers of the Kalaa City Solo Spelling Bee

My Own World Book Day

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 20:25:00 +0000

Happy World Book Day to everyone!

As a person who worked in the book business for 37 years, most of my working career, this is a day that is close to my heart. There are several things that make it especially dear to me this year.

The first is that the U.S. has adopted a great idea from the U.K. and created World Book Night, run by my old friend Carl Lennertz, one of the great enthusiasts for books in the U.S. On this day, 20,000 people in the U.S. will give away 1,000,000 books to whomever they choose. What a great way to share the love of reading and show how you value the worth of books. You can see the list of books being given away in the U.S. at the World Book Night site. And here’s a link to the U.K. site as well.

The second is that Ann Patchett, one of my favorite novelists – and also a bookseller – was named one of TIME Magazine’s 100 Most Influential People in the world for 2012. In an op ed piece in the NY Times recently, in which she lamented the Pulitzer Prize committee’s decision not to award a fiction prize this year, she wrote this:

Reading fiction is important. It is a vital means of imagining a life other than our own, which in turn makes us more empathetic beings. Following complex story lines stretches our brains beyond the 140 characters of sound-bite thinking, and staying within the world of a novel gives us the ability to be quiet and alone, two skills that are disappearing faster than the polar icecaps.

Joe reading Neil Gaman's American Gods in my courtyard

The third is that my son Joe is visiting me, and he spends a significant chunk of every day with his nose in a book. It warms my heart that this boy – now man – that I read with every night for the first 13 years of his life has rediscovered reading. What adventures we had – Tin Tin, the Little House books, the very first Harry Potter book – too many to list. And what good times we’re having now as we each talk of the books we’re in. He recently finished Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land, Heller’s Catch-22, and Neil Gaiman’s American Gods, and has just started Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore.

And the fourth is that, after living in a small village in Morocco for a little over a year now, I see even more clearly the important role that books play in changing individual lives, culture, even a country. In my town, except in my own house, only one time have I seen a book other than a textbook or a Koran. I have never seen a person reading for pleasure, or, for that matter, even for information. This is a good town, with good people, but it is also a town with a narrow vision, and a short vision.

This “bookless” culture is not confined to small villages. The city of Agadir, with a population of about 700,000, does not have a public library. In most schools, the libraries, if they exist, are locked most of the time and primarily contain textbooks. A recent report found that Moroccans spend an average of only 1 dirham (about 12 ½ cents) on books a year, and only 1,000 new books are published in Morocco each year.

Fatima "reading" Goodnight, Gorilla, by Peggy Rathman
in Tamazight to a couple of local children

But there are individuals, of course, who are fascinated by books. I’m speaking mainly of children who, like children everywhere, thirst for stories – stories that help explain their own lives to them but also, in Patchett’s words, help them imagine lives other than their own. And there a few adults, too. In my village, I’ve found one so far (there may be others) - Fatima, one of my host sisters. In February, on my return from the Marrakesh Marathon, I gave Fatima and Sulayman, my 6-year-old host nephew, each a book in Arabic – the first book either of them had ever owned. So that was my World Book Day, I suppose.

Since then, I’ve gotten a few wordless (or nearly wordless) books from the States. Fatima has become the storyteller, supplying a Berber text to these wonderful stories. My plan is to create a library here in my village in connection with the women’s association I work with. I’ll tell you more about that in a future post.

I guess the best way to close is to mention what I’m reading. I recently finished, Cry, the Beloved Country, and Things Fall Apart, two African classics which, aside from their intrinsic beauty and power, help me understand a little bit better what I’m experiencing here in Africa. I’m currently reading Arabian Nights and Days by the Egyptian Nobel laureate, Nagoub Mahfouz and a very funny unpublished novel, A Speckled Axe, by James Quackenbush, a friend of mine.

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I didn't want to begin with an apology, but I know I'm waaaay behind in posting to this blog. I've been busy! And I have lots to tell! And I will soon...insha'allah.

A Moroccan Hoodie and Other Stories

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 21:43:00 +0000

I’ve been remiss in making posts to this blog. Good reasons – I always have good reasons – but you don’t want to hear my excuses. Today, I’ll try to bring you up-to-date on my life for the past five weeks, saving details on my work and travels for separate posts.

The Travel Bug

It’s a kind of illness – a delicious kind of illness – this travel bug. When I got back from my vacation on the Atlantic coast in early January, I fully expected to launch into my work and get a lot done. It turns out I was not as productive as I’d expected to be. The trip had rejuvenated me, yes, but it also infected me with the travel bug. I spent a lot of time researching and planning future vacations – Central Europe (Berlin, Dresden, Prague, Budapest), Turkey and the Balkans, sub-Saharan Africa. At least one of those trips I will surely take. Others will remain – like most thoughts of travel – on the shelf of dreams.

Cookie Baking

Sulayman decorates a star

In mid-January, I had a baking party with my host sisters. They’re very good cooks, but for a variety of reasons do little baking, except for bread, which they bake every morning. They loved the cookies I served at our Christmas celebration and made me promise to show them how to make them. On January 22, Aicha, Ouardia, Fatima, and Sadiya, along with her children Sulayman and Ayman, came to my house. I served them lunch of chili and corn bread. Corn bread they’re familiar with. The chili was new, but they loved it – it has lots of meat, after all! And then we spent the rest of the day making oatmeal cookies and baking and decorating Christmas cookies. What fun!

The Marrakesh Half-Marathon

Adam and me after the race

Near the end of the month, a PCV friend, Adam Richie-Halford, and I went to Marrakesh. The first two days, we worked at Marche Maroc, an event put on several times a year by PCVs in the Small Business Development sector for the artisans they work with. There were workshops in the morning; in the afternoon, the artisans sold their wares from booths set up on the margins of the famous Djemaa el-Fna. On the third day, Adam and I ran the Marrakesh Half-marathon. It’s the longest race I’ve run in many a year. I was happy with my result – I finished, I never walked, and though I felt the effects for the next day or so, I had no injuries. And I ran a respectable time for me – 2:09:05, a little under a 10-minute per mile pace.

When I got back home, my family was very interested in my photos and my participation medal. “What place did you get?” one asked. I didn’t understand. “First, second, third…?” “Oh, two thousandth,” I replied (actually, I lied a little – it was more like 2,164^th, but that number was too difficult for me to figure out how to say). First, there was a look of incredulity, then a roomful of laughter. The look of incredulity surprised me a little. What did they expect from a 67-year old? But then I think of people’s reaction to me when I’m out running in the country. They often will point out a short-cut to me, or invite me to stop for tea. I think most of them have a hard time grasping that I’m running in order to run, not to get somewhere. By the same token, I think my family had a hard time grasping why I would run in a race if I wasn’t trying to win. But they liked the medal and the pictures.

My Moroccan Hoodie

Me in my bespoke tajlabit

Every now and then through this cold dry winter, I’ve seen a tajlabit made of a salt & pepper weave fabric (ašhعabi) that I really liked. Whenever I asked where I could get one, people would tell me I needed to look in a fabric store. I did that, to no avail. But while I was working at Marche Maroc, I made some purchases to help support the artisans. I’d just bought a bottle of argan oil for my host mother and father, and I looked up and saw a bundle of fabric in the adjacent booth. It was just what I’d been looking for. I went over and admired it. It turned out it was made from hand-carded, hand-spun, hand-dyed, and hand-woven wool. I asked her if it was enough to make a tajlabit. Yes, she said, three meters, the standard. I bought it. When I got home, my host father took me to the tailor he goes to. After some oohing and aahing from the tailor, which reassured me about the fabric, he took my measurements. Three days later, I had my own salt & pepper, winter-weight tajlabit. There was enough fabric left over for him to make a hat (tarbush) for me. I’ve never had a hand-tailored piece of clothing before, but now I have a completely hand-made piece. I can tell you, it’s quite warm as well as handsome.

Three Cheers for American Bureaucracy!

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Our country director sent out her weekly update today. In it was a link to the FVAP – Federal Voting Assistance Program. It’s a program designed to help Americans living overseas in the armed forces or any other capacity exercise their right to vote. I went online and filed my request for absentee ballots for all of the elections in my voting district for the upcoming year. I was able to select a preferred method of delivery – email, mail, or fax. It was simple and fast – about two minutes.

Except for applying for passports, I didn’t have many encounters with government bureaucracy until I reached the age of 65. Then came Medicare and, a year later, Social Security. I have to say that all my dealings with those agenciess have been positive. Efficient, friendly, helpful, and respectful people and pretty straightforward and clear procedures. And now this. It’s enough to make a citizen happy.

I compare that with my experience here in Morocco.

After I was sworn in as a Peace Corps Volunteer last May, I had to apply for a carte de sejour (residence permit). That required 10 passport sized photos (can’t imagine why, since the card itself has only one), an equivalent number of photocopies of my passport, attestation de travail (work certificate) and attestation de residence (certificate of residence), several tax stamps, three trips to the Royal Police office (gendarmerie), and one to the city hall to get all of them notarized. After I finished the application, I received a receipt, which I had to carry with me at all times. During the period while I was waiting for my card, I had to return and get the receipt renewed every month. That took five months, which meant five more visits to the gendarmerie. For me, that meant only about three hours out of my day each time. I’m fortunate. For some of my Peace Corps friends, that means a whole day and travel by bus or taxi to a distant city. I’m also required to inform the gendarmes whenever I’m going to be away from my site overnight.

So I say, “Three cheers for the American bureaucracy!” It’s a snap compared to what I face here.

P.S., I didn’t really forget that I have an encounter with the bureaucracy every year on April 15. I’m not really looking forward to filing my taxes from Morocco for the first time, but I actually think it’s going to go all right. Filing taxes is not so straightforward. Like many people, I get help with it. But, you know, that’s not really the fault of the bureaucracy. It’s the fault of those politicians who, as either policy or payback, have created all the windfalls and loopholes in the tax code.

Christmas in Morocco

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 20:02:00 +0000

My artisan-made cookie cutters

When I first tried to explain to my host family that Christmas was coming, they said “Bonani?” I did an off-the-cuff etymology of the word and figured it was a borrowing of the French bonne nuit (good night). So I said, yes, I thought so. Of course, I was wrong. It’s actually a borrowing of the French bonne annee (Happy New Year).

For several days we went along in blissful misunderstanding. When I finally realized the mistake, I explained to them that, no, Christmas was a different holiday, always a week before bonani, and it was big, the biggest American holiday of all. I said it was comparable to Leid Axatar. My host father said, “Do you slaughter a sheep?” I said, no, that we traditionally eat turkey. “Skram,” he called me – “cheapskate.” We had a big laugh.

A plate of cookies I made up for Sulayman, my host nephew,
who was still at school when the party started

But I set about preparing a celebration for Christmas, which was clearly totally unknown to them – in fact, I have yet to discover what the word for it in Tamazight is, if it exists at all. A friend in the States sent a tiny tree with tiny lights and tiny ornaments. I had one of my dagger-maker brothers make some cookie cutters for me. Two of my Peace Corps friends came to my house and helped me get everything ready for the little feast.

The afternoon of the 23^rd, my host family (10 of them, anyway) came over. We had Christmas music playing and served cookies (frosted Christmas cookies, oatmeal, and jelly-filled) and apple cake, along with hot chocolate. After eating, I explained that gift-giving was also a Christmas tradition. I gave them each a pair of good socks filled with apples and oranges, M&Ms and candy canes. They were thrilled. “Not skram,” my host brother said.

My tiny tree with some presents for America around it.

The next day, one of my friends and I went to another PCVs house to celebrate the holiday with Americans. There were seven of us in all. We each contributed a dish and had a real feast – a chicken tajine, mashed potatoes, green beans, deviled eggs, cauliflower-cheese pie, apple cake and apple sauce. We went for some long walks in the countryside around their house and played games. I must say, it’s fun and a great comfort to be around countrymen and women at times like this.

On the 27^th a friend and I took off on my first real vacation in Morocco. I’ll fill you in on that in my next blog. I know I keep promising that. This time I’ll keep it.

Bonani!

A potted olive tree with homemade decorations made a
great stand-in for an evergreen at our PCV Christmas

My contribution to the Christmas tree decorations

Our PCV group on one of the hikes

I visited a manger and found sheep. The mother fretted
a bit.

Our PCV feast.

Surf, a Spelling Bee, and IST

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 21:31:00 +0000

Sunset over the Atlantic

We arrived in Mehdiya last Sunday after dark. Though I couldn’t see the ocean, I could smell it. When I went to sleep that night, I went to sleep to the sound of surf for the first time in nine months. And when I got up in the morning and looked out my window I saw a broad beach, a long breakwater reaching out into the ocean, and what looked like a dredge working at the mouth of the channel. It reminded so much of Grand Haven and my home on Lake Michigan.

Walking the beach with a friend, Adam, during
lunch break

The fifty-two remaining volunteers of the 60 who started with me (eight have ETd – early terminated – for personal or medical reasons) all converged on Mehdiya, a beach town a little north of Rabat. The occasion was IST (In-service Training), held six months after swearing in for each staj. On our first day, we had another LPI (Language Proficiency Interview). I did all right, moving up one notch to Intermediate Mid. At least I’m moving in the right direction! The next day, we shared our experiences so far and our plans for the next phase of our service. That was followed by a couple of days of workshops on grant-writing and teaching ESL (English as a Second Language).

I feel lucky. Many PCVs are still “integrating,” but I have plenty of work with my three days a week teaching in the elementary schools, plus work at the sbitar, middle school health club, and with the women’s association I’m helping get started.

Going through the rules prior to the start of the
IST Spelling Bee

I’m also working on a new project – Spelling Bee Morocco – that I hope will eventually create a national spelling bee for Moroccan students. I used the gathering at IST to present the idea to my fellow PCVs, and we held a late-night Spelling Bee at 10:00 p.m. on Wednesday. Fourteen PCVs participated and about 20 others formed an audience. Much to my surprise, very few of them had ever participated in a spelling bee back home. But they’re a bunch of smart, confident people, and they really got into it. It took eleven rounds to crown a winner. She won on “hippopotamus” and “aggraded” after the runner-up stumbled on “euphemism.”

The winner and a disconsolate runner-up

IST has ended. We’ve just had dinner. There will be a “Souk Prom” later tonight. And tomorrow morning, we’ll all head back to our sites. This is the last time all of us will be together at the same time until our COS (Close of Service) conference, a few months before we complete our Peace Corps service, so there’s a bittersweet tinge to the evening.

I spent a day in Marrakesh on my way here, and I’ll be spending a couple of days in Rabat on my way back home. I’ll tell you all about that, and some other travels I’ve taken in the last couple months, when I get back to my site next week.

Mehdiya has a beautiful wide, flat beach

Work boats entering the channel at dusk

A Challenging Question and a Rain Day

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 14:02:00 +0000

A French association is building this well at one of
my schools.

A Challenging Question

At school this week, while I was having tea with the teachers during recess, one of the teachers asked me what my goals were. I naively thought he was asking about my personal goals. Because my language is limited, I gave a simple answer – that I wanted to help people.

I had misunderstood. “But what about your organization,” he said, “will it do something to help us?”

I said, “I guess I’m the help.”

He didn’t exactly guffaw, but he did get a smile on his face. “But that’s just words,” he said, referring to my teaching, I suppose. “We already know that stuff. But will it do something to help us?”

“You mean money?” I asked.

Rain shrouds the Dades Valley today

He nodded, then proceeded to tell me that a French association had dug a new well for the school and that another French association had planted some olive trees.

This was my first personal encounter with such a direct “show-me-the-money” attitude. I have some thoughts about it, but I’m curious to know what yours are and how you would respond to such a situation. I may be opening a can of worms by soliciting your opinions, but I’d really like to know.

A Rain Day...

Water cascades down a path we
usually walk.

I woke this morning before my alarm to the sound of rain spattering in the courtyard and pattering on the roof. I got up and went through my usual morning routines, then got ready for school. When I went outside I saw puddles standing in my front yard - a first for puddles there. When I rode down the narrow path between buildings and turned the corner I was astonished to see a torrent of red water rushing down the wadi below my house. I’d never seen water in it before. I pedaled on along paths that were fairly slick with mud and filled with water in the ruts. When I got to the main road, a piste (dirt and gravel), streams of water were running down the two tracks. I was already pretty wet and pretty cold. I dearly wished for the gloves I bought at souq yesterday and promptly lost.

I began to think about how miserable I was going to be in class, cold and wet in the unheated schoolrooms, trying to be energetic and interesting to kids who were probably also cold and wet and hunched up braving the cold. But then salvation occurred, of a sort. I got to the bottom of the hill that separates my town from the neighboring village and another torrent, about ten yards wide and a couple of feet deep was rushing across the road. I’d never seen water here before either. I got off my bike and studied the terrain to see if there was a place where I might wade across. None in sight. Even if I did make it across, I still had another two kilometers to go. I knew there were a couple places ahead that habitually turned into streams during a rain. I figured they would be full too, and decided to turn around and go home.

The road was flooded and there was no good place to
ford the stream

There’s no phone at the school and I didn’t have any of the teachers’ cell phone numbers. I felt bad that I would just not be showing up, but I hoped the teachers would figure out what had happened. Shortly after I got home, Rachid and Fatima, one of my host brothers and sisters, knocked on my door. They came in, shoulders hunched, muttering “asmid” (cold) and “tagut” (rain). While we warmed ourselves over glasses of tea I told them I hadn’t gone to school because of the rain.

“Oh, there’s no school today,” they said, “not with a rain like this.”

In Michigan, we get snow days off when the snow makes it impossible or dangerous to go to school. I never imagined that here in Morocco I would get the equivalent – a rain day. And just as I would if it were a snow day, I’m reveling in it. At this moment, I’m bundled up in dry clothes, sitting at my desk, with a little space heater –the only non-sun-assisted heat in this large house of mine – warming my feet. I’m toasty, and the burden of guilt I was feeling for not showing up at school has been lifted from my shoulders. A rain day. Another thing to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving Day.

Leaves are changing color...

…and Other Stuff

It’s fall (lxrif) here, just as in the States. The weather has definitely changed. With all the precipitation of the last week, the Atlas Mountains have acquired a mantle of snow they won’t shed till next April or May. Here in the valley, the leaves have begun to change and fall. And, though it seems like just a few weeks ago that I was sleeping with just a sheet over me, I now wear longjohns and flannel pajamas to bed and I’ve discovered why people in the olden days used to wear sleeping caps and socks. Yesterday at souk, I bought a knit cap to keep my bald head warm at night and also bought two more blankets to add to the two I already had. I think – I hope - that’ll be enough.

Here’s a link to Peace Corps Postcards, a project to celebrate the 50^th Anniversary of the Peace Corps. In it you’ll find some short videos of current Peace Corps Volunteers and see what wonderful, creative work they do. It includes two “post cards” from Morocco, one of a hip-hop group, another of a baseball team.

Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving to you all!

The fig trees shedded their leaves in just a few days. Townspeople have
gathered them and chopped them up for animal feed. Not much goes
unused here.

Fall means pomegranates, limes, these small oranges
(about the size of a lime), and apples are in season.

My house revealed its leaks this morning - several
of them. Fortunately, like this one, they were all
over bare concrete.

The preferred method of sweeping is with this natural broom
called ifssi - not surprisingly, the word for shrub.

The Atlas Mountains are capped now in snow, probably till April or May.

A Meat-Only Diet

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 07:57:00 +0000

The hair has been burned and scraped off the cow's skull,
which will later be chopped into pot-sized pieces
and used in a stew.

Sunday morning I went to my host family’s house to help slaughter a cow. Since then I haven’t had a thing to eat but meat. I’d heard stories about what a rough week this is for vegetarians (not that I am one), but I had no idea.

We killed the cow at 9:30. By noon, we were eating it as shish kabobs. An hour and a half later, we had lunch of stewed meat and juices. For dinner that night we again had a meat-only duaz with liver and beef shish kabobs as appetizers. And all week long, whenever I’ve visited people, I’ve been served shish kabobs with tea rather than the usual peanuts and cookies or bread. Not until Wednesday evening, when I had dinner at another friend’s house, did I even see a vegetable – a little bit of carrot and a few chunks of turnip in a large plate of meat.

It was not a big cow, but it's still a lot of animal. All parts
of the animal are eaten, including the innards, head, and feet.

By “rough week,” I mean the week of Eid Akhatar (big feast), Eid Kbir in Arabic, also sometimes called Eid Al-Adha (the Festival of Sacrifice). It commemorates Abraham’s sparing of his son and sacrificing a ram instead. After Ramadan, it’s probably the most important festival on the Muslim calendar. It takes place 70 days after the end of Ramadan, which was Monday. By tradition on that day the male head of every household sacrifices an anogod (ram). Then the family spends the rest of the week eating it. Our family did that, too, on Monday, but because it is such a large family, I guess Mohammed decided to slaughter a cow as well as a sheep.

My main job was to take pictures, but here I'm helping roll
the carcass so that others can separate the skin
from the top of the cow's back.

I had no idea of the sheer effort, strength, and time it takes to skin and butcher a large animal with just knives and a hatchet (no power saws here). With the cow, we started at 9:30 and finished at noon. By “finished” I mean we’d quartered the animal. We didn’t actually finish cutting up all the meat till Wednesday morning. And the whole family was involved. As with Ramadan, there is a lot of anticipation of the festival. And while I wouldn’t say it was a party atmosphere, it certainly was a joyous one. Those who weren’t helping with the butchering were watching and talking. And when it was done, of course, we ate.

The anogod hung, first to be "undressed,"
i.e., have its skin peeled off like a sweater,
then to be "dressed," as in butchered.

Monday was similar, except that after breakfast, the men first climbed the hill outside town and took part in a prayer service. After that, we came down to the house, changed out of our good clothes, and slaughtered the ram. And then we had shishkabobs and a lunch of meat.

I’ve talked about meat, but the festival is much more than that. It’s really about gratitude and thankfulness and the bonds of family, friendship, and community. It’s kind of like our Christmas and Thanksgiving rolled into one. Families draw together. The men who work at jobs in one of the big cities, or even abroad, come home, and there’s lots of visiting among neighbors, friends, and relatives. There was a steady stream of people to my family’s house on Monday, and on Tuesday and Wednesday I spent a good deal of time making the rounds myself.

Shishkabobs with fresh herbs and spices have been a staple
of the Leid diet.

I’m not quite sure what marks the end of Leid – maybe when the sheep is eaten up? – but I’ve begun to dream of vegetables.

I Have a Dagger

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 20:12:00 +0000

The silver dagger at the top and steel dagger in the middle are by
Mohammed. The leather-wrapped dagger is by Houcine.
They range from 16" to 18" long.

Mohammed at work in Shop #34 of the
dagger makers' cooperative in Kalaa,
a space he shares with Houcine.

Tok, tok, tok is the characteristic sound of my village. Heard from morning till night, it comes from the workshops of the dagger-makers all over town. Tok, tok, tok…tok, tok, tok
The village I live in is the center of dagger-making in Morocco. It just so happens that my host father is the patriarch of dagger-makers in the town. And all of his sons – my host brothers – are dagger-makers, too. So it was clear to me, from my first day here, that before I left I would buy a dagger from my family as a memento. As it turns out, I haven’t been able to stop at one. I now have three.

Two were made by my eldest brother, Mohammed, who is regarded as the top craftsman in the region. The other is by another of my brothers, Houcine, who’s right up there with him. My camera and photographic ability don’t do it justice, but the craftsmanship is amazing. I love to watch the dagger-makers as they sit at their anvils making perfect circles, arabesques, and symmetrical patterns freehand with metal punches and tiny hammers on little sheets of metal which they will later solder onto the handle or sheath.

Houcine taps a design into a piece of steel
that will become a part of a dagger's
scabbard.

Of the two by Mohammed, one is made of the usual material, steel, and is entirely new. The other is rarer. It has an antique blade, about 200 years old, to which he added a new sheath and handle made of silver and brass, decorated with fine, traditional designs. The dagger by Houcine is wrapped in alternating bands of leather and metal, a technique unique to him. This was his first piece made this way, though he has since made several more daggers and some letter openers and pens using the technique.

Some of my notes on dagger terminology.

The reverse side of the silver dagger.

Work

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 18:07:00 +0000

In my last post I promised to tell you about my work, and I will, but first a comment about the meaning of “work.”

At the top of the column on the left are Peace Corps’ three goals. None is more important than the other. So when I’m doing something that furthers global understanding (Goals 2 or 3), I’m working. When I’m having tea at someone’s house, I’m working. When I go to the hanut to buy bread, I’m working. When I joke around with some of the neighborhood kids, I’m working. When I go for a run, I’m working. What a job!

What I said about Goals 2 and 3 notwithstanding, like most Americans I tend to think of work as something I can see or can count. So, to answer the whispered question - “But what does he actually do?” - here’s my Goal 1 work:

Primary Project

As a Peace Corps Volunteer, we’re assigned a specific kind of work, which is called our Primary Project. I have an official connection to the local clinic and the nurse there is my “counterpart” – not a supervisor exactly, but a host country national to whom I’m somewhat accountable. We ‘re encouraged to seek out any appropriate ways to pursue our assignment. This is what I’m doing right now to pursue my primary project as a Rural Health Educator:

The equip-mobile in front of the sbitar.

· Sbitar: I go to the sbitar (clinic) every Wednesday morning. That is well-baby day, so there’s lots of traffic. Probably about 50 women came through yesterday with their infants and toddlers to get shots, etc. Since I cannot give shots, I sit in the waiting room and talk to the women and children. I bring crayons and coloring pages with health themes to entertain the kids and do some stealth education. I hope to use the familiarity and trust I gain to engage in more formalized health education at the sbitar in the future.

· Equipe-mobile: Last Monday, I went with the equipe-mobile, a mobile clinic, that goes to outlying douars (villages). We made three stops - at a mosque and two elementary schools. The nurse gave shots and other medication. We also recorded the weight and height of the first graders and gave them a very basic vision test. The equipe-mobile goes out every three months.

The middle school where I will work with the Health Club

· Elementary schools: Beginning next week, I will be teaching in the three local madrassas (elementary schools) three days a week, six classes each day, 515 students. My lessons will be short – 15 to 20 minutes.

· Lesson plans: The first week, I will tell them about myself and the Peace Corps. The second week, we (the teacher and I) will administer a survey on handwashing and toothbrushing habits. The third week, I will begin a unit on handwashing. Handwashing and Toothbrushing will make up the units for the fall semester.

· Health Club: A health club is mandated for all middle schools and high schools in Morocco. Every other Tuesday, I will work with the health club at the local middle school. The science teacher is the advisor and the English teacher is also involved. My first units with the middle schools will be on handwashing and toothbrushing, too.

My office. That's a Morocco map on the wall. I've started
marking my travels on it.

· Handwashing and Toothbrushing: Changes in handwashing and toothbrushing behaviors would provide the most significant improvement of overall health of anything else that could be done in this country. There is no culture of toothbrushing, which is apparent immediately, especially in small towns. People do wash their hands, but not always at the right time, and seldom with soap. There is no clear understanding of germs and the vectors of disease transmission. In this culture where people eat with their hands and do a lot of handshaking, that’s especially significant.

· Teach. Did I Say Teach? Anyone who’s ever spoken in front of a group for 15-20 minutes knows how long that can be. And to do it in a foreign language? No matter that they’re between six and 12 years old. The big problem is that I can prepare what I want to say, but I can’t really prepare for what they’re going to say. And then when I go to the middle school and face those teenagers…that’s stress of a whole ‘nother order.

In addition to our Primary Projects, we PCVs are encouraged to do secondary projects as well. We’re supposed to discover these out of our experience in and knowledge of the community.

Secondary Projects

Associations

A topographical map of the Kalaa area.
I use it to learn more about where I live. It's
also helpful with the Road Association.
The green areas are where you'd see greenery
in the countryside. All the rest is red rock
and stony soil.

· I’ve met with six different associations and may eventually do work with all of them. At the moment, work is continuing with two – a Road Association and a new Women’s Association.

· Road Association: this is a group made up of 32 local communities that want to improve the road on our side of the river and the connecting link to Kalaa. My role is to help them find an ear in the royal government and to prepare their proposal. We’ve met 4 times.

· Women’s Association: This project occupies a lot of my time and energy and it's very rewarding. It is a start-up that grew out of a comment a woman made to us PCVs way back in my pre-service training. Once I was assigned here permanently in June, I went back to her and asked her if she was serious. She said, yes, and we’ve gone on from there. Though still not formally organized, it has taken a number of significant steps already, including electing an interim board, conducting a survey of skills and interests to which 118 women have so far responded, holding several general meetings attended by from 60 to 125 women, and organizing literacy classes. The survey revealed great interest in literacy and in work other than the field and housework that forms the bulk of their days. My job is to teach them how to run and be members of an organization (they’ve never done this kind of thing before), to help them get legally organized, and to help them find resources for their training and other needs.

· The Battle Against Illiteracy: Of the women in the Women’s Association, a majority have never attended even a year of school. 75% of them are illiterate, even though many speak three languages – Tamazight, Arabic, and French. We’ve had 85 women sign up for literacy classes and just this week got funding for them, so they’ll begin in about two weeks!

· Handicraft Skills: The Women’s Association will also be providing classes in various handicrafts and try to develop a way to sell them, too, perhaps by forming a co-op. I’ve been making connections with PCVs who work with artisans coops to see about arranging workshops and meetings where our women can learn organizing and marketing information.

English

I bought a white board to use with my own classes and to
practice writing Arabic script on. It's a phonetic script and
what you see there was my attempt to write the names
of the officers of the Women's Association. I didn't get a
single one of them exactly right. Very humbling.

· Before Ramadan I taught English to a small group of women. We met three times a week for an hour. I also tutored a few middle school school students during the month of July. Both groups were suspended during Ramadan.

· Now, especially with the progress the women’s association has made, two different groups are asking me to teach English – a group of men and a group of women. The men have a business motivation for wanting to learn, since, as dagger-makers, a lot of their customers are tourists. The women just seem to want to know English. These classes will begin in a few weeks, after I’ve gotten started with my elementary and middle school teaching.

So that’s my work for now. It’s more than I feel comfortable with, but Peace Corps tells us to line up lots of work because not everything planned actually pans out. If it’s too much, I’ll make a change. I’ll update you on it as the year progresses. And maybe cry for help.

An Eventful Day

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 20:55:00 +0000

Last Wednesday, October 5, 2011

6:00 am The alarm on my iPod goes off. I hit the snooze button twice before I get up. I really like my Moroccan bed.

6:18 I get up, heat some water for coffee. Wash my face and brush my teeth (I took a shower – bucket shower – and shaved last night after my run). Have breakfast of bread with jam, corn flakes and milk, and coffee. Read at the kitchen table while eating.

7:00 Go online, check and answer email. Scan the NY Times.

In the space of about 10 minutes, the river went from a
slow-moving stream about 10 meters wide to...

7:45 Get my pack ready. Ride my bike to my landlord’s house.

8:00 My landlord insists I have breakfast with him, so I have a second breakfast of soup, dates, and coffee. We talk about a problem I’m having with my electricity. I share electricity with a neighbor. We agreed on a price before I moved in, but now he wants more. My landlord and I agree on what our approach should be, but it’s not clear yet whether my neighbor will agree.

8:30 I ride my bike to the sbitar (clinic). Wednesday is my normal day to go to the sbitar. It’s well-baby day, so lots of women come with their children for shots and check-ups.

8:45 I arrive at the sbitar. There are several women there already. I sit in the shadow of the wall with the rest of them and I read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time while we wait for the adbib (nurse).

10:00 The nurse arrives on his motorbike with several plastic shopping bags of supplies. I sit in the waiting room and talk with the moms. There are a couple of older children also today. I offer them crayons and coloring pages, but they’re too shy to try them.

11:45 Hamad, the nurse, has cleared the waiting room. We have a few minutes to talk. We make arrangements for him to pick me up here at the sbitar at 8:30 tomorrow morning with the Equip-Mobile (a mobile clinic). We’ll be going to some outlying villages to give shots and do other check-ups. I’m pretty excited about this.

12:00 I leave the sbitar and ride my bike to Kalaa.

...a torrent 70 meters wide and rose about 5 feet.

12:30 There’s no mail for me at the P.O.

12:35 I stop at the paint store where I’ve bought my paint. It happens that the co-owner is the treasurer of an association that has agreed to fund a literacy class for the new women’s association that I’m working with. We’ve had so many women sign up, I ask him if they’re willing to fund a second class. He tells me he’ll ask the association, but if they won’t, maybe another will, and he introduces me to one of his employees, who is a member of a different association that does similar work. We talk for a while and exchange contact info. I leave feeling we’ll get our second class funded one way or the other.

12:50 I ride my bike to the Gendarmes station to get my carte de sejour renewed and to notify them of my travel plans (this is common procedure for foreigners in Morocco). I’m daydreaming as I ride and go past the station. When I realize it, I do a little u-turn through the weeds at the side of the road.

1:05 I get my carte de sejour renewed for another month and chat for a bit with the officer about the destination (Nkoub) for my weekend trip.

1:15 I go out to my bike and see that I have a flat back tire. I pump it up and start heading back to town. I soon notice that my front tire is going flat, too. I stop and see that now both are flat. I walk my bike back to the dagger-maker’s co-op, where two of my host brothers have their shop, and ask them if I can leave my bike there while I go to souq (market)

1:30 I walk to souq.

1:45 As I’m wandering through the stalls someone calls my name. It’s Rachida, a friend and the vice-president of our new women’s association. She asks what I’m looking for. “A mousetrap,” I say. I’ve spotted a mouse in my kitchen – a rather brazen one. I need a trap or a cat. I’m planning to try the trap first. She say’s, “Oh, no, poison,” and takes me to a stall where I buy some rat poison. She admonishes me to wash my hands after I’ve handled it. Later, I buy some cord so that I can hang the white board I bought a couple of days ago. Then we wander for a while on her business, including stopping at her father’s stall (he’s a blacksmith), where I have tea and watch him repair a 3-legged tea tray. We take off and drop off the tea tray with the owner then go to another stall where her mother sells the handcrafted goods the women of the family make. I say goodbye. On my way out of souq I buy a mousetrap.

I waded to my knees in the rising water.

2:45 Back at the dagger-makers co-op I take the tires off my bike and discover they’re riddled with thorns. One inner tube has six holes in it, the other many more than that. My host brother says, “You need new tubes!”

3:15 He and I walk into Kalaa where I buy 2 new inner tubes (23 dh, about 3 dollars, each).

4:00 I put the tires with new tubes back on my bike, stop and talk with my landlord (who also has a shop at the co-op) some more about the power problem.

4:45 I ride into Kalaa and buy some things from the supermarket, then start back to my village.

5:30 As I near the river I see a bunch of people on the ridge on the other side and wonder what’s going on. As I get to the bank, I see that the river is higher than usual, and about 10 meters of water separates the bank (and me) from the footbridge. One of my host brothers is on the bridge and spots me. He yells, “hurry,” splashes back through the water, grabs my bike. and heads back across the bridge. I wade into the water with my shoes on, carrying my plastic bags of souq and supermarket purchases. It has taken me a few seconds to comprehend the urgency in his voice, but even as we’re crossing the bridge, I can see the water rising. When we get to the other side, a sheet of brown water is gurgling over the usually dry stones. I climb the ridge and watch with the other people. In the space of about 10 minutes, the river has gone from a barely moving stream about 10 meters wide, to a torrent 70 meters wide and has risen about five feet. The bridge has been inundated. I wonder where it will end up this time, or if we’ll even see it afterwards. (As it turns out, when the water settles the next day, the bridge is still in place and repairs are easily made.)

The Moroccan version of the old standby - just like the American, except
all metal.

6:15 I go home and wash and change into clean, dry clothes. I put my purchases away. And I set my mousetrap, baited with bread soaked in oil. I’m being clever. The brazen beast has been nibbling at the top of my bottle of cooking oil. He must need fat in his diet.

7:30. I go to dinner at a friend’s house.

9:30 I come home, and see that I’ve killed a mouse. I dispose of its body outside and rebait the trap. In the morning I will discover another tiny carcass. I hope that’s the last. I really do not want a cat.

10:00 I go to bed. I read for about half an hour by the light of my headlamp, then go to sleep in my comfy bed.

The flat tires and flash flood are unusual circumstances, but the rest of day’s events gives a pretty fair representation of the pace and content of my days. I haven’t talked about work much so far in this blog. In fact some people have said to me, “But what do you do?” I’ll talk about that in my next post.

My Blog Goes Polyglot

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Sat, 01 Oct 2011 01:06:00 +0000

One of the interesting things about life here is the way conversations can range over several languages, sometimes in the space of a single sentence. English is not often one of those languages, but Tamazight, Arabic, and French definitely are.

I’m at a disadvantage. The languages I speak well, English and German, are not in the mix. I know a little French. My 50-year old high school French enables me to read at a level that actually amazes me. But I don’t speak it well at all, and my listening comprehension is like that of most beginners. French spoken at a normal rate is mainly just a blur of sounds to me. I actually speak Tam better than I speak French, though Tam spoken at a normal rate is often still just a blur of sound to me, too. Admittedly, I can understand some speakers better than others, just as some Tam speakers understand me better than others. And I don't speak Arabic at all.

But I digress…

One of the workarounds I’ve discovered recently is Google Translate. Whenever I’m going to a meeting where I have important information to impart – and I don’t have a good English speaker in attendance – I try to write my important information in advance in English. Then I pop it into Google Translate and produce versions of it in French and Arabic and print them out. It has worked amazingly well.

That success led me to add French and Arabic translations of my posts to this blog. You can see them at the en francais and باللغة العربية tabs above.

I’ve done this, not because I have a lot of readers in French or Arabic - though I hope I will. My main reason for writing my blog is simply to have an efficient and effective way to communicate what’s happening in my life to my friends back home in the States. The blog also is a means for me to carry out Peace Corps’ Goal 3: To promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of the American people.

But there’s also Peace Corps Goal 2: To promote a better understanding of American culture and people on the part of the peoples served. Now that I’m getting to know more Moroccans, some of whom do have computers and spend some time on the Internet, I thought it would be good to provide access to them to what I’m saying about my Peace Corps experience in Morocco. In that way, maybe my blog can help me address Goal 2 as well.

Unfortunately, there’s no tab for Tamazight. Google Translate does not support Tamazight. And my own Tam is just not strong enough, or fast enough, for me to be able to translate my own blogs. Yanwas incha’allah (someday, God willing).

Six Months in Morocco

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Sat, 24 Sep 2011 20:16:00 +0000

I just got back from Ouarzazate where I spent eight days in training and meetings. While I was there, my six-month anniversary in-country slipped past.

Six months is an important anniversary because…well, I’m not really sure why, but it seems like it should be. It’s such a tidy chunk of time – six months, half a year, a quarter of my Peace Corps commitment. During pre-service training, staff gave us a session on the emotional cycles of PCVs. Six months was typically a low point: you’re still having difficulty with the language, you haven’t done much tangible work yet, you’re isolated in a village where you don’t really have any close Moroccan friends and you’re separated from family and English-speaking friends by hours of travel or thousands of miles.

The footpath to Kalaa, with donkey

All those are true for me - check, check, check - though I can’t really say I’m feeling sad or useless (a word I heard more than once from staj-mates in Oz). However, I do sometimes wonder if I’m having any impact or how effective I am or ever can be. And I still have trouble articulating why I’m here – in English, let alone Tamazight!

And then this morning, I walked to Kalaa to check my mail and found a small package from a friend, Jessica, an artist who runs Springtide Press in Tacoma, Washington. It was a packet of her cards to help me with my color project (and state of mind, too, I'm sure). On top was a note card that said “Your brain is a map, your heart is a compass. Now find your way.” It wasn't exactly the meaning, but the the reassurance, that settled my spirits. And it complemented so well the motto I adopted shortly before entering the Peace Corps: “Proceed as the way opens.”

I went off to do my other errands.

I searched high and low for a pillow to fit the case that came with my hammock. Eventually, I found myself in a narrow shop that sold mattresses and bedding. At the back sat a young man behind a sewing machine – Hafid. Like all the others, he shook his head: No, he did not have one. “But I could make one for you,” he said. He showed me the materials he would use. “Fine,” I said, “When?” Right now. So while I watched, in about five minutes, he made a perfect, 60 cm square, soft pillow (not hard and heavy like most Moroccan pillows). I gave him the 40 dirhams ($5), we exchanged names and mtshrfin (pleased to meet you), and I went on my way

Next I went to a fabric shop. There’s a tailor there – Mohammed, a dwarf who stands about four feet high, with a hunchback and a club foot, and the sweetest smile you’ll ever see. I chat with him for a bit whenever I pass the shop. I thought it was his shop, but it turns out he’s hired help. Anyway, from the owner, I bought two pieces of fabric to help keep the dust and sand out of my book case and clothes chest. I asked Mohammed if he could hem the green one for me, which had unfinished edges. He was in the midst of sewing fringe on meters of black lace, a material women in my region traditionally wear slung over their shoulders. He interrupted what he was doing, threaded some green thread into his old Singer treadle sewing machine, and hemmed my piece of cloth. When I asked how much, he waved it off – walu (nothing) – he said with his sweet smile.

They're building a new bridge over the river...

When I went to the transit stop to catch a ride back to my town, the driver, who has been known to drop me far from my usual stop just because it happened to be inconvenient for him to go that far that day, told me he would wait while I ran to the city market to buy some olives. And he did!

In the afternoon, I met with some men who’ve formed an association to improve the road. Last time I was in Rabat, I’d bought a topographical map of the area and one of the Peace Corps staff members had pointed me to a couple of government agencies that fund this sort of high-cost work. The four of us spent about three hours checking the agencies’ websites, pouring over the map, brainstorming about the reasons our project should be funded – creating our “story” – and agreed to meet Sunday morning to drive the whole route to make notes and take pictures.

...but the road, itself, is little more than a rough 2-track.

It’s my running day (I run about 45 minutes every other day). About 6:00, when I took off, there was a light rain, and the wind was in my face. Off to my right, I could see the rain hanging from the clouds in brown wisps and in the distance a band of clear sky and an orange flat sun. Dusk is a time when there are many people on the road. When I first started running here, I was often met with jeers from teenagers and skeptical, or even hostile looks from adults. But now they know me. Little kids will run with me for 100 meters or so, teenagers nod in recognition, adults give me a thumbs up. Some people call me by name. Every now and then, someone will ask me to stop for tea, an invitation I have yet to accept – though some day I expect the time will be right.

When I got back to my house, it was nearly dark, with just a thin band of light silhouetting the Atlas Mountains and the electric lights of Kalaa floating in the pool of black in the middle ground. Fatima, one of my host sisters, and Sulayman, my six-year old host nephew, were at my door. I hadn’t seen him since I’d gotten back from Oz. He wanted to come in, but I told him I had to take a shower and would see him at dinner, which Fatima had just invited me to. When I got there an hour later, he had already fallen asleep. After dinner, his parents, Mohammed and Sadiya, and I left the house at the same time. Sulayman’s infant brother Ayman was in a sling on Sadiya’s back, Sulayman was walking in a sleepy stumble, clinging to the folds of his mother’s caftan. At the corner, where we separated to go our own ways, Sadiya said, “Say goodnight to Jamal.” Sulayman, rousing himself, twisted his skinny body this way and that until he spotted me in the dark, then blew me a kiss.

So, six months in-country. A landmark.

What I’m Doing to My House

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 18:51:00 +0000

Since my house is so big that I could never really furnish it on my Peace Corps allowances, I decided instead to furnish it with color. I was inspired by the Jardin Majorelle. I haven’t yet actually visited the place, but it’s in the guide books and I definitely intend to when I get a chance to spend a few days in Marrakesh. For those of you not up on the sight-worthy places of Morocco, the Jardin Majorelle is a place built by the painter Jacques Majorelle and subsequently bought and restored by the French designer Yves St. Laurent. It’s now a public museum and garden. It’s famous for Majorelle’s use of intense colors, especially blues, greens, reds and yellows.

My palette is different – orange, green, violet. No slavish imitation for me!. And not the comprehensive painting of the Majorelle, either. I’ve just finished painting my doors. I’ve also found a carpenter/cabinet maker who is making some plain wooden furniture for me at a good price – a couple of benches, a printer stand, a bookcase, and a case for my clothes. I’m also painting those.

The first test of my decoration – quite different from the colors used by my townspeople – came yesterday, when I hosted a meeting of a fledgling women’s association I’ve been working with. About 125 women attended. As the women came into the house, I saw a bunch of wide eyes and occasional laughter. But it was the laughter of delight, not mockery. There’s a gesture used here – fingers and thumb curled into a very loose fist, then flicked outward two or three times toward something or someone – which means beautiful, easy on the eyes, eye candy. Several women told me by gesture my house was eye candy.

After my big event yesterday, I took the day off today and went to Kalaa and found that a package from America had arrived. It contained, among many other treasured things, a brightly colored hammock! It not only helps carry through my project of decoration by color, but has already become my favorite place to read.

To see what my house looked like before the paint job, see my post “My New House” from June 27.

Can you tell I’m having fun?

Not OSHA approved.
Hey, maybe this is why we have an OSHA!

I can finally get all my books off the floor!

Ramadan Ends

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 00:25:00 +0000

Decked out

Today was Le’id Amzzan (or Le’id Lftur, or, in my town, just Le’id). It’s the day following Ramadan when everyone celebrates the ending of the fast. It’s one of the major holidays in Morocco, and in order to celebrate it appropriately, I went to the souq yesterday with my host father and bought new clothes – a tajlabit (jellaba), ikurbin (pointy-toed slipper-shoes), and a tarbut (woven skull cap) – all in white. Basically, dress clothes. In our town, to finish off the ensemble, you also wear a dagger. Since I own one, a rather beautiful one, I was all set.

Decked out in my new duds, I went to my host family’s house a little after 7:00 and had breakfast in the morning for the first time in a month. Actually, it seemed plain, though filling – just coffee, bread with olive oil, and dates – after the many-course feasts that evening lftur accustomed me to during Ramadan.

In my town, all of the men of the village gather in the morning for a prayer service at the top of a high hill just outside of town. About 8:45, Mohammed, my host father, signaled it was time to go. I asked one of my host sisters to take a picture of us in our finery. Wouldn’t you know it, the battery in my camera died. Not only would I not get a picture of us, I wouldn’t be able to get pictures of any of the proceedings! I did get some pictures later in the day. You’ll just have to imagine them peopled.

The shatu supplies water to the village

We climbed to the top of the hill, where the shatu (the water tank and pumping station that supplies tap water to the town) is. I’d never been up here before. The view was extraordinary. Along the way, we passed the cemetery. Since the graves were basically neat mounds of dirt and stones, some marked with tombstones, some with a flat, incised concrete, others with just an arrangement of rocks, I didn't realize it was anything other than the stony hillside till we were abreast of it. At the top of the hill, several hundred men, most of them in white tajlabits, were sitting on their prayer rugs chatting and waiting. At 9:00, the imam turned and faced east. All the rest followed suit, and they began their prayers.

The town cemetery

Behind them, I stood in the shadow of the shatu with a great view down the hill. I could still see a stream of men coming up the hill, some breaking into a trot as they realized the prayers had begun.

I was standing with about 50 boys - it was all males here - who were cheerfully and loudly oblivious to the sacred proceedings going on on the other side of the chateau. One of the boys sold chick peas dusted with cumin for half a dirham. He served them up in cones made of sheets torn from one of his old school notebooks, the pages covered with the red, green, blue and black script – some sort of color-coding – that Moroccan teachers seem to require of their students. Other kids were sliding down the steel pipe that feeds water to the community. Occasionally a short scuffle – some pushing or kicking – broke out as the physical play of young boys went too far.

After about ten minutes, the prayer ended and all the men turned around and faced west. The imam gave a sermon, I guess, intoning from a prepared script for about 15 minutes. As the time wore on, some men pulled up the hoods of their tajlabits and others draped their prayer rugs over their heads to protect them from the sun. When the sermon was over they all stood up and formed a big U-shaped line. Beginning with the imam, the line started curling back on itself, with each man greeting every other man who was there. Hussain, a friend of mine from the village, saw me standing by the chateau and called me over. I reminded him that I had not taken part in the prayer or the service. "Mashi mushkil" (doesn’t matter), he said, pulling me into the greeting line. That process took longer than the whole previous service. In the meantime, someone had brought five or six large serving plates piled with couscous and set them on the ground. As we finished going through the line, many men went to the plates and took a handful of the couscous, symbolically breaking the fast, though a few seemed to linger there, making a meal of it.

The annual prayer service for le'id takes place on this
cleared ground with a concrete seat and platform for the imam

About 10:30, Mohammed and I, along with my nephew Sulayman and his dad, walked back to the family’s house, where the women had prepared tea and a spread of nuts and dates and cookies. For the rest of the morning and on into mid-afternoon, family, neighbors, and friends streamed through the house as they made the rounds of the village wishing everyone mbruk le’id – congratulations on the feast of breaking the fast.

So Ramadan is over. I managed to keep the fast the whole time, even while traveling, and I read the Qur’an in its entirety, my two goals for the period. I had several tough days, but I learned to schedule my physical activity so that it didn’t really put me at risk. I found that adapting to not eating for long stretches was not too difficult, but that it never got easy to go without water. And, as I’ve said before, it messed with my sleep. I’ll be curious to see: Will I return to my old pattern of falling asleep in seconds and sleeping straight through for seven hours, or will I be plagued with insomnia and fitful nights as I have been this month? Only time will tell.

From the hill there's a tremendous view of the town, the
green fields of the Dades Valley, Kalaa,and the
Atlas Mountains

Of Buses and Trains and Help from Strangers

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 07:44:00 +0000

I’m on the road again. Back to Rabat for a routine follow-up on some medical tests, then to a village in the Grand Atlas to visit a couple of other PCVs. I wrote what follows after my last trip (“I Become a Tourist”). I hope I do better on my own this time – though needing help always presents an opportunity to meet someone. At least I have the advantage of traveling to familiar territory. But then, I also ahave the unfamiliar situation of traveling while fasting. I’ll tell you all about it – with photos – in my next blog.

Transportation is often an adventure in its own right here and my recent trip was no exception. On the ten-hour ride to Azrou, the bus’s sound system blared a reading of the Koran non-stop. I don’t know if the driver was a religious zealot, or if it was company policy, but I have made a note of the bus-line so that I can avoid them if possible in the future. It’s not that I have anything against the Koran being read, but it was so loud, it was difficult for me to concentrate on the book I wanted to read.

I did see my first nomads on that trip. Over about a 30 km stretch through rolling hills, I saw thousands of sheep, huge flocks, along with a few donkeys, grazing the hills, and every quarter mile or so a tent compound. I was surprised at how various the tents were. Some very large, professionally made (usually black), others pretty rag-tag, often patched or supplemented by blue tarps, as if running the gamut from villa to shantytown.

Cart of Prickly Pears - lHindia - visible everywhere lots of
people gather this time of year

One of the things I like about long bus trips here are the rest stops. At some point the driver pulls over, turns off the engine and hops out. Everyone else does then, too, and spreads out looking for food and bathrooms. When the driver’s ready to go (usually in about a half hour), he starts the bus and honks the horn a few times. When you hear the horn, you best get on the bus, because no one calls the roll to see if everyone’s there. On the way to Azrou, we stopped at a town called Rich, which had a decidedly frontier feel to it. On my way home, we stopped at Taddert, high in the Tichka Pass. It was my second time there. I recognized it from the bus ride my third day in Morocco, from Marrakesh to Ourzazate. It’s a town strung along two sides of a mountain road. I think these stops are its main industry.

In both Rich and Taddert, there was a cart with lHndia (prickly pears). It’s the season for this succulent fruit. They’re cheap, 2 for a dirham. They're shaped like little hand grenades. The vendor deftly lops off both ends, then slices down the side and peels back the prickly cactus skin and holds it out to you so you can pick up the juicy inside. While you’re devouring that in two or three bites and getting juice down your chin and hands, he peels the second one for you.

My trip home involved taking the train from Rabat to Marrakesh, then a bus to Kalaa M’Gouna. By the way, the trains here are nice, fast, and on time. They also don’t stay in the station very long. They stop, people stream off, people climb on, and then they’re gone. It’s something I noticed while waiting for my Marrakesh bound train Tuesday morning. It made me a little nervous because I had my backpack, a large duffle, and a box with my new printer. I was traveling 2d Class, so there was no such thing as checked baggage. I felt awkward and bulky.

I got on what turned out to be a compartment car. There were no seats available in any compartments, so I found myself along with quite a few other people standing in the narrow aisleway hugging the wall with my duffle and box and having people sqeeze past me. I thought, “Am I going to have to make this whole ride out here?” But a guy next to me, perhaps reading my thoughts, said that after the next stop, there would be room in the compartments. And, sure enough, there was. I settled into a compartment with three women and a boy of ten or so stretched out asleep on the seat opposite me. I had just settled in when the conductor came by and told me I would have to change trains in Casablanca.

“Great.” I thought, “just what I want to do – wrestle these bags off and onto another train.” Again, I was a little nervous, knowing how briefly the trains stopped. I must have thought I was on the Marrakesh Express, because after about 45 minutes, a length of time I deemed sufficient to get us to Casa at the speed we were going, people started moving toward the end of the car. I decided I’d better get ready, too, and pulled my duffle and box out of the compartment and queued up at the end of the car. When we stopped, I hustled off. Only then, as the train was pulling away, did I look around and see that I was not in the middle of big, bustling Casablanca, but somewhere out in the country.

Trying not to panic – what of my connection in Casa? What of my bus connection in Marrakesh? – I looked around. I said to a guy near me, “This is not Casablanca, right?” In a more cynical culture, that would have just a elicited a pitying look. Or a laugh. But he just said, “No, Mahmoudiya.” Noting all the people on the platform, I asked, “Is there another train soon?” “In about 5 minutes,” he said. “Going to Casa?” He nodded, and I understood him to say, “It’s the next station.” In 15 minutes the train arrived. He helped me get my baggage on board, and we stood at the end of the car. After about 15 minutes, we came to another station. “Here?” I asked. “No,” he said, “the next station.” Somehow, though, some people on the platform got into the conversation, saying yes, I should get off there, because the next train through was bound for Marrakesh. So, at my good Samaritan’s urging, just as the doors were closing, I hopped off. Again, I found myself at a country station.

About 25 minutes later, the train arrived. My new good Samaritan (the one who’d urged me to get off), helped me with baggage and situated me in a standing area at the end of the car. Again, as at Rabat, there were no seats. We stopped in Casa briefly, then pulled away again. A well-dressed man next to me said that after the next station I would be able to find a place to sit. Sure enough, as we approached the next station, a number of seats emptied as people queued up at the end of the car. The well-dressed man walked into the car and staked out a place for me. I went in and placed my pack in the seat then went back and wrestled my duffle and printer into the aisle, found places for them in the overhead, then flopped into a very comfortable seat.

I spent most of the ride reading The Dark Star Safari, Paul Theroux’s account of his overland journey from Cairo to Capetown. At one point I started talking with the woman next to me, whose cute little 5 or 6-year old daughter kept coming up from another row and talking with her then dancing off. After a while the young woman across the aisle from me said, in English, “What language are you trying to speak?” (Note the “trying”.) I told her Tamazight. Then she told me she was from Toronto, a Canadian-Moroccan here for the summer visiting her mother. I asked her if she was going to Marrakesh, the main station. She said, “Yes.” “I’m following your lead then,” I said, and told her about my getting off at the wrong station before Casa. When we arrived at Marrakesh, I looked around and saw that there were two station buildings. I asked her if she knew which was the main one, that I had to transfer to a bus. She pointed at one and, lifting her eyes, said, “That’s the bus station.” Raising my eyes, I, too, saw a rather large sign saying “Supr@tours Bus Station.” “Good thing I have you as my guide,” I said, then, thanking her, hustled off to the station. I have no idea whether I ended up on the right train to Marrakesh, but as it turned out, I arrived with 25 minutes to spare…with a lot of help from Moroccan strangers.

Ramadan Begins

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Tue, 09 Aug 2011 09:43:00 +0000

The breakfast table: tomato & onion salad, olives, dates, fresh figs, several
breads and pastries, soup, coffee, juice, and water - lots of water.

We’re now a week into Ramadan, the month-long period of fasting that Muslims all over the world observe to commemorate the period when Mohammed received the Qur’an.

From sun-up to sun-down, Muslims (with exceptions for the ill, travelers, nursing mothers and pre-pubescent children) are required to abstain from eating or drinking during daylight hours. There is also an increased emphasis on prayer and alms-giving during Ramadan. Non-Muslims, like me, are allowed to eat and drink, though respect for the culture requires that you do so privately.

I decided to fast along with my Moroccan friends, though, and it’s been quite an experience. There are many aspects to it:

· The physical act and bodily response to fasting

· The breaking of the fast

· The turning of one’s schedule topsy-turvey

· The spiritual benefits

Inghayi laz, inghayi fad

These are common expressions, the equivalent of “I'm dying of hunger, I'm dying of thirst.” But everyone, including me, is saying them these days. I found the second and third days to be the worst, and quite difficult, but now my body seems to be acclimating to the regimen. The hardest time for me is in the morning between 10 and 11, after I’ve been up for 4 hours or so. But I’ve been able to continue my running (about 45 minutes every other day), though I time it just before sundown so that I can rehydrate shortly after I finish. And I’ve walked to Kalaa twice this week, about 5 miles round-trip. I’m not sure how manual laborers manage it, though, especially during this August heat.

Rmdan ishka, walakin ihla

I was led to believe that no one would ask me if I was fasting, that it would be a little too personal. On the contrary, once the ritual greetings are out of the way, everyone asks da tuzumt? (Are you fasting?). When I answer, Iyeah, da tuzumgh, I can see they’re both surprised and pleased. Sometimes, a bit incredulous, they’ll follow up with, Kulshi? Walu aman? Walu lmakla? (Everything? No water? No food?). And then they’ll follow up with Rmdan ishka, walakin ihla (Ramadan is hard, but it’s beautiful).

That’s my preeminent perception – everyone loves Ramadan. A big reason, I think, is the breaking of the fast, which happens with breakfast (lftur), about 7:30 in the evening after lmughrb, the sunset call to prayer. There are special dishes served, everyone in the family makes a special effort to be there - of course, since they’re all dying of hunger and thirst! - and, frankly, in this country where togetherness is a chief characteristic, there seems to be even more of it than at other times of year. There’s an eagerness to share the time, too. In the seven days so far, I’ve broken the fast with four different families, two of whom I had never eaten with before. Many families then also have dinner sometime after the last call to prayer, which occurs about 9:00. With my host family, we’ve also been playing a lot of card games, a Ramadan tradition.

One of the things I like about Ramadan is the early meal! It’s a substantial meal, all I really want or need, and I don’t have to wait until the usual dinner time of somewhere between ten and midnight.

A 3:00 a.m. Wake-up Call

I’m finding the hardest part of Ramadan has been the disruption of my normal sleep cycle. I’ve been following the recommended practice of getting up at 3:00 a.m. for shur, a pre-emptive meal with lots of water, which must be completed before the morning call to prayer at 4:00. Then I go back to bed until my alarm rings at 6:30, though in fact I’ve been staying in bed till 7:30. And then I seem to need a long nap in the afternoon. And when I go to sleep at night, and again after shur, I have trouble going to sleep, unheard of for me since my days in the Army, fifty years ago. So will I become accustomed to this, too? Or will Ramadan initiate a permanent change in my sleeping habits? I hope not! Or is adapting to this new sleep schedule part of the spiritual challenge?

Spiritual Benefits

Other than for short periods prior to medical tests, I’ve never fasted before in my life. I do not have any pre-conceived agenda about my fasting. I’m doing it out of curiosity and cultural reasons, rather than some religious or spiritual intent. But I do know that spirituality arises out of discipline and practice, both of which characterize Ramadan, so who knows what the result will be? As part of my practice, I am also using this time to read the Qur’an for the first time. After I wake up in the morning I read one juz’, a traditional division which facilitates reading the entire book in one month. It takes me about 45 minutes each day. I hope it will lead me to a deeper understanding of these people and this culture.

It is fascinating to watch as the whole society submits itself to this single idea. An example: Restaurants are closed most of the day (how do they survive a month of this?). And many businesses are closed for longer than usual in mid-day and, presumably, in the evening for lftur. So productivity (and income) must suffer during this time. But then this is not a society in which work is the pre-eminent value, as it in the States. I have lots to learn. For now, it is enough for me to observe and to submit myself to the discipline of fasting.

I Become a Tourist

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Sat, 30 Jul 2011 21:21:00 +0000

Bamboo decking shades shoppers in the Rabat medina and
provides a wonderful dappled light

Travel literature is replete with distinctions between the traveler and the tourist. One of my favorites is G.K. Chesterton’s observation that “the traveler sees what he sees, while the tourist sees what he goes to see.” It’s another way of saying that in their quest to see the “sights,” tourists are blinded to what is actually there.

Peace Corps – with its emphasis on entering the community and culture in a deep way – is giving me the ultimate in travel. Yet, I still want to see the sights.

A carpet store, Rabat medina

Up till now, I haven’t had the chance, but a week ago last Saturday, I left my village for a week’s training in Azrou, a middle-sized town in the Middle Atlas. It’s an area called the Moroccan Switzerland, though it reminded me more of northern Italy. The mountains were definitely not Alpine, which is what I associate with Switzerland. It certainly was different from my region, though – cooler, tree-lined streets (there’s not a single tree in my village outside a garden wall), and white-washed houses rather than the ubiquitous red ochre of the south.

A tomb or shrine to a marabout, or saint, in Rabat medina

When the training was over, I hitched a ride with PC staff to the capital, Rabat. I was scheduled for some routine medical tests on Monday, but the timing gave me two days to wander the city, which I did, usually in the company of two other senior volunteers, Stan and Barbara. On Saturday, I made the PCV’s obligatory trip to Marjane, a Wal-Mart style chain, and bought a printer for my computer and some sheets and pillows for my bed. Little by little, I’m getting myself outfitted for living and working.

Rabat's new Tram-Way

On Sunday morning, Stan, Barbara and I walked through the medina (the old, walled city), the Oudaia Kasbah (the old, walled fort), and an Andalusian Garden. It was great. In the afternoon, we took a practice run on Rabat’s shiny new Tram-Way out to Peace Corps headquarters, which is about four kilometers from the center of the city.

And then more walking. I love to walk, and a couple of days wandering Centre Ville, the main part of the downtown, built by the French during colonial days, had me feeling like I was getting the hang of the city. Not the medina, of course, which is a tangle of streets and passages, and endlessly more interesting. I would need much more time to get the hang of that.

You can see more pictures of my trip to Azrou, Ifrane, and Rabat by clicking here.

A fountain in the medina with beautiful zellij, the tilework for which
Morocco is so famous

Domestic Lessons

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Tue, 12 Jul 2011 09:59:00 +0000

My laundry set-up: Large basin for washing, green
for rinse, black bucket for bleach items. Yes, there’s
Tide here. In fact, it’s become the
generic word, teed, for laundry detergent.

I’ve been fighting a cold for a couple of days. Sunday, I spent most of the day sleeping and reading – though I was glued to my computer for about half an hour following the windup to the thrilling Women’s World Cup match between the U.S. and Brazil on FIFA’s Gametracker. Go U.S.!

Yesterday, I dragged myself out of bed to go to my Berber lesson in Kalaa. I came right home and went back to bed for a while. But in the afternoon, I got up and felt really great. I decided I would do my laundry and cook up some food. I’d bought some kefta (ground meat) on Friday, and knew I needed to cook it before it went bad. You may recall that in my last post I said that whenever you move into a new place, it takes a while to learn how to live in. Well, I learned a few lessons yesterday.

Even a line between the open columns wouldn’t
have given me enough space.

Laundry

This is the first batch I’ve done since I moved into my own house. In truth, it’s the first batch I’ve done entirely on my own since I’ve been in Morocco. My host family would never let me do my laundry by myself, since it’s “women’s work.” I did it at the faucet in my own courtyard, rather than at a well. And I feel some gratification, because I think I did a pretty good job of it, though it probably took me twice as much time to do it as it would have them. I also appreciate the tips I learned from them about handwashing, especially how to get tough blue-jean fabric clean (with a brush and lots of elbow grease).

Lessons learned: I need more clothesline, and I need to do my laundry in the morning, so that I can get it all hung up and dried in one day (I was taking dry laundry off the line and hanging new clothes to dry at 11:30 last night).

The top of my couscousier worked as a serviceable
colander for the pasta. Don’t ask me if I’m
planning to try my hand at couscous soon.

Cooking

Since I didn’t buy any real food till Friday, and then got sick, I hadn’t done much more in the kitchen than fry a couple of eggs and make tea and coffee. I decided to make meatballs and pasta and a salad of tomatoes and cucumbers in vinegar and oil. I didn’t have any tomato sauce or paste, so I made a sauce of onions, tomatoes, green and red olives, and mustard, which was really good. And I felt like I needed to cook all of the meat, so I ended up with 15 meatballs. What does that mean? Leftovers!

Lessons learned: The oven does work, though who knows what the temperature is? I need an oven thermometer. I need garlic! I need to make meatballs smaller, so they cook faster and more evenly. I need an apron and hot pads. And I needTupperware-type containers for those leftovers.

Voila!

First Morning

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Sun, 03 Jul 2011 12:23:00 +0000

The view from my pillow

When I woke up this morning, I looked at the high, ribbed ceiling (at least 12') and felt like I was in the hall of a monastery. It was cool and quiet. Sanctuary.

There was a wedding going on nearby yesterday, so when I went to bed (about midnight) I could hear the intermittent ululation that is a part of all weddings here, and the singing and drum beating. It turns out a common pathway in town goes right alongside my bedroom wall, so there was a lot of foot traffic passing my windows as people went to and from the wedding. Hushed voices, the sound of feet on the stony path, the peripheral glow of a flashlight from window to window. At first it felt weird. I thought, “What if they shine their flashlight in here?” But then I thought, “Well, that would be rude, but what else?” Since all the windows have steel grillwork on them, there was no danger of someone just climbing through the window, so I rolled over and went to sleep. About 4:30, I was awakened by the first call to prayer. I’m closer to the mosque here, and the call is much louder. At 6:30, the crowing of rooster woke me for good.

I got up to do my morning ablutions. I’ve learned that when you move into a new place, it takes a while to learn how to live in it. I’d had an idea of how and where I wanted to do my washing and shaving, but it didn’t work out that well. I’ll try it differently tomorrow.

My kitchen, so far

Then I turned my attention to breakfast. Despite spending most of my settling in allowance on Wednesday and Thursday for a mattress, refrigerator, table and chairs, and kitchen and cleaning supplies, I still have no dishes, glasses, or silverware. And no food! In a bag that I hadn’t opened in months, I found a French press, a travel mug from the Coffee Grounds, my favorite coffee shop back in Grand Haven, and some packets of Constant Comment and Lord Grey tea. A friend had sent a care package that arrived a few days ago, so I had tea and a package of Nutter Butters for breakfast.

Perfect.

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My work space. It's at the opposite end of the long room
from the sitting area.

Before I moved on Friday, I walked with Mohammed, my host father, to the polling place. In case you’re not keeping up with international news, Friday was the referendum on the Moroccan government’s proposed constitutional reforms.

It was a big deal. Unlike other North African and Middle Eastern countries, Morocco has not been wracked by violence. There are probably many reasons for this, but two important ones are that the king, Mohammed VI, was already known as a reformer, and that when the “Arab Spring” bloomed six months ago, the king immediately announced there would be further reforms in which he would relinquish some of his power to the elected government. The reforms were announced a couple of weeks ago. In the referendum, voters had the choice of voting Yes or No. It passed with about 98% of the vote. That doesn’t surprise me. In my town, the king seems universally loved, and his proposals were greeted with approval.

My sitting area, with a rug loaned to me by my host
family. The blue flooring you see is agrtil, a plastic fabric
used everywhere as an underflooring. On my budget
I'm using it as my carpeting.

The voting itself was interesting, a lot like home. It took place at the local elementary school. Desks had been piled up to make room for the poll workers. There were three prominent local citizens working as poll workers, checking voter registration, etc. Voters received 2 cards, one Yes, one No, and an envelope. They went into the voting booth, put their choice in the envelope and slipped the other into a discard box. They came out and dropped the envelope with their vote into a clear box. People, all men when I went there, stood outside in the shade of some trees chatting. There was one big difference: they served tea!

In the evening, I asked my sisters if they had voted. They all assured me they had, later in the day.

My sleeping nook, at one end of the "monastery" hall

My New House

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 20:35:00 +0000

My house revolves around this
nine-meter square courtyard

On Sunday morning, I took possession of my new house then spent the rest of the day with several of my host sisters and brothers cleaning. I’ve included some pictures and a plan drawing, roughly to scale, except that it doesn’t include the thickness of the walls, which are nearly two feet thick. It’s basically a square, built around a courtyard with an opening to the sky and a raised garden in the middle, where I hope to plant mint for tea and some herbs for cooking.

The two large rooms are roughly 40 x 9 feet. I jokingly call them my bowling alleys. And maybe I will turn one into a bowling alley for an “American Night” sometime. I plan to use one of them for a public room – dining and living – the other for my bedroom, office, and storage. The entryway is large, a room in its own right. The kitchen is empty except for butagaz fueled range (the only one I’ve seen in Morocco) left by the previous tenant. I spent a lot of time cleaning it yesterday, and I don’t even know if it works yet. The bathroom consists of a Turkish toilet (or squat toilet – two footprints and a hole in the floor), as is common here. Spent a lot of time cleaning that yesterday, too.

I visited the house after breakfast this morning (it’s only about a 3 minute walk from my host family’s house), and it was cool and inviting. I liked it. The challenge now is to turn the house into a home. It’s a big space – too big for the budget we Peace Corps volunteers have – but I have some ideas, and I’ll give you visual updates over time. For the next few days, my task is to make the essential purchases and get them delivered so that I can be reasonably self-sufficient by the time I move in on Friday, July 1.

My front door, with newly repaired steps

The entryway with window to kitchen

Lane 1: The Salon

Lane 2: Bedroom, Workroom, & Storage

The kitchen, with windows to courtyand and to entryway

Needs no explanation

The Floor Plan

A view from my roof: Looking east to the Saghro Mountains

A view from my roof: Looking west over the Dades Valley to
Kalaa and the Atlas Mountains

Triplets, and I Missed ‘Em

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Dana) — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 22:00:00 +0000

Three new lambs at our house, shortly after birth

When I got home today, I discovered I’d just missed an exciting event: the birth of triplet lambs. Apparently, they were a bit tangled up, so the vet was called in. In any case, they’re doing fine. They were still a bit wobbly on their feet when I got home and snapped this picture.

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Can't Stop Itchin' 'Em

I know the picture's blurry, but I think you can still make out
the constellation of bites on my forearm.

The critter that PCVs worry most about here is scorpions. They have a mythical virulence. But you learn to check your shoes before you put them on and shake out loose clothing or towels before using them. I have yet to see a scorpion.

Flies abound, but they don’t seem as big or bad as the ones in the U.S. I’ve made my peace with the flies.

But there is another bug that just appeared that plagues me. Last week I was at a regional meeting. A PCV from way up in the mountains showed up with bites all over his arms. “What is it?” we asked. He said he didn’t know, but he was getting bit all over his arms and legs. Just to make him feel better, we began to speculate: Was it bedbugs? Fleas? Lice?

Then I came home. And suddenly I was getting bit, too: arms, legs, ears. I had no idea what was after me, but the bites sure do itch. My host mom occasionally slapped my hands away while I was scratching, as if I were a child. But that didn’t help. What I’ve discovered – to paraphrase Shakespeare – is that a noseeum by any other name (baa’ut, in this case) still itches the same. It’s maddening. I asked my host family how long they stick around. “All summer!” they said.

So I went into Kalaa today to the pharmacy in search of 2 things: some anti-itch preparation, which I found, and insect repellent, which I also found and which has the wonderful name, Repulsiya – sounds like a spell right out of Harry Potter. We’ll see. If it fails, my only hope, I guess, is to make peace with these critters, too. What do you think are the chances of that?

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Other News

Me, on the front steps of my new house.

I got my “Autorisation” this week so that I can work in the schools here. That’s another one of the bureaucratic hurdles out of the way. Now I can focus on creating lesson plans during the summer to get ready for the fall school year.

But the big news is that Peace Corps finally approved the house I found. We went through it last Saturday and made a punch list of things that needed to be fixed. Top on the list? Screens! Next on the list: fix the front step. I will gain access to it on the 26^th and move in on July 1. I’ll tell you more about it and show pictures soon.