Fall Semester, and the Triumphs and Woes of Work in the Amizmiz Pottery Sector

English class is back in session, bigger and badder than ever! The number of students has doubled in size this time around, with mostly beginner level kids comprising the new additions. It makes for a rowdy couple of hours, as our humble garage cannot accommodate the enthusiasm in sound or occupancy levels, nor am I able to give equal attention to all students. The presence of the the entire range of language ability makes it near-impossible to teach any one lesson that will engage everyone. Instead I find myself bouncing back and forth, pinball-style, between the narrow row of desks and scattered chairs, responding to constant calls, helping individually with specific homework assignments.

The overwhelming influx of new kids has been tough on the advanced and loyal ones, as the chaotic environment rules out any chance of our good ol' thoughtful discussions. So, we have split up the week, agreeing upon two beginner days and three advanced days. I have a feeling that everyone will continue to show up at once, but we'll see. I need a bouncer.

We've been working on a class website, wherein the students create the content-- short autobiographies, photos from trips, information about our class and our town-- which I revise and build into a simple site. It's not very developed yet at all, but take a look if you're interested: Friends of Amizmiz

Some work-related notes:

In the last several months since IST, I've been trying to make headway on improvement within the local pottery business operations. So as not to repeat a lot of already-written info, check out this post to read about the issues with which we're dealing.

A Moroccan acquaintance of mine who works in small business development locally, and with whom I have met to brainstorm and exchange info, helped me out by looking into how to go about my first project idea-- finding land for the potters to lease from which they can take soil legally. After asking the appropriate authorities, we found that no such land was available. Just recently, however, I discovered that the potters do have a large area of nearby land at their disposal. It is legally theirs to use, which they do, frequently. Some still choose to take dirt from prohibited areas, though not due to a lack of their own land. So that idea is out for now.

At a recent visit to one of the potters, I noticed a large pile of cardboard boxes and scrap paper sitting next to the kiln. I inquired about this, and learned that the potters obtain, for free, these scraps from local businesses in order to burn in their kilns, and that they have ceased using badly polluting materials like rubber tires. This was also news to me. My next project idea had, in fact, been to set up such arrangements with businesses. Another promising idea already implemented. Hm. Perhaps I am to blame for not doing thorough enough initial research, though there was no indication that I hadn't until now...

A long walk and conversation with my friend Hamid was quite enlightening. We had a realistic discussion about just what it is that we could really do here. I commented that I've been placed in this town to help, but it seems as though no one particularly wants or even needs my help. Hamid, being a potter himself, agreed. He didn't know what it was I could do, saying that the potters are generally very happy with their work. They have the materials they need. They have a stable, reliable market in which to sell their craft, from which they are able to provide for their needs. They have the added benefit of actually working from their own homes, near and often with their families.

The one thing they don't do, he said, is work together. I thought that a natural step would be to encourage them to do so, and to organize a location and regular times during which they could convene, making use of their collective skills and knowledge to hone their business practices. Perhaps invite those more skilled in such practices to come and deliver workshops on the subject. But according to Hamid, this has all been tried in the past, even by the previous Volunteer whom I replaced. The potters are competitive and private, preferring to work separately, having little patience for each other and especially for those who want to alter their stable system. Understandable. Hamid says that in addition to Peace Corps, many associations have come to town (one visited just the other week, in fact) with the intent of somehow "improving" the situation here, and that by now the potters are wholly uninterested and have closed themselves off to such talk.

As discouraging as this may sound-- having my little plans crumble and no clear direction ahead, it actually felt quite productive. I have a much better understanding of the potters' point of view, of their methods, and of what has been tried in the past. What does seem clear is that they certainly don't need my help. There are still things to be improved upon, and though I am not at all abandoning or closing myself off to possibilities with them, I have to think that perhaps I should be looking elsewhere. But where? With whom? I'm hoping that some feedback from my program manager and counterpart will offer some insight.

There is still a year to go, but time does fly, especially here where every day is over before I can even put my sandals on, it seems. In the light of these new revelations on my work situation here, I recall that my service does not stand on its own; that it is a step in a cycle of volunteers, and that succeeding in tangible things is not the point of being here. Sure, I tell myself that to fend off envy when others are perhaps putting fresh paint on the walls of their artisana or exporting carpets to far-off lands, and I am stumbling along learning about where dirt comes from. But each person and his or her situation are unique, this is mine, and I'm in the right place. I have no clue what will happen in the next year and probably wouldn't even come close with a guess. There are always things brewing out there that I can't see...

Mbruk l3id!

Today is l3id sghir, the holiday marking the completion of Ramadan. Everyone is out and about visiting each other, ingesting enough sweet tea and cookies to onset diabetes in a matter of hours. Thus far I have managed to avoid such nectarous excesses (not the case last year), strolling with my friends Abderrahim and 3ziz through the neighborhood to greet everyone, shaking hands and giving congratulations. I did, however, just return from my saintly neighbor Latifa's house, where she served a lunch consisting of an entire chicken literally covered with french fries. Nap time is imminent.

River In the Road

Happy Anniversary

One year ago today our plane touched down in Casablanca, dropping us off clueless in Morocco. Since then, we have learned many things, and some stuff. Here's to one more year (and two months)! Congrats to my fellow PCVs!

Hello? Could you direct me toward the nearest....Excuse me, sir?....

a little rusty, but...

view down the road as seen from my roof

Several nights ago I sat alone at home while dinner cooked, texting members of my first host family to congratulate them on the start of Ramadan. Outside, the glowing streetlamps illuminated a seemingly abandoned neighborhood-- the normal buzz and rumbling of passing motorbikes and voices was replaced with absolute stillness as people retreated indoors to break the day's fast together.

I thought of last year in Itzer, nine people packed into a tiny room around a table on top of which a feast was presented, all quietly listening for calls of "Allahu Akbar" to echo their way into the house. I recalled the discolored walls, the hiss of a pressure cooker from another room, the incomprehensible activity taking place on the television, the frenzy of hands reaching forward to grab and pluck, the almost unbearably awkward task of eating amongst them, and the dreamlike, removed sensation of really being there, here in Morocco.

As the vegetables sizzled in my kitchen, I felt a twinge of melancholy-- I missed that rush of unpredictable moments, the confused and broken interactions, the chilled air, the smell of burning cedar (a scent that will likely forever take me back to that time), that grand, invigorating newness of it all that has somehow, bit by bit, been replaced by normalcy. I have privacy, independence, and all the time to myself I could desire-- the things I initially craved so much. People in the street often ask me, "Are you used to it here yet?" and it's strange now to answer with an honest "yes".

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There is something compelling in witnessing the communal suffering of Ramadan. It's seeing first-hand the devotion and certainty in a people's relationship to their faith. I pass by workers mixing cement by hand and making bricks under the heat of the day, and I know that the thirst they must be feeling won't be relieved for hours to come, nor will the work. The persistent ache of hunger that I've only felt briefly and on rare occasions will be present with them for the next thirty days. The same for my good friends who take walks and muse cheerfully to pass the long daylight hours, and for the women, perhaps the toughest of them all. I hear no complaints, and those with whom I discuss Ramadan speak of it with reverence and gratitude. I stop briefly to chat with my vegetable man: "Are you hungry?" I ask, jokingly. "Hamdullah," he smiles-- "Thank God."

Get Your Ramadan On

Summer crawls on here in this sleepy corner of the world. Though still quite warm, it seems the worst of the heat has abated, cooling my blood from a rolling boil to a light simmer. It's refreshing; I can think and function again. I've even gone back to sleeping inside. I should be better prepared next summer, knowing what to expect and having some coping methods ready, the ones I figured out this year just a little too late.

Ramadan will begin either tomorrow or the next day (August 22 or 23), whenever the first sliver of the moon's crescent becomes visible in the night sky. I'm not sure how the official distinction is made, though I'd like to think that the Islamic world's top astronomers gather each night in an observatory hidden in some high hills, shoving one another out of the way for a turn at the telescope, each eager to spot it first and make the announcement via red telephone set.

Regardless of how that happens, what will follow is a month of abstaining from food, water, impure thoughts and activities, etc. during the daylight hours. Men won't smoke cigarettes and women will not wear makeup. Families will stay up late eating under the cover of night. People may get a tad grumpy.

I arrived during Ramadan last year (September 9th marks the one year anniversary of my first day in country-- holy crap) and I remember seeing the blank faces of men at cafés, sitting empty-handed behind empty tables, wearily passing the days. Though the idea of abstaining to such an extreme measure and then spending what would normally be your sleeping hours eating might not sound so appealing, most people here seem to anticipate it eagerly and with excitement. It's a time to realign oneself with proper attitudes and practices, a time to deepen one's relationship and devotion to God, and a time of charity and forgiveness.


I recall last year, living at my first host family's house in Itzer (Pantsville), waking up early for all-day language classes, hearing my poor host sister in the kitchen, having woken up even earlier to prepare breakfast for me, the heathen. I kid; they were always extremely sweet and respectful toward me in that regard, never pressuring or proselytizing. Though I'm not planning to fast this Ramadan, I'm interested to see how day-to-day life will be affected this time around, living independently in a stable and familiar environment, having adjusted more to the culture. I picture myself cooking meals, shutters closed, duct tape over the cracks in the windows to prevent the escape of any delicious aromas, chewing extra quietly in a makeshift bunker in the darkest corner of my house. Hopefully I can join a few of my friends and their families for some twilight breakfasts, though I think I will be passing on the pre-dawn dinner.

Look-- corn! Just like home.....