The First Noel

Last weekend while contemplating death on the bus to Marrakech, my thoughts were thankfully interrupted by the realization that Christmas would be here soon. It wouldn't be here exactly, but it would be somewhere. Without the sensory reminders of Xmas (lights, music, advertisments) one tends to forget about the holiday altogether. Without the religion to back up where the commercial and decorative elements fail to impact, Christmas seemed to be a time at least to appreciate everything and everyone you appreciate, or would like to. But wait, is that too much like Thanksgiving? And why just the one "season" or day? We could make it a regular thing, yeah? Without all the fuss?

Perhaps that would be diluting the concentrated "fun"; tradition + nostalgia + anticipation seem to equal lifted spirits in many cases, and at least a "season" provies many with the opportunity (or, er... obligation?) to visit loved ones.

Enough self-indulgent ruminations on the meaning of Christmas as ruminated by Nathaniel Krause; let's get to the self-indulgent memoirs of life in Morocco as memoired by Nathaniel Krause.

So here, in the High Atlas mountains in the Islamic nation of Morocco, Africa, I spent Xmas Eve sipping hot tea in front of a humble but fancifully decorated fake tree with my good buddy and site mate Ami and her visiting friend from America, Stephanie. We listened to some wonderfully horrific music-- Crosby Croons the Christmas Classics or something, cooked a bunch of food, ate a bunch of food, opened presents, chatted with family back home (thanks for the calls and e-mails everyone). It was downright merry.

A great last few days, in fact-- something to combat the withering sense of purpose and feelings of uselessness common in a Volunteer's first few months of service.

I'm anxious to get out of homestay-- another month seems like an eternity, but I'm sure there will be unforseen benefits to the time spent here. Having a place to live until I find a house is one that jumps to mind. Speaking of which, I have baited some hooks around town in hopes of finding a place. People seems eager to help and for that I am grateful, but we never seem to actually go see houses. It's been difficult to judge how active to be in such a situation, but we'll see. I'm considering hiring a simsar, or person whom you pay to find you a house, in order to hopefully speed up the process. Another situation in which I have to remind myself to be patient; that things take much longer than I'm used to in order to "make progress". I do have a deadline, however, and I don't want to have to rush a lack of progress as January winds down.

That's about it for things here at the moment. Peace Corps staff drove something like eight hours last week to deliver me a sweet new mountain bike. Have a look:

I'm sure I will further camoflague myself into the society pedalling my shiny red TREK through town. If I only had some sort of bright blue helment that I'd be required, under threat of immediate expulsion from Peace Corps, to wear....ah yes, here it is!

Happy Holidays to everyone back home as well as to my fellow Volunteers. I wish you all the best, all the time.

At the risk of

habitually updating only during times of considerable event or circumstance I thought I should provide this stunning development:

Today I bought galoshes.
For galoshing.

l-Eid Kbir

12/09/08

Today is l-Eid Kbir or “The Great Feast”, a religious holiday on which families slaughter a sheep in sacrifice as Abraham once did in substitute for his own son, as Islamic history tells us.

For the past week or so I had a companion on my floor of the house. Kept in a makeshift cage in the area across from my room, he mostly ate hay and bleated dishearteningly well into the night. We never really became friends but still, I was sad to see him go. This morning he, along with what must have been hundreds of thousands of his brethren across the country, with a slash of a knife, exited this earth in a pool of blood.

Sort of. Most of him is still here.

I returned home this morning at the beckoning of my host brother; the deed was about to be done, he said. I walked up to the roof area near my room in time to see the sheep, my irksome companion, in his last seconds of life on the concrete floor. Blood was splattered about, his throat cut, body twitching and occasionally thrashing as the butcher held his legs. When he stopped moving they hung him up by the tendons of his rear ankles *shiver*. Before that, however, they inflated his skin (to ease in its separation from the body) by cutting a hole in its coat and blowing. An inflated sheep, seriously. They proceeded to skin and disembowel it, placing the organs meant for consumption into buckets and trays. In order to remove the feces from the intestinal tract, the man-- I will never forget this-- placed his lips directly to the sheep’s rear entrance and blew forcefully several times. You could see the “digestive material” moving along through the transparent bulbous tubes of viscera dangling from its abdomen and, with the aid of a little water, it fell out in brown pebbles onto the ground from some severed end.

Still reading?

Its body, legs broken, hooves chopped off, decapitated, eviscerated and hollow, hung there from the ladder propped up outside my room. Its head, eyes still open, is sitting atop the heap of skin and fur nearby. I think I ate parts of it for lunch just minutes ago. Not the head, I mean. But that will come soon enough.

Kids have been out in the street, screaming and making taunting-sounding chants down the alleys in anticipation of something ominous to come. Men dressed up in goatskin suits and others with masks and black paint on their bodies (called harmas, I believe) roam the streets with wooden sticks, harassing and chasing people, stopping cars, and terrifying children who are obviously loving it-- all in good fun (I think) in a very Halloween-esque fashion.

Halloween and Thanksgiving, that’s what this holiday feels like. The togetherness, the visiting of family, the bickering, the mass slaughtering of animals, the costumes, the kids running around outside, and of course the eating and eating and eating. Though the official holiday is just today, the celebration will continue throughout the week as we make our way through the remaining sheep parts. I think brain is on the menu. Mbruk l-Eid!

Volunteerism, Chapter I

Blankets, that’s what I’d advise. Layers of long johns maybe, or perhaps try setting yourself on fire. Just long enough to fall asleep at least. Whatever works, I guess-- that’s what I’d suggest if you’re coming to Morocco this winter.

This morning, after looking for animal shapes in the clouds my breath made in the air followed by some serious motivational inner dialogue, I got out of bed and shuffled over to the keychain compass and thermometer hanging from a nail in the corner of my Moroccan map. The temperature read somewhere in the low 40’s and after a slight bit of confusion I found that North was in its usual direction.

Most houses here are built of cinder blocks coated in a layer or two of concrete. There is no insulation or heating system, and often there are gaping areas of wall missing; rooms are left exposed directly to the elements (though luckily not in this house). Sometimes there are rooms with-- get this-- no ceilings. “Outside rooms”, I like to call them.

But I’m not complaining, just observing. Things have been good here. On the 20th they bussed all of us to a posh hotel in Fez for a thankfully very brief swearing in courtesy of the Ambassador followed by some food and mingling with Peace Corps staff and members of our CBT host families. My host mom from Itzer (aka Pantsville) was there. Afterwards it was back to Azrou for one last night with all of my fellow train- uh, Volunteers.

Each time we’ve undergone a major change of environment so far during Peace Corps the weather has been cold and gray; it was no different the next day early in the A.M. as we said our sleepy goodbyes and lugged our things down to the bus station. The few of us heading to Marrakech that day had opted to spend eight hours on a souq bus, as the price was considerably cheaper than the train and the ride a straight shot. Twenty minutes into the trip as I “sat” twisted in my seat, the gentleman ahead of me reclined his seatback, conveniently allowing me to examine the upholstery at extreme close range. This was good, as the alternative was to gaze in horror out the window as our bus careened violently at a disturbing rate of kilometers per hour over the serpentine mountain roads. Then the vomiting began. Not yours truly, fortunately, but throughout the bus wafted the sounds of crinkling plastic bags and muffled retching. Cheaper than the train though!

But I’m not complaining-- just telling the story here. A good time was had in Marrakech; the last hurrah, I suppose. The next morning we went our separate ways and, after lingering a bit by myself in Kech, I arrived at the doorstep of my host family’s house. That evening after dinner, catching up with the fam, and making my head bleed by cracking my skull on the low door frame to my room, it came to my attention that a 5k race was being held in Town, and that I should sign up.

So, the next afternoon I found myself packed into a van headed 5k outside of Town with runners clearly more accomplished than myself. I could tell by their tiny shorts and by the way they, when the signal to start was given, disappeared from my sight within seconds down the road ahead of me. This will be good for integration, I thought as I ran alone on the gravel shoulder, avoiding wayward taxis. At the finish line quite a crowd had gathered, though they were mostly facing the other way and taking cell phone photos with the winners by that point. No matter, someone assigned to the task found it in her heart to award me with a participatory ribbon that is now hanging by my bedside.

It’s quite a feeling to wake up in the morning with no schedule, no one speaking English, and no obligations other than to do some Small Business Development sometime within the next two years. No problem! Exhilarating and daunting, that mix seems to follow me everywhere in Peace Corps…

Honestly though, there’s lots to be done.

I met up with a man named “José”, an English teacher at the local school (you’d think there would be some English speakers around, right?), who agreed to be my Darija/Tashelheit (a local Berber dialect) tutor. Peace Corps will pay for us to hire tutors for the first year of service. I had to register with the Gendarmes (local police), apply for a carte de sejour (residency card), and meet my counterpart, a man in charge of the local artisan community. They say that one’s first year is spent figuring things out-- getting to know people, improving one’s language ability, and understanding where the artisans are in terms of business and product development. It’s a very gradual and informal process; the speed of things here can supposedly be a source of great frustration to one still operating according to the American concept of time.

The “job” part of my presence here, in a nutshell, is to act as a sort of conduit through which the artisans can develop and expand and/or refine what they do in order to ultimately improve the quality of their lives. To motivate, empower, and introduce them to possibilities. To instigate changes where needed. This isn’t to say that these people are necessarily unhappy or consider themselves to have a poor standard of living, but we were invited here; our help was requested. That’s quite a broad, vague description, as there are a billion specific variables involved, but it’s accurate nonetheless.

I’ll figure it out as I figure it out.

Aside from the work assistance, Peace Corps’ purpose is to expose different willing cultures to one another, consequently (in theory) creating mutual understanding, respect, and widened world views. Cultivating an environment. You know, that whole “peace” thing. Naïve or not, I think that’s pretty f*@#ing cool. Almost freezing, in fact. I recommend blankets.

S-salam.

Update, Sort Of

I must apologize for the lack of current posts; as usual in the past weeks they've kept us moving here and there... so much to tell. Training is over! I've sworn in as an actual bonafide fer real Volunteer now, and am settling in at my site. Still alive and doing well, despite the coooold. It was 42 degrees in my bedroom when I woke up this morning. I'm not complaining though; it is beautiful here-- so good to finally be "home". I'll work on a genuine update in the next few days. Hope all is well and Happy Thanksgiving. Mmm....(dreams of turkey).

Marrakech, Site Visit, and Waiting for Mohammed VI

I’m sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Tazi at noon in Marrakech amid gaggles of European tourists all drinking Spéciale beer at 25 Dh apiece and dressed in ski jackets. Having been the first of my fellow trainees to arrive by bus this morning, I’m enjoying some respite from lugging my backpack across the city.

We first arrived in 'Kech a week ago. Four of us, having traveled by grand taxi, train, and petit taxi, were required to stay one night in the city. Not being allowed to travel at night, our journeys took two days of travel to complete.

Marrakech is a haven for tourists; the main open square, Jemaa el-Fna and its surrounding winding mazes of the medina are ripe with fake exoticism. Snake charmers, henna artists, men in funny hats, and leashed monkeys attempt to lure you over. At night steam rises through the brightly lit caravan of food vendors, and one fully expects to run into Anthony Bourdain, camera crew in tow, or some other Travel Channel pundit capturing scenes of “real Moroccan culture”.

A walk down some of the more uninviting alleys presents one with a grittier, non-tourist affiliated vision of life in Marrakech-- motorbikes and taxis weave deftly yet perilously between pedestrians through the narrow, broken streets. The modern, flashy marquees of Jemaa el-Fna are lost behind the walls of dingy buildings adorned with electrical wires and caged-over windows.

A week ago we saw this for the first time on our way to Site Visit, a period during which we met and lived with our new host families, introduced ourselves to the PCVs we would be replacing, and spoke with the artisans with whom we would be working for the next two years. After two months of floating, it’s nice to have a home, or at least, to know where my home will be. The moving isn’t over yet, as I’ll still have to arrange my own living quarters sometime early next year, but this is a big step. I have a new hometown, and it’s an exciting prospect.

My site is located in the High Atlas region. An hour southwest of Marrakech, the town of approximately 16-18,000 is nestled beneath both tree-topped and snow-capped mountains. The area is biodiverse-- in parts it is desert-like, with thickets of cacti and scrubby almond trees-- in others it is lush with green vegetation. A river valley divides the upper and lower areas of town; there are beautiful Shire-like expanses with soft grass and lazy trees. In other spots palms and tall reeds wave gently.

I live in the lower area of town with a host mom and her son who is twelve years my junior. Unlike my last host mother, I call this woman by her first name; her demeanor and attitude are more like those of a cool aunt, and she treats we with generosity and kindness. I have a freedom here that was completely absent during my stay with my host family in CBT. Perhaps to due my improved language ability, the personalities of my new family, or a combination of everything, I am regarded as an adult with actual functioning ability-- a refreshing home environment. My host brother is mesmerized by soccer, and takes advantage of our time together by involving it in ninety-nine percent of our discussions and activities. Interestingly, he is more fascinated by the spectators than the activity on the field, pointing to the TV when they chant, move and react as a group in that crazed way soccer fans do. “Winner spectators! First Africa!” he says.

Moroccans have a way of obscuring the beauty of their architecture; behind an indiscreet building façade or rusty steel door might lay a majestically tiled abode, or a green courtyard garden, all tucked away behind walls. Ducking under a concrete entranceway, one comes to the door of my host family’s house. I’m spoiled with running water, TWO bathrooms (one of which has a Western-style toilet…jeez I might as well be living the royal palace) and a room to myself on the third floor. Well, that’s not entirely true; I share the area with a twelve-year-old turtle named Something In Arabic I Don’t Remember who spends his days in the concrete outdoor are just outside of my room. Also nearby is a small staircase leading to a roof area directly above my room. Technically being the fourth floor and due to our location in town, it provides a fantastic view of the sprawling town, surrounding douars, the arid flat landscape to the north, and of course, the comforting embrace of the mountains.

The town offers every amenity a PCV could ask for-- internet, cafes, shops aplenty, daily and weekly markets, and transportation. The two primary groups of artisans consist of potters and carpenters. The SBD Volunteer whom I’ll be replacing worked with the potters; I have the option of choosing. There are lots of possibilities for work. These first few months will consist of getting to know the artisans, letting them get to know me-- “hanging around” basically-- becoming known, a familiar face, and developing language. Integrating. It’s possible I will teach English to some of the youth I’ve already met. Word spread quickly of my presence in town; apparently one morning a crowd of girls gathered to meet me. I don’t know; I wasn’t there, but I think we can safely assume it’s true. You know, just like back in America…….uhh…....

Anyway, the town seems wonderful and I feel very grateful to have been placed there.

So there is a little joke in Morocco I’ve fallen for a few times so far:
Did you hear? The King is coming today!
Really? Woah, that’s so cool, omigod, etc. etc.

It’s just a ploy to make fun of gullible people. Turn on the evening news and you’ll see footage of him shaking hands with various officials and lucky members of the public, visiting hospitals, ribbon cutting ceremonies, various inaugurations, etc.. The King is Morocco’s rock star; they adore him. I’ve seen his portrait in probably every home and business I've visited throughout the country.

Last Wednesday I received a text message stating that the King was indeed actually-- well, maybe coming and that people were beginning to gather along the main road into town. I headed up at about 9:30 a.m. and found a good spot on which to stand. So I stood. Guards in uniforms of different sorts patrolled the streets; barricades were raised, as were Moroccan flags and a giant picture of the King. Maintenance workers swept the streets, bands of men in white djellabas arrived with their hand held drums, and the crowd grew.

Two hours later the sun was beginning to move overhead and shine in a harsh, burning way, and the feisty old women around me jabbed with their elbows to gain precious inches of ground nearer to the street. We waited. Miniature Moroccan flags were handed out as well as cardboard printouts of the King, which the women grabbed for violently and kissed adoringly. The heat of the sun, the ache of standing, the anticipation, the trance-inducing frenzied drumming and maniacal singing transformed the crowd into a wild beast, at which point I relinquished my ground for the comfort of shade and a brief sit. Five hours had passed.

It was at this point that I heard someone calling my name. I turned to see the other PCV in town, a Youth Development Volunteer standing next to where I sat. She introduced me to a British family living in town that happened to be waiting as well, a couple with six beautiful blond daughters all named names I would choose for my own children. The parents were in need of another pair of shoulders for their little ones. After another hour of waiting, we heard the crowd roar-- people surged forward against the barricade. I hoisted one of the girls up, stood on my toes, and above the sea of tiny red flags I saw the King standing and waving through the roof of his car as his motorcade swept through town.

After six hours of waiting the King, for five seconds, really, truly did come to town that day. Omigod.


(check out the photobucket link for new pictures of my site and the surrounding area)

Africa

This isn't Africa-- Africa is where the wild things are. Africa is full of jungles, thatch-roofed huts, stretched-out earlobes and prides of lions basking in savanna grasses.

Surely Africa isn't home to half-modern towns where internet cafes hide behind the walls of dingy street side buildings, where the woman in the teleboutique covered from head to toe in old bedsheets can disassemble and repair your cellphone, where teenagers prowl in leather jackets and denim like 50's style greasers while old men sit curbside smirking between sips from shot glass sized teacups.

A two foot tall hookah rests next to the TV (blaring dubbed Bollywood movies), on top of which sits a vase of fabric flowers and a pair of ceramic dolphins. Lightbulbs hang from single strands of wire in each room and the kids look through piles of scratched DVDs as my host mother cooks dinner for ten on a small wood stove on the floor in the corner of the room. Donkeys and mules clomp down worn trails from the mountains carrying loads of cedar logs; the carpenter up the road generously fashions me a pair of ping pong paddles with his sabre saw and belt sander. Families inside mud huts flick on light switches. Prayer calls crackle from loudspeakers atop the mosque.

I translate summaries of The Old Man and the Sea, the sections I've read the night before in the minutes before sleep, in the evenings for my host sister. I've told her I will mail her a copy of the book as soon as I can find one for her. She says she wants to be a pilot; I think that's probably what she'll do.

The power is out on a rainy evening; I walk home through what resembles a war-torn city-- cracked buildings, muddy streets, a lack of warmth in the color of everything. Rain drips in through the ceiling in my room, down the electric wire and off the darkened bulb. I listen to Wilco on my iPod, lying under the blankets in bed wearing layers of clothes and long johns while the candle on my nightstand made from scraps of wax burns its last. Such a strange mix of ancient and modern, of romanticized vs reality...

Call Me Samir; May I Scrub You?

I neglected to mention in my previous entry that I’ve been given a new name. Within minutes of meeting my host family two weeks ago I was dubbed “Samir”. “Nathaniel” was perhaps too long or awkward to bother pronouncing-- a common problem even in America. “Samir”, meaning “gentle summer breeze”, has grown on me. In our group we refer to each other by our Moroccan names even now, back at our Seminar Site in Azrou, having just finished our first phase of CBT.

Since completing our work (for the moment) with the artisans in Pantsville, we’ve relocated back to Azrou for five days writing reports and giving presentations about our experience thus far. We’ll be receiving yet more vaccinations, as well as lots of technical training and preparation for CBT phase two. Three weeks long next time, we’ll be implementing projects on site, living with our host families, and continuing daily language sessions.

A lot has changed in the past weeks with our host families; we’ve grown accustomed to one another. I really feel like part of the family and my host mom told me that I am no longer a guest, but another son. The awkward niceties of the first few days have long since faded away and interaction has become much more casual, especially as my language (slowly) improves. Strolling through town is no big thing these days.

I’ve discovered the solution to the bathing problem. As I mentioned previously, my house has no showering facilities; even bucket bathing wasn’t an option (CBT = Can’t Bathe Twice… Chronic Bowel Trauma, etc.). The hmmam, or public bath, is the place to go. Most Moroccans visit about once a week. It’s quite a thing. Consisting of three main rooms, each hotter than the last, the hmmam in Pantsville has arched concrete ceilings and is heated by wood fires burning behind the tiled walls. It’s like a giant sauna in which you bathe in addition to sweat. The process involves stripping down to one’s underwear, filling two buckets with hot water, and finding a spot on the floor. You rinse off an area and sit or lie down to stretch out or relax. Using a thing like a rough oven mitt, you scrub yourself down, rinse off, and that’s about it. It takes around thirty minutes, but you can stay basically as long as you like; it costs five Dirhams ($1 = approx. 7.7 D’s). Moroccan men, however, utilize the hmmam in a manner that would appear well….a bit unusual to most Americans. They pair up, scrubbing and stretching each other almost violently. It looks like some kind of high-energy, mostly-nude doubles yoga, but with soap. It’s apparently pretty dangerous and certainly appears so. My LCF offered to give me a scrubdown; I figured I should at least try it out, provided he promise not to snap any of my ribs or dislocate a shoulder. It was ok, though I think I’ll stick to my oven mitt and water buckets.

It’s interesting to observe and participate in Moroccan home life. I have the only private room in the house (it’s a PC requirement that I have one). The other eight members of the family sleep on the small couches lining the walls of the other rooms. This isn’t a result of my presence in the home; it’s just how they live. There is no personal space really. Everything is shared…rooms, clothes, food, drinking glasses. People don’t seem to have any “stuff”-- no personal belongings. It’s natural, after dinner, to want to head to one’s room, having spent eight hours studying language earlier in the day. This however, is a completely foreign concept to them-- you don’t go to your room to be alone-- you sit with everyone, talk with everyone, eat with everyone, and sleep in the same room as everyone. Personal time is hard to come by, which can be frustrating when one needs to study or just unwind. It’s as though you’re constantly on call. My family has been pretty cool though, letting me off the hook when I say xssni nes (I need to sleep) or bgit nqra (I want to study). Sometimes, just to get away, I have to tell them I’m going to bed, only to lock myself in my room and study or read by the light of my laptop screen.

Ramadan is over; our families dressed us up for l’Aid, the celebration on the first day after the month of fasting ends. My host mom and sister gave me woolen maroon djellaba as a gift… pretty sweet. We visited with families around town, ate tons of food, drank what seemed like gallons of hot tea, and enjoyed the cheerful mood in the Pantsville air.

Last Sunday we were given a self-directed learning day, during which we ventured out on what ended up being a twelve mile hike through the mountains and valleys outside of town. We refilled our water bottles from a natural spring-- straight outta tha earth. On our way back to town we encountered a group of workers in an apple orchard crating boxes of the fruit, and asked if we could buy a few from them. They motioned for us to follow them, and so we did, walking in among the trees. We picked apples with them, joking around in broken Darija and English-- one of those spontaneous, amazing moments. After making it back to town, we decided to continue our hike up the plateau (seen in my previous blog post). Reaching the top was quite exhilarating….the lunar expanse of the landscape, the view of our humble town below…the feeling of being there… I sat on the edge and bit into one of the best apples I’ve ever tasted.

Pantsville

It's been three days since our group of five arrived for Community-Based Training in this small Moroccan town. I'm not supposed to reveal the name of our location on a public forum such as this, so henceforth I will refer to it as Pantsville. Our purpose here is to experience life with everyday Moroccan families, undergo intense language training, locate and interview local artisans, and prepare a sample Community Action Plan-- preparing us for the real deal in late November.

Pantsville feels like a reclaimed ghost town; its dusty streets and chipped buildings turned golden under the midday sun, the distant plateaus and hazy mountains like mirages spanning across the skyline. Children kick worn soccer balls down alleyways and play with bits of wire or rocks left in the road. People shuffle here and there, in and out of doorways opening to the sidewalk, perhaps down to the nearest teleboutique or hanut.

When walking in public I feel as though I'm wearing a glowing purple lobster costume that blares circus music. At least you'd think I was, judging by the stares I receive. As I pass by, people giggle or whisper to each other; kids sometimes follow from a distance, occasionally offering a bonjour or an awkward hel-lo. Turning around and speaking Darija catches them completely off guard, as most "foreign-looking" people are assumed to speak French.

I live with a big family in a small house, through an unassuming blue metal door, one of many lining a little side street building. I have three host brothers whom for right now I'll call Karl, Frank, and Gary, as well as two host sisters I'll name Latifah and Pam. I have a host mother but no father. I've decided not to ask about him just yet. Also belonging to the family is a little guy, a toddler named Jamiroquai. From where or whom he came I'm not sure.

Karl's profession is something I've dubbed "freelance taxi driving". He owns a car-- something very rare around here-- and charges people for rides throughout the day. He's an enthusiastic guy and proud of his car, taking me for short rides to the end of the street and back. Latifah is about sixteen and has become my closest friend. After eight hours of language I come home in the evening to have l-ftar, or the Ramadan break-fast, and afterwards Latifah and I study for another hour or so, trading words in English and Darija. She takes an English class in school, so I'm able to communicate better with her than anyone else.

L-ftar is the big occasion of the day; the whole family gathers to eat around a table. No silverware or napkins, lots of olives, dates, bread, and hot tea. The main dish is referred to as a tajine, which is actually the vessel used in the cooking. The matriarch utters "Bismillah", the tajine's lid is lifted, and everyone digs in, using chunks of bread to scoop out portions. My host mother insists "kif kif" (eat! eat!) long after I've become full, and I usually lie back on the cushions in a daze as the table is cleared.

It seems natural that I should follow with a description of the bathroom. I'm not even sure it qualifies as a janitor's closet-- its actual location is the area underneath a staircase-- a grimy concrete room with no sink, faucet or shower-- just a pair of cement footsteps, a hole in the ground, and a tub of water for "flushing". Oh yeah, water only flows from the tap from 1-4 in the afternoon, so families are seen filling buckets from hoses in the alleyways during this time. I have devised a (clean) method for brushing my teeth, but I have yet to figure out how to bathe.

My family does not seem to sleep. They eat l-ftar, have dinner around 11-12 PM (by which point I've gone to bed), and have another meal before sunrise between 3 and 4 AM, the time for which is signified by people banging drums in the street, often directly outside of my window. The first time that happened I thought I was dying. Anyway, they are already up at 7:30 when I get up to prepare for the day's sessions.

So the other night after l-ftar we're lounging around being full, when I casually pull my chapstick out of my pocket and apply a bit to my lips. As I'm putting it away I look up to see the entire family gawking at me, half amused and half aghast. The moment passes awkwardly and I eventually head to my room for the night. The next day after the morning language session, I do the same thing and my LCF gives me a look:

In America, do you do this a lot?

Yeah, it's pretty common.

Do not do this in front of your family. It will make it look like you are wanting to be a woman.

I'm blending right in.

????? Ho!

After a long week in Azrou, we're heading to our CBT (Community-Based Training) sites tomorrow morning. The program manager placed us into groups yesterday, assigning us to specific dialects and cities/towns/villages. My group of five is heading to a small town/village about two hours away. I guess for security reasons we're not supposed to say where, specifically. *shrug* As of tomorrow evening I'll be living with my host family for a period of two weeks initially, and three weeks later after a short training break back in Azrou. While at our CBT sites we'll be meeting at the LCF's (language & culture facilitator's) house during the day for language sessions, venturing out as a group to interview local artisans and spending the rest of the time with the family. It's sort of a practice run for life at our permanent sites. My host family is a clan of eight, which seems huge to my contemporary American perception. It will be a great opportunity to develop the language skills I'll be needing; supposedly the families are very welcoming and eager to help. We're slowly being introduced to situations where the amenities are less than before, and speaking the language becomes more necessary. I'll continue to learn Darija (Moroccan Arabic), the language spoken throughout the majority of the country. Others were assigned to Tamazight, one of the Berber dialects. Berbers are roughly the Moroccan equivalent of American Indians; they were here first but now are sparsely located throughout the more remote areas of the country.

The last few days here have been more of the same-- language and technical sessions. A few of us have been running in the evenings before dinner; we head to the outskirts of town on a dirt road. Nothing like open skies, cool air, surrounding mountains, and three or four snarling dogs charging toward one to get that heart rate up. People don't generally keep animals as pets here; scraggly dogs and cats roam the streets in search of scraps, often joining together in the late hours to yowl and wail at the night. The trick is to pick up a rock (or pretend to, but #%*!@ that), which is exactly what I did when running the other day. It definitely gets the point across; they stopped almost immediately, choosing instead to bark from a distance.

Laundry in Morocco is done by hand. The rooftops, at least in Azrou, are the laundry areas. Clothes are soaked in a big bucket with detergent, scrubbed clean against themselves, and hung to dry. I did mine for the first time yesterday, and though it was "neat" I can't say I'm a fan just yet. I think when I have more time (we'll eventually have a LOT of it) it has potential for a cathartic experience.

In our new town we'll only have running water for three hours a day. Planning ahead seems key. Supposedly there is a cyber cafe, so I'll keep up contact online when I have the chance. I hope everyone back home is doing well; I think of you often.

Study, Study, Study

Perhaps some of you are curious as to what I'm doing here aside from strolling through markets and climbing around the outskirts of town... this supposed "training" you've heard mention of... a ruse, perhaps?

Sadly (but not really) not. Things are in full swing here at the PCT "compound". We're undergoing marathon sessions each day, and in the evenings bury our noses in books and notes. They are beginning to get more specific about how we will go about doing our jobs, discussing methods of assessing a group of artisan's needs, resources, and schedule-- community mapping. We discuss gender roles, norms of Moroccan culture, health and safety issues, transportation, ways to integrate and gain acceptance in one's community, and skill transference. More vaccinations. More language. Current Moroccan PCVs have stopped by to give little talks, hang out and answer questions, which is great-- such a good source of information for us-- the real deal.

My address is the same as before:

Nathaniel Krause, Trainee
s/c Corps de la Paix
2 Rue Abou Marouane Essaadi
Rabat, 10100, MOROCCO

That isn't where I live, but it's where the mail goes in order to get to us. They request that nobody send packages (not that anyone was planning on it) just yet. My phone number is 011 212 58 16 03 74. That should be all you'll need to dial to reach me. I won't be offended if nobody wants to call; I'm sure it's not cheap. If you do, keep in mind that I'm five hours ahead, and usually am in bed by 11 at the latest. In the meantime I'm buying calling cards and slowly making the rounds. Also, my Skype name is "nathanielkrause", and I try to be logged on around 4:30-5:30pm your time, though I'm not always there. It's free for all so.... see you there?

I've Been to the Mountaintop

Azrou

We certainly aren't "slumming it" yet, to say the least.

Azrou is a beautiful city nestled in a valley surrounded by mountains of the Middle Atlas. It is a completely different environment here from Rabat-- breezy, slower placed, and you can't beat that view.


We're staying in what I believe is some sort of ritzy hostel; we share rooms and bathrooms, but are still spoiled crazy with delicious meals three times a day, and the building itself has that exotic Moroccan vibe. After arriving last night we settled in and went walking through the town, into the markets and around the mosque. It's very modern, with cell phone shops and internet cafes everywhere. One thing I've noticed so far about Morocco is that the ancient and modern coexist in the same environment in business and in dress, and attitude.

Having been introduced to our LCFs (Language and Culture Facilitators), we began training today with two language sessions. We work in small groups at a fast pace, adding to the vocabulary, practicing dialoge, adding vocabulary, practicing dialogue etc., etc. We're learning Darija, which is the most commonly used dialect. After some time here, we will be broken down into smaller groups and be assigned one of three different dialects. I've spent most of my off time tonight studying minus a quick trip to the Maroc Telcom shop to buy a cell phone. So.....if anyone wants to call, just remember, it's free for me! I'd post my number now but I left it in my room, and I'm sitting in the sitting room listening to M'Barek, one of the LCFs, play some sort of lute. He's really rockin' it....everyone is clapping in rhythm and singing, and I can't help but bob my head. I suppose the best way to describe it would be "fast-paced belly-dancing music".

I attempted to buy a towel tonight while we were out on the town (no towels here, it seems), forcing myself to interact and put my language abilities to the test. It's expected that we do a lot of self-directed learning, one of the forms of which is interacting with local Moroccans. It's important to have a sense of humor about it because you're going to have to do it sooner or later, and you're probably going to look and sound stupid the first twenty or thirty times. Which I did. That towel was too expensive anyway. I did get some delicious dates, though.

Tomorrow is actually a self-directed learning day, meaning that there are no scheduled sessions. One of the LCFs is taking us hiking in the morning up and around one of the mountains, which should be pretty great. I'm off to get some sleep...layla saida.

PS- check out the Photobucket (look for the Azrou link on the left) for some pics.

Médina

Last night after the day's sessions ended we were allowed to venture out of the hotel and onto the streets of Rabat. A small group of us went into the Médina-- the old part of the city-- to the souk (open market), comprised of ever-narrowing alleyways packed with vendors of food, clothing, electronics, and various media...tarps laid out on the street covered in piles of shoes, dvds and jewelry...unrecognizable fruits and foods being cooked in pans of hot oil just inches away from passers-by. The alleys are complex and seemingly infinite; one in our position would be wise to avoid exploring too deeply, as we were advised. The shops were in the process of closing as dusk approached, their owners heading home for the nightly meal. I bought a bag of almonds with my newly obtained Dirhams (or "D's" as we sometimes call them). After dinner we went back for a bit to see the lights, smells, and newly invogorated people as everything reopened. This picture isn't mine, as it isn't recommended that we have our cameras out in public, but I found this one online:

I learned yesterday that our hotel is under heavy protection by order of the King for the purpose our safety. Apparently, at our final sites, each of us will have a gendarme (government military police officer) responsible for keeping an eye on us.

Tonight is our last night in Rabat. Tomorrow morning we'll ride by bus to Azrou and settle in for something like eight days before going to CBT (Community Based Training) in villages just outside of Azrou, living with our host families. I'm looking forward to getting out of the city and seeing the mountains of the Middle Atlas. It's still a big-ish city, but looks quite different, as seen in this photo of some random guy. Should be good. Also, they have monkeys.

Rabat

So much to write about. Let's see if I can fit it all in during this lunch break. I apologize for the lack of specifics, but there is very little free time. I'm sure once I'm out at my final sight months from now, I'll have more time than I know what to do with and I can write more.

The plane ride over was surreal. Flying in a metal tube across the Atlantic to Africa. You step in from New York and step out in Morocco. The time changes, meal schedules and lighting completely screw with your mind. They feed everyone dinner, turn out the lights, and three hours later turn them back on and give you breakfast before the sun comes up and you land. We arrived at eight something in the morning and had a full day of traveling, meetings and lectures, all with almost no sleep.

Well, we are here in Rabat, the capital of Morocco, meeting for 3 days of pre-pre-service training before heading to Azrou where we will stay in yet another hotel before eventually being assigned to host families.

It's Ramadan now, meaning most Moroccans don't eat or drink during daylight hours. This is a little weird for us, because while they fast, those belonging to the hotel kitchen staff are busy presenting us with sprawling, delicious meals three times a day, plus snack times in between. I take every opportunity to have some of the famed hot sweet mint tea; it is quite tasty. I'd tell you more about the food, but I don't know what any of it is aside from the basic ingredient-- things like fish, lamb, potatoes, beans, curry, rice. I've got two years to learn about the food. I'll be sure to pass along some tasty recipes.

This morning they gave us the extra vaccinations; I needed one for rabies. The staff members take turns giving presentations on health and safety with some basic language lessons thrown in. Lots of paperwork and handouts. Those in charge are approachable, lighthearted and knowledgable, and I'm confident that they will prepare us well. Yesterday we were restricted to the hotel; today we are allowed to venture out. We have some Dirhams (the currency) and can go wandering after the day's presentations are over. The American Ambassador to Morocco came by and spoke this morning. It was a big deal-- bodyguards in the corners of the room, entourage of shiny black vehicles speeding up and then away, disappearing down the mazes of streets. It was nice of him to stop by. I'm looking forward to hitting the streets later, us trying our hardest to be inconspicuous and failing miserably, mangling the little language we "know", and possibly offending many.

The hotel is pretty swanky. It's interesting trying to figure out little things such as light "switches" which are more like buttons, the locations of which aren't necessarily indicative of what room or fixture they might seemingly control. My favorite part is the balcony off of the top floor that runs the length of the building, overlooking the Palais du Royale. There is a mosque at the palace where a muezzin calls prayers from a minnaret five times a day. This morning I woke up sometime before sunrise and listened in the dark as his voice echoed spookily off of the buildings and into the still room. Gave me the chills and prompted the reminder, "Hey, I'm in Morocco."

MAROC

Well that's what they call it here. We arrived safe and sound (and completely exhausted) in Maroc as the sun was rising this morning. I have much to write about, but for the time being, check out the Photobucket link to the right for a few pictures of the Casablanca Airport, the scenery from the bus ride to Rabat, and the view from our hotel balcony.

Big Philly Style

I'm sitting at JFK International, amid a sea of luggage, waiting for the check-in counter to open. We left Philadelphia at 11 this morning by charter bus, driving through Manhattan and Queens on our way to the airport. It's 3:25 PM; our flight departs at 8-something this evening. But I'm getting ahead of myself here.

The past two days were spent in a Sheraton in Philadelphia with fifty-eight other Peace Corps Trainees. The majority of the "staging" involved us gathered in a ballroom, listening to the coordinators going over the agenda for the following few days. Also discussed were ways to cope with anxieties, dealing with unwanted attention in country, Peace Corps rules, etc.etc....everything you'd think would be involved with moving overseas.

Meeting my fellow Trainees has been wonderful-- such a relief from the previous days' uneasiness. Everyone's "in the same boat", or in this case, the same hotel. Actually right now it's the same airport. It's amazing how quickly we've bonded, it really feels like a kind of family. The staging coordinators did an exceptional job of preparing us, and by the end of our last session Sunday night, everyone was pretty pumped up to go. I'm proud to be a part of this group and the Peace Corps in general.

The stereotype of the Peace Corps Volunteer as the hippy loser with no direction looking for a free ride across the world seems completely inadequate, at least in this group. In fact I feel a bit out of my league here-- many of the people here have graduate degrees, tons of experience, and are exceedingly bright. Good company.

That's it for the moment; going to relax a bit and read while we wait. The next time I write I'll truly be doing it "from the cold land with the hot sun".











Also, enjoy this picture of the instructional sign inside the bus lavatory.

Gloomy Chicago

Ugh, what a day to leave. It was an early start this morning, waking to a 5:30 AM alarm and dreary skies, finally having to face the day I thought I'd always just talk about. It was really tough to say goodbye. I sat silently panicking in my train seat as the midwestern towns flashed by, having suddenly realized the reality of my situation. Two years seems like such an eternity right now. I found myself thinking things such as, "I'm really tired right now; it'll be nice when this is over and I can go home and lie down."

*twinge of panic*

The queasiness has subsided for the moment, however, as I sit typing this in my hotel room at O'Hare International. There's a giant flatscreen TV in here. I haven't tried it out yet but man, it looks impressive. A lot of feelings turned on full blast and sort of stirred up today-- one minute it's exhilarating, the next is a wave of almost unbearable homesickness. I've only been gone eight and a half hours!

So this afternoon/evening I'm going to walk my route to the terminal (don't want to get lost tomorrow), look for some food, maybe explore around the hotel a bit, go over the agenda for tomorrow, relax, and hopefully get to sleep early tonight. It's another 5 AM wakeup call tomorrow as I head to the magic land they call............PHILADELPHIA!!

Countdown

September 6th... it approaches.

Here's a rough timeline of the events leading up to and following my departure to Morocco:

• train to Chicago on Sept. 5th
• fly out of O'Hare at 7:30 AM on the 6th
• land in Philadelphia, stay in a hotel downtown for two days of "staging"
• on the third day, take a bus to New York City
• fly out of JFK airport nonstop to Casablanca, Morocco
• bus ride to the capital, Rabat
• stay in a hotel in Rabat for three nights
• bus ride to Azrou where 11 weeks of Pre-Service Training will take place



I'll be staying with a host family during most of the training. After the 11 weeks my job site will be determined, meaning I'll travel to a new location and stay with another host family for a bit of a "settling in" period, after which I will find my own digs and begin working. My address during training will be:

Nathaniel Krause
s/c Corps de la Paix
2, Rue Abou Marouane Essaadi
Rabat 10100, MOROCCO

In the meantime, I'll be spending time with friends and family, studying my Moroccan Arabic flashcards, and figuring out how to pack for a 27 month trip.