hi

I've been a bit neglectful of updates during the past few weeks, as May has been a month of hosting gracious guests from across the ocean here in my quiet mountain town. It's been so good to have them, and I'm immensely grateful for their company and efforts to have made it out here.

The lush green wheat fields of spring (see blog title photo) have since turned to gold and been harvested; the cool breeze has stilled and the dry, dusty heat of summer has begun its slow, suffocating descent. I fall sleep with my windows open while I still can. Supposedly it's going to get pretty brutal (see future July and August entries for complaints on the heat), but at present it is comfortably warm, sunny and beautiful. The mountain snow is melting.


Teaching has been going well, as the "kids" continue to humble me with their intelligence, curiosity and self-motivation. My half-prepared grammar lessons and verb lists luckily fall by the wayside as class perpetuates itself on their questions alone, and thankfully we often veer off onto tangents of philosophy, science, existentialism, and other topics on which I am perhaps ill-suited to lead discussion, but am usually delighted to explore. The art of being a good teacher is something I've come to appreciate as a delicate thing requiring a great deal of attentiveness and wisdom, both of which I can only hope to be gaining ever so slowly as I stumble through class each night. I always feel as though I am primarily a student, despite standing in front, armed with chalk and English fluency. I have a long way to go, but I'm doing pretty well-- I think.


On a Peace Corps work-related note, things are beginning to unfold as to how I may contribute to the small business world here. Due to some recent investigatory measures and the pressure of a fast-approaching presentation I have to give on the topic, I am gaining some considerable understanding of the artisan sector here, specifically the potters. I've got some ideas brewing as to how I may actively begin to benefit GOAL NUMBER ONE!!!, the specifics of which I'll hold off on mentioning just yet. It could all just be a bust, but it's exciting, regardless.


ps-- to my loving family: if you truly care for me you will not send me any more jars of delicious extra crunchy peanut butter

Scorpion Fishing

Step 1:

Pick one of these yellow flowers, leaving plenty of stem length. If you live near me, you should have no trouble finding one, as millions of them populate the landscape.


Step 2:
Find a scorpion den. They look like this. If you live near me, you should have no trouble finding one, as millions of them populate the landscape.


Step 3:
Insert the flower into the den until you feel it stop. Now gently pull. If you feel a slight resistance, it is likely you have "hooked" the scorpion, and he has pinched onto the flower with his pincers, as demonstrated and obscured by a twig in the out-of-focus photo below:


Step 4:
Pull back very gently so as not to break the stem, much as you would reel in a fish gently so as not to break the line. If all goes well you will have removed a freaking scorpion. Cool.


Step 5:
Quickly cover the entrance to the scorpion's den with a rock, as he will surely be eager to return, thus spoiling your enjoyment.

Step 6:
If you are male (and it is quite likely that you are), squat in the dirt with your friends and poke at the scorpion with a stick or your fingers. Watch how uses his tail to inject venom into anything you put in front of him.


Step 7:
Return to Step 1 and repeat.

This method is courtesy of my good friend Aziz, a scorpion-catching master. There was much squatting in the dirt the day he showed me this little trick. Please remember to keep your scorpion tormenting to a minimum.

PeaceWorks

This past weekend I traveled to Rabat in order to assist in the editing and assembling of PeaceWorks, a quarterly publication of Peace Corps Morocco-related news and volunteer-submitted essays, poetry, artwork, photographs recipes, and miscellaneous other stuff.

During training I was elected as my stage's editor, and last weekend was my first opportunity (of how many, I don't know) to take part in the process at the Peace Corps offices. I had not returned to Rabat since the day they bussed us over from the Casablanca airport. At the time we were like zombies, fatigued and disoriented from the jet lag and overload of new input, so it was nice to revisit the city with a clear head and a bit of perspective.

The actual composition of the issue itself consisted of two days' worth of sitting behind a computer doing basic editing, formatting, and layout of the submissions. It was considerably simpler and more laid-back than I had expected, likely due to the excellent company provided to me by the Volunteers I met over the course of my stay.

A stage of COSing (Completion Of Service-ing) PCVs was in town taking care of medical appointments, so due to that and a country-wide transportation strike, I opted to stay around after having finished work on PeaceWorks.

I've always enjoyed listening to what other PCVs have to say regarding their time spent in country. There are, naturally, a wide variety of experiences, opinions, and attitudes from them, ranging from jaded and disgruntled to bubbly and grateful. Positive or not, hearing of their experience is valuable and often comforting-- knowing that others are or have been in the same boat. Also, lots of juicy gossip and some wild stories.


Having no further agenda or obligations, I spent time wandering around the city with others, visiting the Tomb of Hassan II, Chellah (a beautiful area of Moroccan and Roman ruins and wild gardens populated by thousands of storks), the Oudaias Kasbah (an ocean-side neighborhood of narrow streets and blue and white painted houses), and the rocky coast. I squinted hard but still could not see America.

Getting out of site can be quite rejuvinating; every now and then a wave of isolation comes by and weirds you out for a little while, and a change in environment and some good company are often the cure. Rabat is a beautiful city; it definitely did me some good.


see some more pics here

Good While It Lasted

Due to some pretty severe budget cuts, we’ve received word that Peace Corps will no longer be active in Morocco as of next month. In lieu of a plane ticket home, those of us currently in service have been given the option to transfer to new locations where our skills and experience may be of use. Having opted to stay, I recently received word via anonymous phone call that I will be headed to Gytchi Smlaria, a small riverside village in central Africa accessible only by water ski. Peace Corps has generously provided me with documentation regarding small mammal-trapping methods, common deadly parasites, a comprehensive list of motivational phrases, and a can of DeepWoods OFF!®. I’m unclear as to what specifics my work at this future site will involve, but the mystery is what drives me. I'm sure that despite whatever challenges I may face in my community, the people will be welcoming, warm, and grateful for my vague intentions toward empowerment and sustainable development in their already quiet, peaceful lives. Here I come guys!!

Todra Gorge

March 9, 8:57 AM

I'm on the bus leaving Tinghir, so this may be sloppier than usual. Yesterday morning we went out to the gorges, a 10-minute taxi ride from town. Totally breathtaking-- we started out in the gorge-- huge rock walls rising almost vertically on both sides. We saw some serious climbers scaling them-- crazy. Hiked up a trail that took us out of the gorge and up a scenic, rocky path to the "top". Amazing views. Ran into a few groups of tourists walking with guides, one of which had a friendly yellow dog tagging along. We passed and went ahead of the group; the dog led the way, eager for us to follow. We lost our intended trail and then all trails whatsoever, eventually wandering upon a nomad encampment built into the rocks and dirt. Looked like a meant-for-tourists "native settlement" recreation one might find in the American Southwest. Except this is Morocco and there are really people living up there. Seems like such a harsh environment. Surreal. Had lunch a little further on, giving some water and food to our new companion. About six or seven wild dogs came around, probably smelling the food. Our dog protected us, positioning himself between them and us, snapping at those who tried to advance. Good boy. We headed down toward some far-off paths that we thought might lead to civilization somewhere below. They did eventually. The dog would stop and howl into the canyon-- a pretty moving thing to see. At the base we walked through an old neighborhood built from mud (people still living there) and then back to our starting point through nearby fields. The juxtaposition of the lush green "palms", purple flowering trees, freshly tilled dirt, sand, and rushing water against the harsh, dry, red and rocky surroundings made for an incredibly beautiful place. I have a long trip home. The bus is almost empty. In all directions vast, rocky expanses stretch toward distant red plateaus. It feels like we are driving across Mars.

yessir

Under the orange glow of the streetlamp, watching the kids walk by in the road-- the river of dust they’ve known all their lives, I feel a hint of what it’s like to call this place home-- that these streets have been mine as long as I can remember, that I've walked them a hundred thousand times and know each step. I feel this for one fleeting moment and think of the places I have called home.

I watch the kids walk by on the street in the night-- a hand in the pocket, a push on the shoulder-- I think of summer nights and the ensuing nostalgia for the perfect summer night-- pieces of memory mixed with things that never happened. I remember the things I used to remember. I think of country roads and of driving in cars. Faces and voices I used to know stir up and swirl around like the sediment in a creek bed behind an old house. I think of hunting sand crabs as a boy on a gulf beach with a dollar-store flashlight, a net and Orion’s arc overhead.

I think of strolling by the door to this very house years from now, pointing it out to you, rust peeking out beneath the chipped olive paint that once smelled new; I think of all the places I've called home and how I’ve never returned.

I watch them walking by in the street with the same friends they’ve walked with since always.

I think of America, of the Midwest, of the sweet smell of the fields in the air; I think of idly strumming a guitar on the edge of my bed by the open window, imagining a shoreline in the night and the many places I’ve never seen.