A summary of my life (warning: catchy song): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=koUWaAr-itY

A summary of my daily interactions with the locals: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pcuI6K9daIw

In-Service Training (IST) took place at Mehdiya, a small beach town about 30 minutes outside of Rabat. I can’t think of a better place to host 39 slightly stressed-out, travel-weary Youth Development PCVs. We spent our days in meetings, our evenings walking on the beach, and every spare minute in between eating fresh donuts. Nothing makes for happy PCVs more than freshly fried foodstuffs coated in sugar!

Even though the week was a fantastic break from the real world of Darija and no toilet paper, I have to admit that I was more than ready to return to my little dusty corner of the world by the week’s end. An uneventful train ride later, Eric, his girlfriend, Alejandra, and I all made it back in one piece to the sleepy haven of Tamslouht…..minus the “sleepy haven” part. Our bus turned out to be one of about 32981038921032 buses that had been redirected for the Tamslouht route this past weekend, due to the massive celebration of l’Mosim.

L’Mosim is the celebration of the birth of the Prophet. Tamslouht does it up big- imported ferris wheels (which I am certain passed rigorous safety tests before being erected…), food stands, vendors, and, of course, the Tbourida. Lots of men dressed in traditional white Berber outfits ride horses in a line and then shoot their guns in unison. Tbourida even has its own wikipedia page if you’re interested in things like etymology: http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fantasia_(Maghreb)

This huge event happened in the massive dirt expanse right outside of my apartment. Coupled with a gargantuan suq, or market, horses and roving hoards of people, Tamslouht had a new life pumped into it. Cotton candy at every turn. Vendors speaking rapid Darenchlish to us. Children staring. Okay, well, a lot of that is everyday interaction, but the volume was turned up all the way. As was our collective sugar intake.

Unfortunately, tons of people in one place means lots of potential victims for thieves. And this, my friends, is where I tell you about how I got seriously Morocco-ed. I was walking through the crowd with my Moroccan friend, Simo, who was throwing new Darija words at me left and right. I opened my purse to take out my notebook, wrote a word down, checked its spelling with Simo, and, when I went to put the book back in my purse…my entire wallet was missing. Mushkil.

Simo and I retraced our steps on the off-chance that it fell out, then walked rather briskly to the gendarmes, or Moroccan police. After a little persuasion from the Peace Corps, they began the process of filing a police report. I think they found me rather amusing during this whole process. One guy asked how long I was living in Tamslouht. After responding that I’ll be here for the next two years, he made a face that can only be described as the perfect combination between pity and slight revulsion. Obviously he doesn’t love my little town as much as I do. I couldn’t help but think that he hadn’t discovered the mul-donut outside of the dar chabab…otherwise, he would have been congratulating my luck with location.

After an hour or so of watching the gendarmes type up my police report, we set out to Hawaii Five-0 the shfar. Three of the gendarmes walked through the crowd slowly, capitalizing on the intimidation of the uniform, and strolled over to various vendors to ask if they had seen anything. This whole process took about another hour, and I think it’s safe to assume that I have some serious street cred now.

Nothing showed up. Until yesterday.

Eric, our tutor Rahhal, and I were sitting at the qahwa yesterday for one of our tutoring sessions. In the middle of reviewing prepositions, two cars full of gendarmes pull up right next to our table. I went over to talk to them and they informed me that they may or may not have located my stuff. Something about fingerprints. Something about sitting back down. I followed the context clues and sat back down, watching as they drove off into the sunset. 30 minutes later they were back, directing me into their car. Something else about fingerprints. Cool. Done.

I got to watch my gendarmes fingerprint all of my stuff. They called in some forensics dude with a legitimate briefcase full of fancy-looking goodies, and then everyone sat around and stared while he dusted my Carte de Sejour, bent bank card, and papers. I’m still not quite sure why my presence was required for this, but it definitely was cool to watch. I also engaged in a lengthy discussion about Whitney Houston’s death. Moroccans are, as a whole, very concerned about this. I actually found out from Moroccans that she passed away rather than, ya know, from Americans. According to one of the gendarmes, it is because she “took the drugs” which is a result of “having the money.” Took the words right out of my mouth.

One would consider this part the end of the adventure. Well…”one” obviously did not take into account that this is Morocco, where the fun never ends.

Today, Eric and I were teaching a Valentine’s Day-themed class (if you ever want to get a ton of valentines, just make it a mandatory class assignment…!) and the gendarmes stopped by. It’s like they have a spidey sense for my presence in this town. Anywho, they instructed me to visit them after class finished and bring my recovered items with them for “further analyzations.” Wakkha, no problem. Except for the fact that Eric broke my bank card into four pieces and put it in the trash the previous evening….but I remain victorious. I fished out all four pieces, covered in dirt and raw egg, and brought them over proudly to the gendarmes. I laid out my items on the gendarmes’ desk, and then my mouth was promptly swabbed (for the “gin-et-tique” material, of course). So were my cards. (In that order, hamdullah.) I was released back into the wild afterwards, without no camera or Bank of America card (the shfar took the good stuff!), but I’ve definitely learned my lesson about trying to be a good student of Darija. Never again!

At least now, the gendarmes and I are now pretty good friends. It pays to be an amusing, gawky white gal- not everyone gets a throat swab from a man in uniform.

I brought my sketchbook with me, armed with intentions of, you know, taking notes during the meetings. This quickly spiraled/ evolved into the task of drawing the head of whoever was sitting in front of me. With the exception of about 4 people (apologies to Michelle, Sairah, Robin, and Hubble), I think I got everyone. Bo and Barbara got shafted in terms of timing- the sessions ended before my drawings did. Mrra akhorra, insh’allah!

More on the beach, l’Mosim, and how I got Morocco-ed hardcore later. For now, enjoy the rossom!

Sarah Elise and Stephen

Shannon and Matt V

Kathy and Ally

Cindy and Barbara

Anteus

Taylor

Cait and Kelly

Kim

Maggie and Bryant

Gary and Meredith

Bo and David

Mike and Jen

Daniel and Lindsay

Carrie and Matt B

Bethany

Rachel and Eric

Mimi

Kristen and Lucia

Erin

Lauren and Justin

In Morocco, Unemployment Can Be A Full-Time Job

“I have a degree, a master’s degree in English, and I’m here … idle without a job, without dignity, without anything,” protester Abdul Rahim Momneh says.

During the Arab uprisings over the past year, political grievances have received much of the attention. But youth unemployment is also a crisis for every Arab government. In Morocco, the jobless rate is more than 30 percent for young people.

Last week, five jobless college graduates set themselves on fire to protest unemployment. One has since been reported dead. Self-immolation has become something of a trend in the region ever since a young Tunisian street vendor set himself alight in December 2010, an event that sparked the uprising there and served as a catalyst for other revolts.

Government employment is hardly a solution for joblessness, say the movement’s critics. Morocco’s bureaucracy is already bloated and unproductive; the huge government payroll is a financial drain, they argue.

Yet, under pressure from these protests, officials often give in, adding a few more positions. Organizers hand the government a list of the most dedicated activists to choose from.

Every year, even more graduates swell the movement, hoping for the lifetime security and perks that come with a government job.

They gather in a park, dumping their backpacks. Each group has a slogan displayed on colored vests they wear to every march.

Mokhliss Tsouli is with the yellow group. He moved to the capital after earning a master’s degree to join the protest full time. He says he protests four or five times a week. He says his yellow vest translates to the word “spark.”

This permanent protest movement has become part of the landscape of the capital. It’s a movement with strict rules and rewards. Organizers keep a tally. There are points for attendance and extra points for scuffles with the police. The points determine who gets to the top of the list and gets a job, Tsouli says.

“Sometimes there are students who come once a week, and they are not really activists,” he says. “So we are updating the list that we will give to the government, to the decision-makers.”

The country’s new government has vowed to tackle unemployment. It was elected after Morocco’s Arab Spring moment last year, when widespread discontent brought tens of thousands to the streets. There was no revolution, but King Mohammed VI responded with a series of limited changes.

But don’t compare that political movement with the aims of these jobless college grads, says Nasreen el Hannch.

“Oh, it’s not the same. We are totally different because we are just looking for jobs,” she says. “They are looking [to] change Morocco; we are not looking for change, only to find a job. So, we hope.”

There’s no hope the job crisis will go away without substantial political and economic change. Until then, a little social blackmail means at least some of these students will get work.

The government has already pledged to hire 20,000 more workers, but there are many more protesters, and those left unemployed would have reason to keep up the pressure.

http://www.npr.org/2012/01/27/145860575/in-morocco-unemployment-can-be-a-full-time-job

For those of you who haven’t had a conversation with me in the past 23 years of my existence, I love to draw. Here in Morocco, drawing has given me a quality way to bond with my host families without having to jump through (and consequently trip over) hoops of language. Aya and Chaiyma’s drawings from the past two months currently orient the feng shui of my bit ness (bedroom), in fact.

Drawing is an opportunity to make friends while using public transportation as well, apparently. Eric and I had an adventure involving the internet and bastilla this past week (a qissat for another time) that found us on a bus to Marrakech. We were having a conversation about nothing in particular, but were using English— and attracted some stares from the guys standing around us. This is pretty typical. We began talking to them in Darija, asking if they knew English— also a common interaction here. But then, one of the guys derailed the dialogue that we are so used to and pointed to Eric’s notebook. “Can you draw me a picture?” Eric laughed and handed the book to me. He explained to our new friend (the title everyone in Morocco assumes after a 10 second conversation) that I had studied art in school and would draw him instead. The guy seemed indifferent; he just wanted a drawing from the weird Americans. So, I began drawing…and drew for about 10 minutes while the bus continued onwards to Marrakech. Poor kid, he just wanted a little doodle. Instead, he had to remain still while his friends commented on how large his nose was and that I needed to make it bigger. Never a dull moment with a pen and paper here.

From public transportation to private— I had my first hitchhiking experience. Eric and I were walking from the mall of Marrakech back to the bus station. Let’s pause here and reflect about the fact that there is a mall here. It has amenities like Pizza Hut, a Virgin Megastore, wifi, an escalator…things that, when I signed up for the Peace Corps, I thought would be distant memories— not things only a 4 DH (50 cent) bus ride away from my site. We have gone there a few times for the Carrefour, a Wal-Mart/ Target equivalent that carries specialty items like American candies and flat screen TVs. It is at this supermarket that I located the Holy Grail of language-learning materials:

I had been wanting to track down a copy of Harry Botter (as the transcription reads) for my host sister for awhile and finally located it in Carrefour! It’s a bit war-torn, stained with a mysterious pinkish liquid, but the FusHa is readable (in theory) and the cover is distinctly the Harry Potter. Thank you mall, oasis of international culture!

Another notable component of the Moroccan mall— because we arrived at the right seasonal junction, we got to savor a final taste of a western Christmas— Santa had a little house set up in the middle of the mall, complete with fake snow and real rabbits. Here’s our belated Christmas card, courtesy of the French influence on Morocco:

So, this is what Eric and I were leaving from as we walked down a tree-lined street in Marrakech. A car drives past us, honks a few times, and then pulls off to the side of the road. Three dudes ask if we want a ride anywhere. In America, this is where you run in the opposite direction. In Morocco, however, this is not only common, but usually comes with a side of “Would you like to have tea at my house?” The guys generously drove us about 2 minutes to the bus stop. An anticlimactic beginning (and most likely the end as well) of my hitchhiking experiences, but a positive one, nonetheless. If you ever run into a car full of three guys from Zagora, give them the good karma that they handed off to us.

While waiting at the bus stop, a man rode by us on a bicycle. He had just purchased a bucket, and offers the answer to the age-old riddle: How does one transport a bucket without a basket while riding a bike? On one’s head, of course! This guy had cleverly balanced the bucket on top of his head, fashioning it as a sort of backwards baseball cap for a giant. I will never tire of Moroccans’ innovative approaches to everyday logistical problems.

From buckets to bundles of joy— in the past few weeks, my mail flow has increased from a bit of dust blown in from the mountains to a Christmas package from my family and a Christmas card from my good friend. I had been stopping by the bosta (post office) to see if I had gotten my package yet— much to the dismay of the poor postmaster— as part of a daily routine for a week or so. Then, in the middle of buying oranges from the back of a truck a few Fridays ago, the post master’s assistant found me in the crowd to let me know that whatever the heck it was I wanted so badly had finally arrived. If he had known the gold contained within that precious vessel, he probably would have kept it for himself. Check out this goodness:

That’s right. I officially have the best family in the world. Not only did they send me CLIFF BARS, macaroni and cheese (American staples), and soap (I can only imagine my mother was getting tired of reading about me never bathing), but ALSO included my Georgia Museum of Art shirt— the very first item on the top of the package.

Last but not least, my clever Catholic parents slipped in a shirt from my high school in response to my request for “long-sleeved shirts for running”. When I gave them my address, I footnoted it with a list of things that they should under no circumstances send— liquids, electronics, and bibles. The Moroccan mail service is apparently infamous for opening packages and taking out these types of items: liquids, for obvious reasons; electronics, because they want to heavily tax these sorts of imported goods; and lastly, bibles, because prostheletizing is against the law here. Knowing my parents, I figured that adding in this last item was probably the most important, as my Dad has been “joking” about sending me entire boxes of bibles. So…I got this shirt in their place. Do I even need to mention that I went to a Catholic school?

I also got this wonderful letter from my dear friend Catherine. She’s working at a printing press in St. Louis and made her own Christmas cards! If anyone needs wedding invitations, cards, or anything print-worthy, this girl is your woman.

So, that is my first installment of Moroccan vignettes— and surely not the last. I’m heading to Rabat in two weeks to reunite with the 38 other PCVs from my original staj for the In-Service Training component of our service. This will be the first time in a few months that we’ll all get to see each other…can’t wait to reunite with everyone, especially my wonderful training group from Moulay Yacoub!

As fate, coincidence, luck, and just the act of being in Morocco would have it, I was invited to my first Moroccan wedding this week. Invitations in America are handmade, fair-trade, embossed, dipped in gold— the works. My Moroccan wedding invitation? I ran into my host sister while walking home from an English class. After being reminded to come visit my host family (I shamefully hadn’t been in two days), Chaiyma showed me her newly henna-ed hands. I complimented them and she told me that it was done for Mona’s wedding (Mona, of course, being my host sister-in-law’s sister)— “You should come! It’s at 2 o’clock tomorrow. See you then!” A call from my host mother later that evening with the same details— it’s at 2 o’clock tomorrow, you should come, see you then!— confirmed my official invitation.

Peace Corps tries to prepare you for these types of things. During training, we are given information about the customs of various ceremonies that we will probably be invited to over the next two years and what is expected of guests. Armed with all of that textbook knowledge, I dressed myself up in my jellaba, brushed my hair, put in contacts and put on makeup, and bought a cone of sugar on the way over. The mul-hanut (store owner) was quite amused at my outfit and the fact that I was buying just one cone of sugar— I gathered that most people give about 10 cones as a gift. Nevertheless, I am but a poor Peace Corps volunteer, so I marched to the other side of town, holding my one cone of sugar loud and proud. I was stopped constantly by people I know, each exclaiming how they didn’t recognize me because I looked like a real Moroccan in my jellaba. (One of the goals of the Peace Corps is cross-cultural exchange, but I am fairly certain that the unofficial one is cross-cultural amusement. I consider that one accomplished ten-fold.) I eventually arrived at the house, demarcated by a massive tent outside. Guests had already arrived in droves, sitting around Mona, beating drums, and singing traditional wedding songs.

All of the 5 minutes of work I put into getting ready— brushing my hair and putting on makeup and the like— was quickly rendered completely unnecessary. My host family had quite a different plan for me. I got more makeup put on, my hair was brushed, re-arranged, brushed again, re-arranged, and then re-arranged again, and then my host mother came in with a caftan for me to wear. Now, to the untrained eye, this garment looks just like a jellaba…and I, apparently, have an untrained eye. Context clues— my lifeline in every interaction these days— suggested that jellabas were considered too informal for the wedding. So, on with the caftan!

I quickly learned that wardrobe changes are a thing of ceremonial significance during L’erss. Mona began things in a gorgeous, emerald-green, gold-embroidered dress. Hoisted up on a cache of pillows, her feet and hands were henna-ed and glittered. At this point, my host mother insisted that I get henna too— and then proceeded to “joke” about how this would all happen again soon at my own Moroccan wedding. “Your mother in America will be so happy!” she reassured me. Mona just smiled knowingly.

Next came the white dress, bedazzled to the max.

Mona and her husband-to-be, Brahim, were both hoisted into a matching white, bedazzled structure. Carried back and forth by four men dressed in white caftans (maybe jellabas…?) and red fes hats, I can only speculate on the significance of this portion of the ceremony. Whatever it was, the aruza (bride) and eriss (groom) enjoyed themselves as they sat cross-legged in the wavering structure.

Sky blue and bedazzled followed by pinkish-magenta and bedazzled, the dresses continued coming. Each costume change seemed to mark a new part of the wedding, otherwise indistinguishable to those of us who can’t differentiate a jellaba and a caftan. For the most part, laruza and leriss would process in, sit down on a throne-like (and of course, bedazzled) seat in the middle of the tent, and then sit for an hour or so while music blared and guests danced. Mint tea, coffee, and bags of helweh were passed around intermittently to keep everyone happy and satiated, although laruza and leriss were never offered any. Their stoic presence was only ever interrupted by guests wanting to take their picture with the happy couple…like this clan:

Dancing was the main festivity, of course. The females dominated this arena— I made a lot of new friends through my creative renditions of Moroccan dance.

Eric made a lot of friends too— although we determined later (again, thank you context clues!) that most of his little compatriots were not actually invited guests. Who knew that wedding crashing was a cultural component of Morocco!

As the night wore on, the female and male dancing circles started to meld. Of course, this just meant dancing was initiated between male and female relatives, but it was really fun (and slightly scandalous!) to watch either way. Plus I got this great shot of my host brother, Zechariah, dancing with my host mother:

Around 8pm, there were still three dresses to go: a navy blue, bedazzled dress, a white, flowered, and bedazzled dress, and a white, western-looking, and, of course, say it with me— bedazzled— wedding dress. With each dress, the ornamentation increased, and these two women, who I can only assume were the equivalent of wedding planners (credit: context clues), would spend about 10 minutes fussing over the arrangement and fold of each layer.

The closing ceremony, around 9pm, involved the bride and groom exchanging rings and being fed tea by their mothers. The couple then exchanged tea and dates stuffed with coconut, afterwards inviting all of the guests to share in the gooey goodness. (We had to feed ourselves, though) Substantial food was given to us as well— twice during the wedding I was led into a room to eat with a lot of other women. In Morocco, I am very used to eating as a guest in someone’s house— meaning that every morsel I put into my mouth is watched and I am constantly bombarded with more food and demands to keep eating. Well, this was definitely an every-woman-for-herself situation, so I actually got to eat a normal amount of food for the first time in a long time. Funny sidenote: Eric never got fed! The men seemed to be the ones making and serving the food for this event, and thus did not get to actually partake in the consumption of the deliciousness. JUSTICE IN THE LAND!

The wedding died down around 11pm, after laruza and leriss threw candy out for kids to fight over. I’ll let everyone draw their own comparisons with the bouquet toss at American weddings ::wink::. I said goodbye to my host family and was sent off with some leftover pieces of fruit, as if they were apologizing for making me fend for myself at lunch and dinner. My ears are still ringing and I cannot get the last bits of kohl off of my eyes, but the night was quite a great one.

My host sister, Aya, turned the big 0-7 on New Year’s, or Rass L’Eam, or Siniya Saeida, or Bonne Annee. Festivities included dancing in the living room, preparing helweh for the birthday girl, watching Moroccan musicians on TV, and, of course, getting dolled-up, Morocco-style. My host sisters all fussed over my hair, makeup, and dress, insisting that I wear my jaleba (but definitely NOT my glasses) to welcome 2012. My makeup adventure was reminiscent of L’Eid— kohl (the black eyeliner equivalent here) is still so unkind to my eyes. To apply it, you lick a toothpick-like stick, dip it into a container of grainy kohl, and then drag it through your eyelids. The crumbles feel fantastic when they break off into your eyeballs, but nevertheless, the mantra that “beauty is pain” seems to be a universal one. My host sisters were quite pleased with their final product.

The big surprise of the evening was from Zechariah, my host brother. At the 11^th (literally) hour, he showed up with a massive white box from Marrakech— a French-style birthday cake for Aya. The traditional Moroccan cakes (like the two that my host mom baked for the occasion) are only slightly-sweet sponge cakes that are frosted with melted chocolate and garnished with nuts. The French-style cake is a lot more like what we’re used to in America— multiple layers of cake with FROSTING. We all sang happy birthday— or “sana heylwah yagami”— in Darija, in English, and then again in English for good measure.

All of us crowded around the TV (which was tuned to the very Moroccan “singing and dancing” channel) for the final countdown for the New Year while consuming massive quantities of cake. After wishing each other “Happy New Years!” in every language possible…we ate dinner. In every single way, it was a genuinely Moroccan way to celebrate.

My first day in the New Year had a very specific purpose: to furnish the apartment that I needed to move into that very day. The tricky part about furnishing an apartment here is that, well, there aren’t a ton of Rooms-To-Go around Tamslouht. Even our once-a-week suq that seems to have every other imaginable item (individual q-tips, anyone?) lacks in the furniture department. The closest (literally and figuratively) viable option is Marrakech, a 40 minute venture down the road. This, of course, brings up the issue of transportation— how many Peace Corps volunteers does it take to get furniture to their respective sites? And never mind that— how do they do it? By donkey? By camel? Although both are probably legitimate ways of getting the job done here, Eric and I went for the more westernized way of moving stuff: by truck. Of course, when I say truck, I don’t mean U-Haul. La, la, la. Think the rickshaw equivalent of a U-Haul. Something like this…

After spending a few hours sauntering around the El Xamis suq in Marrakech and talking with a ton of furniture store employees, Eric and I settled on some significant purchases: one mattress each, 3 ponjs each, 3 sidaris each (the wooden frames for the ponjs), and a small bedside table each. Eric’s host mom, Aicha, made the trek with us and helped us to negotiate Moroccan prices rather than tourist prices. Here we are, triumphant after successful haggling in the furniture store.

So, in total, Aicha helped us to acquire a whole lot of stuff to pile into (and on top of) the itty bitty Moroccan U-Haul. But, do not fret, my American readers— everything was secured with a rope. There was one more straw, of course, to place upon this camel’s overloaded back…seating arrangements. In between the ponjs and underneath the “secured” mattresses and sidaris were the seats for Eric and myself.

Let’s just say it was inspiration for a little homemade video of the whole affair…..which will not upload, of course. But here is the view from where we were sitting!

By the grace of Allah, we arrived back in Tamslouht without a hitch. All of our furniture is currently in our respective apartments, and we are officially living independently in Morocco. Okay, well, not exactly independently. Moving across the street from my host family is essentially like me moving back to America, according to them. I feel like a college freshman again; my host family is very concerned that I am not getting enough to eat (I guess this is where I confess that I actually did purchase 3 packages of Moroccan ramen soup from Marjane’s) and has extended an invitation for me to eat breakfast at their house kul nhar— every single day. So, I guess this is the closest that I’ll get, but it’s a very happy (and well-fed) median. So far, I’ve already eaten 2 meals with them and ksuksu (cous cous) with Eric’s host family…and I’ve been living in my apartment for three days today. Hamdullilah for Moroccan (captive) hospitality, and Rass L’Eam (and Siniya Saeida…and Bonne Annee…) ………..!

We all arrived in Kech (I’m a local now! Look at my slang!) early in the afternoon on Christmas Eve. Lucia rented us a beautiful riad conveniently located right off of the main square in Kesh proper. Amenities included aberrations such as hot showers, western toilets, AND free wifi— Merry Christmas to us all indeed! Lucia gives the place an official thumbs-up in honor of our collective approval:

The cast of Christmas characters included Lucia, her two sitemates, Cait and Mike, Kim (one of my roommates from Fes), and Bryant (another PCV from Moulay Yacoub). Christmas Eve activities included a trek to Marjane’s (the Moroccan wal-mart equivalent) to stock up on “holiday cheer” and a trip to the local Catholic Church. Can’t have one without the other! Thanks to my father’s wikapedia-ing skills (and Catholic enthusiasm), we were made aware of a Church conveniently located about 20 minutes away from our riad. In true Moroccan fashion, the 8pm mass started around 9pm and was full of surprises. We not only got to hear our favorite Christmas songs in French, but the choir threw in some traditional Swahili (we think) lyrics and ay-yay-yay-ing. The French tourists sitting around us were not impressed, but I guess they’re no barometer of cool that I would trust anyways.

After mass, we returned to our riad and spent our evening on the roof. I ducked out from the party to get a little taste of Rakquinza 2011 via skype, which was the best Christmas present (short of a plane ticket home for the evening) that I could have received. I even got pictures of my two Christmas trees— the Rakoczy tree and the Quinn tree.

Christmas morning included music from the Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack and breakfast with our new American and Dutch friends from the riad.

Afterwards, Lucia, Bryant, and I met up with Malika, our language teacher from training. She lives in Marrakech and was a fantastic guide for our Christmas adventure. After eating lunch together, we ventured off to the Jewish quarter of Marrakech. That’s right— Christmas day in a Muslim country visiting the Jewish part of town. First was the cemetery. We stayed long enough for Lucia to have to wash her hands. Apparently, after visiting a cemetery, Jewish people have to wash their hands. Who knew I’d be learning about this all on Christmas!

Next stop on the cross-cultural Christmas train: the synagogue. Malika wrote her undergraduate thesis on the Jewish community of Morocco, and thus served as our tour guide for this little monument. It also provided us with our Christmas miracle— the last time Malika tried to enter the synagogue, she was turned away because she’s Muslim. This year, the same Rabbi let her in, no questions asked. Hamdullah indeed!

On our walk back to the suq, we ran into our American friends from the riad. They pointed us in the direction of the Dar Si Said, a monstrosity of an old mansion that contains collections of pottery, clothing, furniture…all items that make the art history geek within swell with joy and excitement. The house itself is ridiculously decorated— tons of intricate tile patternings from floor to ceiling, exquisite woodworking, extensive painted plaster moldings…sigh. It was quite a sight.

Christmas night was spent on the roof again. Nijeeb, our new Moroccan friend who works at the riad, entertained us long into the night with songs on the leud, or Moroccan guitar, and of course, “traditional” Berber jokes (“How do you get a camel into a refrigerator?”). Our last day in Kech included a trek deep into the suq. Tangential adventures included a glimpse of the outside of the Mdrassa Ben Youssef, the Marrakech Museum, an impromptu tour of a small tannery, the purchase of a scarf, and, of course, the enjoyment of street art:

Until next time, Marrakech!

everything was stirring slowly— and of course, the weather was un-Christmasly hot.

Not too hot, though, for morning coffee at the local café

Little were Eric and I aware of the evil forces at play….

Our kass(es) were sitting on our table without care

While our krsh(es) anticipating sweet coffee would soon be in there

Sugar cubes stacked on tabsil(s) daintily

Ignored for the moment by Eric, by me

We’re enjoying conversation, not noticing the guy

Passing by us casually with quite the twinkle in his eye

Without so much as a “Salaam” his hand swept over the table

To acquire not one, but ALL of Eric’s sugar cubes, he was able!

Eric and I dropped our jaws to the ground

Knowing that those sugar cubes would never again be found

The man walked away into the afternoon sun without a fight

So Merry Christmas to him, and to all else, a good night.

BUT the adventure didn’t stop there (as adventures rarely do)

But Eric and I were optimistic and didn’t have a clue

We had a successful Darija lesson with our tutor, Rahhal

Onward, Peace Corps soldiers, to our new apartment— if you recall…

Our landlord had signed some papers, now we just needed the keys

We had our first month’s rent in hand, so this should be mashi mushkil— a breeze!

The conversation turned into a labyrinth, as they often do here

And we left with no keys and a deficit of holiday cheer

“You need papers”, (we think) he said to us, “and we’ll get them tomorrow”

So off we went into the sunset, with confusion, with sorrow.

After a night passed without visions of sugarplums dancing in our heads

Eric and I reconvened to tie together errant threads

Two glass of tea later and not a dirham spent,

We were talking to a Moroccan with an Irish accent

Hand gestures directed us to a photocopying store

At least my lack of Darija prevents life from being a bore!

A woman typed up contracts while we sat around in plastic chairs

Celine Dione played in the background, much to our deligh—  DESPAIRS

After an hour or so, copies of official things were all printed

Across the street we walked— who am I kidding, we sprinted

To a man who keeps all of Tamasloht’s residence records handwritten in one book

Papers were stamped and initialed, hands were shook

Thinking our adventure was over, we triumphantly surveyed our space

But the finish line, as always, was for another time, another place.

The apartment’s locks need changing, Peace Corps stipulates

And where safety comes into question, I am not one who debates

…but there’s a “mushkil kbir,” my landlord says to me

A big problem? Oh, I can’t wait to see

Turns out the lqfl (lock) fell through the door

And is sitting inside of the locked apartment on the floor

The greatest philosophers would struggle to solve

The problem of a locked door without a lock— the answer would probably involve

A screwdriver or two, perhaps a crowbar

To pry open the door of course, although they won’t get you very far

Two hours and resolve is what you need, and a few forehead creases

Too bad this methodology splinters the door frame into pieces…

But at least Santa had helpers, little boys who called us “madame” and “misseur”

It added finesse to the whole process, for sure.

So I’m in a foreign land with an open door policy

Sir landlord will fix it soon, insh’allah, he promises me

In the meantime, it’s Christmas, so I guess I’ll go have some fun

Cuz I’ve got 99 mushkils (problems)— my bab (door)’s just one.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Eric and I are currently teaching supplementary English classes to local high school students in their second year of English classes. Soon, there will be a class for high schoolers at the beginning level, and, come January, the local artisan association will get their own class. For now, though, Eric and I have just 20 fantastic students. Here is photographic evidence of our students’ undying enthusiasm for learning the English language:

Okay, so maybe this enthusiasm was a little subdued by the writing assignment that they were working so hard on. But they have been great students; as my training group found back when teaching students in Moulay Yacoub, the kids who show up for non-mandatory English classes are typically a self-selecting bunch that are a teacher’s dream. This has definitely been the case thus far in Tamasloht. So far, we’ve been reviewing and mastering tricky bits of the English language through as many fun activities as possible. To ensure that we’re on the same page as the students, Eric got a hold of a BAC textbook. It’s quite a comparison to every language textbook I’ve ever used— the thing is written entirely in English and has essays that most high schoolers in America would struggle with. I can’t imagine how much hair I would have pulled out if my Italian homework had involved reading about “brain drain” or computer addiction. Cultural norms were addressed as well— check this out:

Outside of the classroom, learning continues. On Sunday, I spent the afternoon hanging out with Eric’s host family. We ate, sorted sesame seeds, made cookies, and discussed fertility. Yup, that’s right. Fertility. It’s funny how I can be completely lost in a conversation about the weather— one that consists of the most basic vocabulary— but I am able to completely comprehend superstitions about child-rearing.

It all started out with a discussion of the “brrd.” Moroccans have a nasty relationship with the brrd, or the cold. Any time it drops below 80 degrees, the knit sweaters and heavy blankets come out. You can’t lean up against the wall without a pillow being shoved behind you by two family members— for, of course, protection from the brrd in wall-form. Have the sniffles? Ah, yes, the brrd is conquering your immune system. First thing I hear when I wake up? “Kayn brrd lyom, iiyieeh?” or “It’s cold today, isn’t it?” Eric and I laugh about it, but apparently, this is a serious issue. The brrd, we learned, can cause infertility.

While rolling out dough to make helweh with the beautifully-sorted sesame seeds, I did the unthinkable— I almost sat down directly onto the ground. Immediately, like a force of nature, a pillow was stuck beneath my rump. As soon as Eric walked away, his host mother and aunt pointed to my crotch (you can imagine my surprise) and told me how bad it was for me to sit on the cold floor, as it is that type of reckless behavior that would prevent me from having children. When Eric returned, talk turned a little more PG— mom and auntie began predicting the amounts of children in our respective futures. Eric, who didn’t risk his health by sitting on the floor, will apparently have 13 children. Myself? I will only have 2. My bad habits have obviously caught up with me.

And, as far as habits go, I’ve been spending some quality time drawing with my two youngest host sisters. It’s amazing how a bag of markers and a few sheets of paper can guarantee your popularity with kids across the globe. I’ve amassed quite a large collection of their drawings…

Here are a few of my own….color experiments with marker and crayon (inspired by a book from the Peace Corps library of Matisse’s Moroccan works), a quick ink sketch of Aya’s head, and a gesture drawing of Eric and Mimi.

There you have it folks.  Shteh u rdeh!