To commemorate this insignificant milestone, it seems appropriate to publish the list of 10 things that I’ve gotten used to in Morocco. It’s been in the works for awhile now, in my notebook, whenever the light bulb appears during a moment of pure “Wow, I didn’t realize how weird this really was.” For example, while standing on the side of the road, waiting for an illegal taxi during a strike at 3am in Marrakech– how is this a normal part of my schedule? Why am I not freaking the fuck out? Actually, first of all, what sequence of events lead to this that I was totally okay with? And why, even in questioning myself, am I still not nervous or shocked or…??? I’ve wllift-ed, as we Daringlish scholars pronounce confidently.

For better or for worse, and in no particular order:

1. Watching TV. Never have I spent so much time in front of the tube, collectively, as I do in one day here. It’s irrelevant that I barely understand any of it. Every Moroccan house that I go to welcomes me, pours me some tea, and directs me in front of the glowing oracle known as the tilfezza. One, two, and three, without fail. Whether it’s background or focal point, it’s always there, on, most of the time at a volume not so conducive to having a conversation (a good excuse for me not understanding the Arabic small-talk). Sometimes I’m thankful for it– I’ve been able to learn a thing or two from the Turkish soap operas dubbed over in Darija (about relationships, not language! Always go for the rich guy!). I also get cultural street cred points for asking students’ preferences between Harem Sultan and Ezel in English classes discussing personal preferences. The skylines of flat Moroccan roofs dotted with a million and one satellite dishes personify this quirky clash between tradition and modernity. When it comes to couch potato-ing, I have become the most “American” version of myself here.

2. Never Knowing What’s Going On/ Where I’m Going.  I have an infinite amount of anecdotal evidence for this one. Plans change, cultural indirectness leads me to think we’re talking about one thing when the discussion is planted firmly in a topic days away from where I’m standing….norrrmmmaaallll. The amount of times I’ve gotten into a car with friends and don’t know the destination until I get there is….every single time I get into the car. Even if I think I know where we’re going. Because the destination always has several side trips woven in….side trips that often become the final destination. Very “On the Road.”

3. Extreme Temperatures. Half desert, half tundra: welcome to Morocco. I don’t know how it’s possible, but winter here is so cold and then BAM, summer is soooooo miserably hot. Having no insulation and no central heating/ cooling definitely makes the body one with the weather. I’ve started dressing like a Moroccan this second time around, layering 3-5 odd shirts/ sweaters when it’s cold. When it’s hot…I just wilt. Temperatures get beyond 120 (but I stop looking). Days are spent lounging in my laundry bucket, because that’s really all the energy I have. Never in my life did I think I could survive for more than a few hours in these types of body shakin’/meltin’ extremes. But maybe the crazily inconsistent Georgia weather prepared me more than I thought!

4. Eating on a Regular (albeit strangely-timed) Schedule. I joined the PC fresh outta college. At UGA eating was something you did when and if you had time. There were days I ate at 7am and then again at 7pm, others where an all-day buffet of random free food would miraculously appear. Consistently inconsistent, for sure. Then…Morocco. People are so concerned with food. Every day, I have breakfast, lunch, a snack, and dinner– all at the relative same time. Why? Because if I don’t, I will get yelled at for not taking care of myself. I think my mom paid off the entire town of Tameslouht to help remind me. Fair enough, though, you never have to spend too much time convincing me that I should eat!

All of this. Eaten.

5. Being Called Fat. I’m sure this is related, in some way, to number 4. Like being tall, or having blue eyes, or having two arms, “fat” is just another observation about someone’s physical appearance. It’s not the psychologically-loaded term that Americans need therapy for when they hear it even close to a sentence that has their name in it. Many Moroccans are referred to as “the fat one” as easily and nonchalantly as they are “the old one.” It’s still a little unsettling to get my stomach patted and have someone tell me how fat I am. I’ll never forget Eric’s host family making suuuccchhh a big deal about trying to find pants that could possibly fit me because I’m so fat. It was yet another out of body experience where, logically, I knew I should be traumatized at the family discussion ensuing about my weight. Yet I wasn’t. I had been well-prepared by so many prior assessments of my fatness. My tutor had also told me at one point that a lot of women think fatter is more beautiful, but sometimes I’m convinced he just told me that because he knew how sensitive I was to everyone calling me fat. Thanks for trying, Rahhal!

Eating froyo in Casablanca…sometimes being called “fat” can be deserved.

6. Having Nothing To Do. I remember in the PC interview, I was asked a lot about how I spent my free time. How did I feel about being confronted with large amounts of unstructured schedule? I remember scoffing at the notion, informing my interviewer that I’m an art major. Filling time creatively is what I learned how to do. I literally have a degree in it. Fastfoward 1.5 years….oh my lord. Yes, drawing in a book and writing in a journal and re-arranging furniture can be creative uses of my time. But only for a few hours…or maybe a day project every once in awhile. The amount of unstructured time blew me out of the water. Teaching English classes and working with the artisans occasionally gets busy. But more often than not, I find a blank slate in front of me at the beginning of the day. Coming from a college schedule where I needed to schedule time to sleep once a week, I can understand why my former self didn’t really quite get it. My mom commented the other day about how hard my adjustment is going to be when I come back to America. I’m sure it will be, but in the meantime, I’m going to spend a few more hours experimenting with mixes of chicken foods to see which ones help my chicks grow even faster. Afterwards, I’ll probably sit at the cafe for a few hours and drink one whole soda, savored over that entire time period. Life is just slower here…and this is during the part of year that isn’t Ramadaan.

7. Being Stared At. I’m not too exotic-looking by American standards. No purple hair, no face tattoo (….yet!), no real reason for people to gawk. Even when I was an art student carrying around massive canvases and wearing paint-drenched clothes, I think I still paled in comparison to the other varieties of human in existence. Here in Morocco? I’m a dancing monkey. Kids, women, men, teenagers, old people, babies…everyone seems to not only notice me, but stare at me like I’m Santa Claus. I never knew I was so interesting! If I open up my mouth, the staring only becomes more intense (and slightly confused). I’ve had kids walk up to my table at a cafe and just stand there, gaping. Sure, they eventually break down giggling and run away, but there is always the staring component that introduces us. So much for operating “under the radar.”

8. Inchallah Time. Americans undoubtedly value time. We like when people are punctual, we praise people who are early, and we punish people who are late with guilt trips and public shaming and tardy slips. In Morocco, all meeting times are followed by “inchallah.” What time is class tomorrow? “We’ll be there at 5:00, inchallah!” English translation? We’ll get there at 5:28 and then stand around outside of the class until 5:45 when you start yelling at us for the 6th time to come inside. What time is the meeting tomorrow? “6pm inchallah.” English translation? 8pm. Because no one will arrive for at least one hour– there has been a time change, and so 6pm really means 7pm– and then everyone should stand around for a bit and wait for the people who aren’t coming until 8 anyways. What can you do? God apparently doesn’t will me to have an American schedule here in Morocco.

9. Feeling Like A Complete Idiot. Sometimes I literally have to remind myself that I have two college degrees. Learning a new language kicks your confidence to the curb. Even when you get competent at it, it’s a Pandora’s Box of the unknown– the more you know, the less you realize you understand. A million times in one day, I walk away from conversations feeling like I’m coming up for air after holding my breath. And it’s not just with language. There are so many itty bitty little things that I just don’t know! I still don’t know how to gauge weight. So, when I hand the mul hanut (store owner) one tomato and tell him I want a kilo, he finds it hilarious. Describing things that I don’t have the vocab for is a fun game as well– my life is a constant charades game. It involves a lot of dancing, making a fool out of myself, and never getting the change to feel superior to ANYONE (even the crazy homeless man speaks better French than I ever will!). What can ya do?

10. Drinking Really Sweet Tea. I realized this one today while having lunch with an RPCV from Niger (more on my cool visit from author Vivian later!). We were drinking the same fruit juice, and while I commented on how tangy it was (strawberry + orange, nom), she said at the same time how incredibly sweet it was. What? Sweet? I literally had to think about it, taste it again, and realize how much sugar was wafting over my taste buds. I blame Moroccan tea for this inability to decipher shades of sweetness. Moroccan tea is like 1/8 water, 1/8 tea leaves, and 932018392018329109023193219032893201890238/329013829108439107583741308923018392018493108493184930819408190382198231 sugar. Approximately. Shannon, don’t compute that. So when I have a glass, say, twice a day, sure, it’s small. But I’m sure my taste buds have become immune to anything below the toxic shock level of sweet. Again, this is coming from someone who grew up in the land of sweet iced tea. I never liked it…I guess it wasn’t sweet enough!

I drank ALL of ‘em!

There’s a strange dynamic at play here. All of these things are in front of my face, living next door, lining the streets– for sure. But slappin’ western labels on them (which are custom-made for re-election speeches, not field work) often limits them. And by that, I mean that they don’t do the complexity of the situation justice.

Take women’s empowerment, for example.

It’s a fancy word that us white people loooovvveeeee to use as the unilateral subtitle for all of our interactions with “the native women.” Teaching illiteracy classes, assisting working women with product development, putting women in leadership positions…we classify all of this under the neat and tidy label of “empowerment.” And sure, these can be and often are positive changes in women’s lives. But is seeking empowerment why women attend these classes and workshops and take advantage of these opportunities? Is that why women seek to make their lives better, or is it a by-product of a different motivation?

After 1.5 years I should probably have more answers than questions, but when is that ever really the case? This is where Ola comes in.

I got an email a few weeks ago from Lauren, head of Peace Corps Morocco’s Gender and Development committee. It had been forwarded a few times through various Peace Corps channels and ended up in my inbox. Ola, a student from UPenn, had received a research grant to study women’s empowerment through income-generating activities in Morocco. Lauren though that I might be of assistance because of my work with Creation Tameslouht. Cool, I thought, I can introduce her to the artisans, have a nice afternoon, maybe she’ll buy something.

The idea went out of my head (all I can think about these days is how flipping hot it already isssss. Oh, yes, and the cliff bar my sitemate’s aunt gave me.) until Ola called me the Friday that she arrived in Morocco. After talking a bit, it became evident that Ola was looking not just to speak to my artisans, but to any other groups of women that I knew. After initially blanking, it dawned on me that my collective time here in Morocco might actually prove useful– just through word of mouth and my own personal network, we ended up brainstorming quite a busy schedule for her 4ish days in the Marrakech region.

Day 1? Meet the women of Creation Tameslouht, of course!

Ola ended up spending several hours chatting with just 6 of the artisans. Her questions ranged from basic familial inquiries (how many kids do you have, are you married?) to the fire-and-brimstone-inducing ones (do you ask permission before you leave the house?). I was a little wary about how the women might receive her questions; never having asked them myself, I wasn’t sure what was a green light and what was so far away from okay it shouldn’t even be suggested. However, the women seemed to really enjoy the questions and the organic twists and turns that they prompted. Ola’s Palestinian Arabic was well-received and well-understood by the women. They ended up having lively discussions about the role of the association in their lives within the larger framework of what exactly it’s like being a woman in Morocco right now. The conversation was ended, as it should be, by tea, msimin, and olives.

The next day, we headed out to Amizmiz. Ola had a book of cooperatives and associations that listed ample findings in this little mountain town….and most of them ended up not existing, not being located in Amizmiz, or angry that she would dare try and ask them questions about their associations (welcome to our lives, Ola!). So, onward to square 1! We met up with Peter and Britt, the brand-new PCVs in Amizmiz. They ended up not only being lovely hosts, but also super resourceful– they knew where their host brother’s friends hang out, two of whom ended up volunteering to personally walk us to the two associations from the book that they had heard of. Awesome! First up….honey.

Several phone conversations with the guy in charge of this cooperative proved…confusing. When I repeatedly asked where we could find his business in relation to the bus stop, he elaborately described the sign outside of his shop. I caught something about a bee (at this point, I didn’t realize we were looking for a honey cooperative. In hindsight, it makes a lot more sense). It took our two volunteer high school guides to get the guy to trust us and talk a bit about his cooperative, which employs several women. No samples available for tasting, but he did point us in the direction of another women’s cooperative in town– well, okay, to be more accurate, way outside of town and through several wheat fields.

We traversed through the rustic painting-of-a-landscape, eventually being directed to a particular house in the neighborhood. We had been warned about the difficulties of just walking around, looking for cooperatives, as many of them don’t have buildings– most simply exist in theory and on paper, while the association members do work and conduct meetings within their respective houses. Somehow, we landed in the lap of the president, and she was able to rally several women over to the house for interviews. We got tea, water (!), and Britt even got connected to a group of women interested in learning English. We were able to make it out of Amizmiz (through the wheat fields again!) just in time to catch the bus back to Tameslouht.

A 3pm appointment awaited us. The new, swanky women’s center had two classes Ola was interested in talking to– one for Arabic literacy, one for sewing. After a very Moroccan snack of bread and vache quirit (which we all know is my diet staple), Ola and I sat with the women in the sewing class. They spent time telling Ola about mobility issues, saying how hard it is for them to go where they want if there is a male head of the house. Ola pointed out to me later that it was interesting to note that only those whose fathers/ brothers/ male heads of the household had gotten sick or died (morbid) felt a sense of freedom and mobility. Most of the older women were able to reflect on their decisions for self-betterment, such as joining sewing classes, as empowering, but we agreed that it seemed like more of an afterthought than a conscious part of the decision-making equation.

Tuesday morning was Lalla Takerkoust. Some friends in Tameslouht had been there recently and told me about a brand-new association for women dedicated to cheese-making. Seeing as how all things related to food stick out in my head, I recommended we check out this place. Ola and I set off in the morning and had an interesting time navigating  the Berber dialects prominent in this area. Assya, our Berber-to-Darija translator, did teach me how to write my name in the Berber alphabet (I am disappointed to report that it is comprised of four circles of varying sizes, one of which resembles a boob). We got to taste the spoils of war while Ola interviewed, dining on fresh bread, tea, and korchlet (Moroccan cookies). One of my favorite interviewees was an older woman, probably in her 70s. When Ola asked her “Kif 7alk” (the Palestinian way of asking “how are you”), the woman heard “seer f7alk”, which essentially means “get away from me” in Darija. Definitely started off on the right foot, and only got funnier as the woman told Ola that no, she wasn’t married, and did these questions mean that Ola was going to find her a husband? Because she would like one young and preferably rich. Some things, no matter what language they’re communicated in, always translate.

What was intriguing about these women, particularly the president, was that they didn’t actually receive money for the association. Sure, the members get a bit for their efforts, but Naima doesn’t get anything financially out of running the show. Several of them, including the feisty 70ish year old who wanted a younger man, said that if they were married, they probably wouldn’t participate in this association. Why? Because they would need to tend to the house, children…and that their husbands probably wouldn’t approve. Assya, young, beautiful, and unmarried, said that even though she didn’t make any money, her alternative is staying at the house and twiddling her thumbs. She said she has nothing to lose by coming, so she does. Not exactly the quote that any development association likes to print next to the pictures of “empowered women,” but it seemed to be an underlying trend in a lot of the women’s decisions to be active in their respective ways.

In the afternoon, we returned to the women’s center in Tameslouht. I ended up leaving to go help my new sitemate with her housing contract…when I got back, Ola was surrounded by a group of women (who had definitely forgotten the whole “sewing” part of their sewing class), some of whom were standing up, yelling at each other. Ola looked calm, cool, and collected, so I assumed it was nothing to worry about. It turns out that one of the women Ola interviewed had a difference of opinion with a more conservative member of the sewing class. They clashed over how women should be spending their free time, whose fault it is that women don’t finish their schooling, and the Quranic interpretation of the hijab (headscarf) vs. the niqab (fabric that covers everything under the eyes)– all manifestations of female mobility in Morocco. Another interesting dimension added to our growing understanding of the “situation” of women and how it relates to that ever-elusive (and continually confirmed to be completely Western) concept of “empowerment.”

Afterwards, we left for M’Hamid, a neighborhood in Marrakech where the Rabeea, sister of Zainab (president of Creation Tameslouht) lives. Rabeea works with a lot of women artisans in this area, although they are association-less. Most of them work because they have to– one, for example, is the second wife of an older man. His first wife and their son are both mentally challenged, and the husband is currently sick. This second wife, therefore, is solely responsible for providing for all of them.

This story seemed to capture the sentiment of most women we met (albeit without the heart-wrenching narrative). The majority of women seem to enter into the workforce not because they are seeking to be empowered, necessarily, but rather out of necessity. Husbands or sons can’t provide for the family, or income needs to be supplemented. There are a few who work for enjoyment, or to pass the time, but most seem to work because they absolutely need to. Whatever the reason, though, they produced gorgeous work, including one of the most unique and chic scarves I’ve come across thus far in Morocco:

Wednesday morning, Ola and I met up with Melissa, an American working at the Center for Language & Culture in Marrakech. We met a few months ago because her students helped us out with the interfaith dialogue project in March. Melissa has recently been involved with the opening of Amal, a Moroccan restaurant located in the heart of Marrakech. According to their Facebook page…

The goal of this nonprofit is to improve the quality of life for disadvantaged women by giving them the tools they need to start supporting themselves, in terms of kitchen skills and literacy training.

What a fantastic initiative, right? And what delicious food! Obviously, part of Ola’s research needed to be whether or not the food that they were making was of any quality, so Melissa,  her man friend, Ola, and I all enjoyed a massive chicken tajine, salads, and desert before interviewing the women who worked there.

Ola said there was an interesting contrast between the more rural women we’d been talking to and these Marrakchian women. In the city, it seems more acceptable to be working and getting home late at night– that’s just what you have to do.

We ended our Marrakech run by meeting up with the High Atlas Foundation, a non-profit started in 2009 by Peace Corps Volunteers. They’re particularly close to my heart because my language and cultural facilitator from training, Malika, is currently employed there and loves her work. They are involved in all sorts of development projects, including those led by women and those which benefit women, so they served as a great resource for Ola as she plans out her second week of Morocco.

What a great experience. I was telling several other PCVs that this week was fun because we engaged in a lot of conversations that don’t arise organically. Concepts like “women’s empowerment” and where it fits into the spectrum of Moroccan life are often things that we have to piece together over the course of thousands of interactions. It’s something that I’ve thought a lot about as well, mostly as a result of my work with women artisans– and something that I’ve been tentative about asking too many questions about. Why? I guess I feel a bit like the “Ugly American,” whether directly comparing or just perceived as trying to draw parallels between the women here and my own experience as a female. Well, in America I can wear shorts and hang out with guys I’m not related to and still not be considered a prostitute, even with a drink in my hand! Precisely what the suffragettes strove for me to be able to do with my quality, right? Either way, I know that my equality and freedom is in the context of a specific time and place, as is theirs– and I’m never sure just how much good it would do for me, as a white American Catholic who is only living here for two years, to be the one to try to incite a revolution through my poking and prodding. I think Peace Corps frowns upon that. I think it would be eternally more powerful, meaningful, and effective if Moroccan women were the ones to lead that charge. Until then, I think I’ll continue to support “empowering” activities for women– because, at the end of the day, sometimes the by-product of an experience can be just as positive of a teacher as the intention. Kinda like the hot dog of development work. Kinda.

We blogged about it here: Submitted!

While safari-ing my way through the Sheraton of Uganda (in my white terrycloth bathrobe), I received an email (on their flawless wifi) from Angela, one of the Public Affairs officers working at Dar America. As my most loyal readers recall, Dar America is the Public Affairs section of the United States Consulate in Morocco– who also helped with the flus (money) component of our project. They put on a lot of cool public programming, and wanted to know if Mustapha and I were interested in speaking about our interfaith dialogue and how the topic resonates in America. Without hesitation, we responded yes, and packed up our bags on Monday, April 29th. Headin’ from the red to the white city!

Upon arrival, a driver picked us up. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, Uncle Sam has a DRIVER. We were taken, very stylishly, to Dar America’s oasis of splendor and beauty– about 2 hours early, but who’s counting. We were pumped! The building is amazing. It features an impressive library of English books, a computer lab, garden, and spacious offices with that lighting that photography students die for. Also noteworthy was the body count: probably 20 people were spending their free time lounging around, reading books and enjoying their time in a productive way. For those of us who work at dar chababs, you will understand my amazement at this. Usually I have to bribe kids with chocolate to come and learn in their free time. Not exaggerating. The chocolate was a huge hit.

At 5, Mustapha and I rolled up our sleeves and got a’talkin’. Mustapha began with an overview of Tameslouht, the ancient religious school in Tameslouht, his association, and where the idea for an interfaith dialogue came from. Afterwards, I impressed everyone with my powerpoint skills and showed pretty pictures of pretty people (who just coincidentally were at our interfaith dialogue) while giving the run-down of how exactly we got the project to go from the ever-popular (and prevalent) “idea” to the slightly more elusive and exponentially more satisfying (albeit 110% more frightening) “reality.” The group– a fluctuating 20-to-30-and-at-times-10-person gathering– was super engaged and asked a ton of great questions in English, French, Darija, and, at times, a combination of the three (welcome to my life).

Sometimes, as an American, I forget how revolutionary this whole concept really is. As I explained to the audience, our American interfaith dialogue is a lot more informal. We don’t typically write grants and get massive headaches from planning the logistics of it– most of it occurs in passing conversations with neighbors and co-workers about weekend plans, holiday parties, and current events. Of course, I realize my own experience is exactly that– my own– and not wholly indicative of every single person who calls themselves an American, but still. My family, as Catholics, lived between two Jewish families, some atheists, Scottish people, and a bouquet of other Christian pursuasions. I vaguely remember my mom attending a neighborhood gathering for a religion whose name evades me but is something about all-inclusiveness. I learned about Ramadaan through some friends in college who were fasting. I stared at the small shrines (Shinto?) while I waited for my nails to dry at the neighborhood nail place. I marveled endlessly at my Buddhist art teacher (at a Catholic school). Just to name a few of my “interfaith dialogues.” Morocco, unlike America, doesn’t have this extreme diversity at every corner. The population doesn’t lend itself inherently towards interfaith discussion simply because most people are Muslim. It makes sense. The added “proselytization is illegal” thing makes it slightly uncomfortable for anyone who isn’t Muslim to be the initiator. As PCVs, we’re actually told to stay away from the topic, as it is often so controversial that it is not worth it in terms of compromising your effectiveness simply because you are an atheist (the jury is still out on that one– many PCVs have very different experiences in this arena). But, at the end of the day, I think Mustapha summed it up best with what he said yesterday– if you’re green, you will never know what being green truly means until you meet someone who is blue. In short, when we learn about others, especially those with beliefs divergent from our own, we usually end up better understanding ourselves.

After the wonderful, energetic, and very positive Q&A, Mustapha and I went to Angela’s (super, fancy, really nice, words-don’t-do-it-justice) apartment and met her cat Bandita. Angela and her friends treated us to…brace yourselves…INDIAN FOOD and FROYO. Casablanca is truly a small slice of American heaven. The next morning, we enjoyed bagels and Skippy’s peanut butter, hot showers, and a large hoard of pigeons at the Casaowi version of Trafalger square.

Now I’m back in Tameslouht, looking longingly at the stain on my sweater from the faraway dream of Chicken Masala. It was a wonderful experience (and not just the Indian food!) and I highly recommend hooking up with Dar America if you ever find yourself in the Casablanca area.

The question was whether or not I’d be his girlfriend, and the answer was, well, nothing, so far. I was a little torn– Peace Corps was a dream of mine….a dream that didn’t include the complications of romantic entanglement, the Sex and the City theme music, or anything else slightly resembling a chick flick set in an exotic location. More seriously, I had reached a point in my service where I was comfortable with my town and my work, and committing to a relationship in a culture that (in general) doesn’t condone pre-engagement dating seemed a little reckless. At the same time, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little intrigued. This was a guy who talked to me about politics and philosophy, but still had the cajones to joke about inviting me to his (26 year old) friend’s circumcision. After sitting in a chair and making a pros and cons list in my head, my response was a very assertive “Okay. But.” And then I laid down a slightly dramatic, independent woman schpeel about what it means to date an American woman. He nodded and listened intently as I droned on and on (quite passionately) about my freedom and my will and the importance of my work. I ended with the most important point of all: dating an America, unlike dating a Moroccan, does not mean we will be getting married.

14 days shy of 1 year later, in a different cafe in Jemaa El Fna, this same man asked me to marry him. No speeches, just 19 odd “Wait, are you serious?!!!??”s before saying “YES!“

Anyone who has been even sort-of following my blog has simultaneously been watching the unfolding of an epic, life-changing romance.

We met maybe a month or so prior to the Sunday afternoon in the cafe, on one of those mornings in the dar chabab that us PCVs know so well– only one kid shows up to a class and you end up kinda dancing around for awhile because your oh-so-carefully planned lesson was designed for 15 kids, not 1. Because it was more than slightly obvious that the class wasn’t a class in any sense of the word, him and his friend strolled in and started asking Eric and myself about possibly setting up an English class. First impression? Hey, this guy’s English is pretty good! Not exactly soul-crushing love, just amazement that someone, somewhere in the world made it seem like learning a second/third language wasn’t the equivalent of climbing Mt. Everest. Classes were set up eventually, and somehow, we started hanging out in that casual way that Moroccans are so good at initiating.

After we started dating, a lot of nothing happened. Sure, we liked each other, but how serious can a relationship get when it’s supposed to be secret? I will give 110% of the credit to my sitemate for giving us an opportunity to actually be a couple.

Peace Corps sponsors a lot of counterpart-focused trainings in Rabat. One in May 2012 piqued both my and Eric’s interest: how to build a library. I invited one of my counterparts to join me; meanwhile, Eric was going back and forth about who he wanted to work with. I finally suggested this guy, as he is very involved in community development and would probably enjoy something like a library training. Eric asked, and, as is the theme of this blog entry, he got a yes.

We (separately) had decided to go to Rabat early; me, because I needed a vaccination from Peace Corps, and him, just to “change the weather”, as they say in Darija. After realizing this, we coordinated our plans and ended up having two days to ourselves in the capital of Morocco, a city that I had previously cast aside as a little bland and nondescriptly European (and yet not quite). It turns out all you need is the right tour guide. We explored the beaches, the neighboring city of Sale, wandered through the old medina, discovered delicious food carts, took boats across the river, watched a protest surging to its height…and held hands the whole way through. It was our first time together outside of “tbergig” (the ever-present, watchful eyes) of Tameslouht. I fell in love with the city, and I fell in love with Mustapha.

From that cafe in Marrakech to Rabat, then adventures in Essaouria, El Jadida, Casablanca, Orika, Ouzoud, Tizlt, Tahanoute, Ifrane, Agadir, a fantastically successful interfaith dialogue that we pulled off together, and meeting my parents and my sister, we made it all the way back to Marrakech in the early afternoon of April 1, 2013– also known as my 25th birthday. My friend Catherine was visiting and we were looking forward to a birthday lunch that Mustapha had wanted to take us to. In true Moroccan fashion, we needed a coffee break before getting anything accomplished, so we stopped at Cafe France for a drink and a view.

Mustapha asked me if I wanted to open my birthday present (another resounding “yes”). I unwrapped what turned out to be a gorgeous wooden box, crafted by Moroccan artisans. When I went to open it, I found that I, in fact, couldn’t. There was a lock but no key. Mustapha gave  me a key and I opened up the box to find….a beautiful jewelry tray. Empty, of course. Without even thinking, I lifted it up to find a smaller wooden box. And inside that box…literally the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen.

When people told me that Peace Corps would change my life, I thought they meant I would learn a cool, obscure dialect and become a translator or contract a rare disease that colored my skin purple permanently. While still a Peace Corps trainee, I remember purposely zoning out during the session about “If you marry a Host Country National, this is all of the bureaucratic protocol…” Never, in my inception within an inception of a dream, did I think I would find the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with (or that I could write that sentence and actually mean it/ not puke on my keyboard while typing it). My parents joke around that I always choose the most difficult path, and this is no exception– hollah at yo girl if “visa” is a four letter word for you too. But if I’ve learned anything in the last year minus 14 days, it’s that the path of most resistance sometimes leads to the rest of your life.

And yes, we’re extremely serious!

Oh my how we’ve grown!

So, Catherine and I met backkkkk in the day, second semester of freshman year, in Jeffery Whittle’s Color & Composition class. It was love at first sight. Erin Freeman was thrown into the mix the next semester in our Introduction to 3D Design course and…never have three women been so in love. Unfortunately, Erin has a life or something, so she couldn’t tag along….next time, inchallah.

Catherine and I met up in Casablanca, where this brave woman ventured from the airport into the city all by herself (I was hanging out in the fancy shmancy Dubai airport for 329810321 hours when she touched down in Morocco.) We took the train into Marrakech and headed straight for Tameslouht. First lesson? Turkish potty-training.

She was a champ– kinda a natural.

While planning for this trip, I asked Catherine if she would prefer visiting a lot of places and spending one or two days in each, or picking a location and investigating it thoroughly. Thankfully (for my bank account and for my sanity), Catherine selected the latter, and so we used Tameslouht as our base and went out from there. First stop, obviously, was Marrakech. We spent our first afternoon there just walking around the city and getting acclimated to the intensity of the place. A romantic date ensued at the cafe overlooking Jemaa El Fnaa.

After exploring everything that Tameslouht has to offer (and learning that Led Zeppelin allegedly played some show in our town’s ancient zaouia?), we headed out for a day-trip to a neighboring mountain town, Amizmiz. Following my prior experience in this town, Catherine and I hiked up a mountain where we roughed it and cooked a tajine all by ourselves. Getting the fire started was exciting– when there are high winds and you’re working with nothing but a meager lighter and seemingly non-flammable paper, it apparently takes almost an hour to even get a fire started. But started it did get (and it took long enough to help us work up an appetite!). We made a chicken and olive tajine, which cooked surprisingly well on a very uneven flame. After eating, we packed up, said goodbye to the neighboring sheep (the exact same ones who were there the previous year! With the same crazy shepherd who had extensive conversations with them!), and headed back into town to catch a bus back to Tameslouht. The day ended peacefully with spaghetti, meatballs, and a night of Modern Family.

Our plan for Thursday was another day-trip to another neighboring mountain town of Orika. Before our departure, however, Catherine had expressed interest in getting a real hemmam experience. So, after my class finished around 11, we packed up our toiletries and extra pairs of underwear and entered into the land of the public bath. For those of you who live hemmam-devoid lives, I should explain that there are a grand total of 4 rooms in this Tameslouht hemmams. The first is a general lobby where people get undressed, pick up their buckets, and possibly eat an orange or two. The second room is a tiled room with benches and is usually quite cool. The third room is tiled without benches and has four faucets: two hot, two cold. This room is where the majority of hemmam-goers enjoy a good scrub-down, as it’s the “just-right” temperature. The fourth room could also be referred to as hell. It is the hottest, and I, being a complete idiot, decided to set up shop there since it was the emptiest room (no shit sherlock). Catherine and I died. It took so much effort to even sit up (and there was no way in hell– haha get it?– that I was laying down on the floor of a public bath.) Catherine and I made it out semi-alive after 2 hours, but were so exhausted we kinda just plopped down in my living room and started watching more Modern Family. After allowing our headaches to manifest completely, we decided to get some fresh air.

There were talks of chocolate cravings, and I knew the right place to quench the proverbial thirst– our “mul donut.” This is a guy who conveniently/ un-conveniently (depending how strictly you’re trying to adhere to a diet on any given day) is situated on the way to the dar chabab. He sells sweets, most consistently donuts. On this given day, he also had a pile of freshly-baked chbekiya (fried dough soaked in honey and rose water) and sleelou (mixed up nuts and sugar that taste like heaven). Catherine had the genius idea to get a sampling of each, so we paid 7 DH (less than a dollar) and walked away with quite an array of goodies. My inner 2 year old came out, though, and I ate myself sick. Combining an overload of sugar with an already-persistent headache is never a smart idea. We ended up making a couscous dinner invitation, but pretty much collapsed when we finally reached my house.

So much for Orika.

Friday was our day to go down south and visit my dear friend and in-country boyfriend, Michelle. The only thing standing in between us and her is a large mountain pass called the Tichka. It is a rather scary contraption, winding up and down with sharp turns and only a 2 ft tall guardrail protecting you and your mode of transportation from a lonnnngggggg fall. Pictures don’t do it justice, but this will give you a small idea of our fear:

To mitigate the nausea (only enhanced by the melody of our fellow passengers puking), we were given two breaks– one for lunch and one for coffee. Catherine and I thoroughly enjoyed both opportunities for being on flat ground. We also found some of the largest oranges in existence. What they lacked in flavor they made up for in sheer volume!

We FINALLY made it to Nkob and enjoyed a fantastic dinner of eggplant and caramelized onion pizza, made with extra love by Michelle.

The next morning was souk. We got up early and picked out some delicious-looking veggies, marveling at the fact that we were the only non-male entities in the entire place. We spent the morning washing dishes and playing bananagrams, watching Michelle teach young children, and then baking a cheesecake.

It would have been too easy to just leave it at that– late at night, Catherine went to go utilize her well-honed squatting skills in Michelle’s turk. We heard some faraway screaming, but didn’t think anything of it (I know that sounds weird, but if you’re a PCV, you know what we mean). Turns out Catherine was having some difficulty leaving the toilet due to a MASSIVE INSECT– I would call it a centipede but it was like, half-snake at the same time. Absolutely disgusting, wriggly, scary little thing that is apparently poisonous. Throw in the fact that you couldn’t really see it well in the darkness AND the fact that three screaming girls do nothing but reinforce each other’s screaming….it was a mess. We eventually calmed down and Michelle beheaded the little thing, but wow, that was quite an adventure to end on. We woke up bright and early on Sunday to head back home, braving the 7am bus and a driver who apparently didn’t fear death. Happy Easter from Morocco!

Monday, also known as the first of April, also known as April Fool’s Day, also known as my BIRTHDAY, was awesome. We ushered 25 in with a bang, playing bananagrams at the cafe all morning and then heading into Marrakech for a delicious lunch. Catherine brought candles and stuck them into every bit of food I consumed that day, from a loaf of bread to a single cookie. They ended up in my birthday dinner, a very late couscous and birthday cake (imported from America by Catherine), melted and beautiful. More on my birthday in a separate entry, but rest assured that the 25th year of my life is looking like one of the best ones yet.

We ended Catherine’s Moroccan escapade with an intense shopping trip in the old medina of Marrakech. Gotta get all of those presents for people back home! It was really sad to push her off onto the train to Casablanca, but we made sure to keep it classy– wishing each other off well with “Here’s lookin’ at you.”

Thanks for the great visit Catherine!!!!! Sorry about all of the disgruntled donkeys and blind roosters that interrupted your sleeping patterns. That was just Morocco showing you how much it loves you.

….but I dare say, I’m getting ahead of myself! Back to the Quinns! Here’s a handsome picture of the whole group, minus Shannon who actually had work to do or something.

My dad is now a veteran of Morocco, with three notches on his red and green belt, and my mother is probably intermediate-high with two (almost advanced, if not for her unrelenting fear of the Turkish toilet). Colleen, however, got her very first taste of Morocco this time around– and it was scrumptious indeed! No…really….we ate a ton.

Mother and Collifer came into Casablanca on a rainy, cold Tuesday. Just to make sure they were ready for an adventure, all of their baggage decided to stay in a very snowy Paris. It was a minor setback for my mother (who, because of my list of liquid demands, checked all of her luggage) and potentially for my father (who had to pack for three vastly different climates in one suitcase….my mother’s.) However, they remained strong, and figured out the train system to the point where they made it in one piece to Rabat, where I was awaitin’ faithfully with Mustapha. (They did, however, take enough time to where Mustapha and I stumbled upon the king’s palace! Which apparently you can enter with a very shabby photocopy of your passport. Laid-back, I like it!)

After finding my mom and sister easily in the train station due to extreme differences in skin pigmentation (Colleen, you are a lighthouse!), we went to our hotel and crashed. Colleen hadn’t slept at all and kinda just crumpled on the bed; my mother was a little more oriented and, like the trooper she is, agreed to be dragged around to historical monuments. We also gave her a taste of the streets– kermuss!

After visiting the Hassan II mausoleum, we decided to go big and walk to the super swanky cafe that overlooks the ocean. Under normal circumstances, it’s about a 30 minute walk. We, however, got to experience the journey in a very light but persistent rain. As we continued walking, the rain slowly turned up the notch on the volume, until I realized we were three strong in a downpour. We did actually make it to the cafe…but sat there all of 1 minute when my mom realized it was a very outdoorsy cafe and the rain was still a’comin’. At this point, Mustapha reminded me that my mother is not a Peace Corps volunteer and should probably be put in a nice, comfy, warm, and preferably dry location ASAP. There were no complaints when we adhered to this plan!

After a good bit of sitting in La Comedie, a gloriously nice, comfy, warm, and dry cafe that has a museum of pastries, we woke up Colleen and dinner-ed. It was a great excuse to go to a nice restaurant and eat delicious Moroccan food I haven’t tasted in a long time– harira and chbekiya! These are traditionally Ramadan-ian foods in Morocco, so they have not graced my stomach with their presence for almost a year now. My mom and my sister enjoyed those two delicious items in addition to some tajines. We left very full and very content.

Day 2 in Rabat involved breakfast, a trip to Peace Corps headquarters (gotta show off), and meandering through the old medina. We bought some Moroccan helweh, gagged down one cup of sugar cane juice (when in Rome?), and eventually returned to the aforementioned swanky cafe– a much drier situation than the day before. We sipped very sweet tea and enjoyed the view!

After wandering into an art gallery (that apparently has a prison on the top, yours for a special price of a bazillion dirham!), we went on the quests of quests: where to eat lunch. Mustapha and I ended up selecting a very small food stall we had wandered into by pure coincidence on our first trip together to Rabat. We call them Moroccan hamburgers– they’re a delicious blend of ground beef, spices, and egg, all fried together and slapped on a burger bun with or without cheese. Mom and Col gave it the seal of approval.

After finishing up, we gathered our stuff and headed into Casablanca to meet Dad. Fresh off of the plane from London, we shoved a Pepsi Max into his hands– and there was much rejoicing.

Our time in Casablanca had a very specific purpose: to see Rick’s cafe. Sure, my dad had seen it on his previous visit, but come on– it’s Rick’s cafe! Also, is there really anything else to see/ do in Casablanca? (That’s not a rhetorical question– apart from the stuff I’ve listed on this blog, I literally have no idea what else there is. Any suggestions would be appreciated so I don’t sound so anti-Casa to future visitors!) I guess it goes without saying that we also saw the Hassan II mosque. It’s hard not too, that thing is massive.

From there, we CTM-ed our way back to Marrakech. It was a pleasant ride, full of lots of snoring. We made it back in one piece and promptly set up the Quinn camp in Mustapha’s sister’s house. Moroccan hospitality was abound: we were served many, many meals and my parents felt very uncomfortable when I told them repeatedly to sit down and not try to clean up the table or any of that. Everyone was tucked into bed relatively early because of the first item on the Friday itinerary: leave for Ouzoud, 8am sharp.

Ouzoud is a little town I keep hearing about. It’s about 2 hours outside of Marrakech and is famous for its waterfalls and monkeys. Marrakech is a pretty dry, red city, so I wanted to give my family a little glimpse into the greener side of the country. We rented out a taxi from a local driver, who ended up being nuts. Absolutely bonkers. He didn’t seem so bad at first– your typical twitch and crazy eye, but nothing too dangerous. THEN we found ourselves confronted by some road construction, and our driver just morphed into whatever the opposite of a good taxi driver is. He sped up towards the man waving the flag telling us to wait, and, just like in movies, made the guy dive out of the way because he sure as heck wasn’t stopping. We sped down the shoulder of the road for a good 2 whole minutes of terror while the guy…laughed. He laughed. At us, at the road, who knows.  Somehow, though, we arrived in one (emotionally damaged) pieace at this itty bitty dead-end. It was obviously a tourist destination, built-up with hotels, artisan stalls, and hand-painted signs pointing to the “cascades.” We walked down one path and were confronted with a dead drop– and, as my mom pointed out in a very mom-like fashion, without guardrails.

But the best part about this Utopian, albeit slightly-dangerous haven of nature? MONKEYS!!!!!!!!!!

The best part of our vacation was when my sister tried to get close to a monkey. She stood, waiting for him to approach her, when suddenly, not only did he grab her hand– which would have been awesome on its own– he used her hand as leverage to jump on her back and into the tree overhead. Mustapha caught it all on camera– and we all know how many words a picture is worth, so savor these:

After walking down a lot of stairs (such easy exercise!), we landed at the bottom of the valley. Moroccan ingenuity showed itself at its finest, with small rafts constructed from empty oil drums and old vegetable carts nailed together and covered in fake flowers offering ride into the waterfall. My dad kept referring to them as “funeral rafts”, but I thought they added that extra bit of “pizzazz” that nature just can’t.

We ended our run in Ouzoud with a delicious picnic lunch prepared by Mustapha’s sister. We dined and fed a very pregnant cat.

Afterwards, we drove the two hours back to Marrakech and hopped out for some old medina shoppin’ and cafe sittin’. We took the fam to a picturesque cafe overlooking Jemaa El Fnaa– totally worth the 15 DH sodas. We ended our day with couscous and smiles and rainbows and unicorns and completely satisfied stomachs.

 We trekked back to Casablanca the next day, enjoying a luxurious stay at the Ibis hotel (hot showers!). My dad and I took the women to the airport the next day, then headed up to Rabat to visit my dad’s friend Fouad. Turns out Fouad, apart from being a research scientist, is also a part-time lemon farmer? We ended the second Quinn era in Morocco picking lemons in the countryside, all of us, in our separate languages, wondering what the heck was going to happen to 20 kilos of lemons.

Next day…..off to Uganda!

ME: Wow, you used coconut on these cookies! Do coconuts grow in Morocco?

HOST MOTHER: Ohhhh no no no, of course not. These come from Africa!

And so on and so forth. Casual comments are made allll the time about Morocco playing some “African” team in a soccer match. My mudir (youth center director) looked at me strangely when I told him I was leaving for Uganda, cautioning me that “life is hard in Africa.” And it’s not just Moroccans. PCVs here joke around a lot (most of the times in a service-deprecating way) that we’re not in real Africa. I think this means that most of us have wifi in our apartments (which are cement, not mud brick) and the worst disease we’ll get is a cold from spending too much time in the brrd (as opposed to to Malaria). So, when my dad proposed that I tag along on his business trip to Uganda, my interest was piqued: What, I wondered, is real Africa really like?

A few hours after we touched down in Uganda, I found out the rumors are true. It turns out that Ugandan people don’t dole out African street cred to Moroccans either. Twice during my stay, when conversation veered in the direction of how I am American but currently live in Morocco, they would promptly dive into a geographic epiphany, assuring me that Morocco isn’t real Africa. I guess it’s a good thing we’re all in agreement!

After a bajillion hour layover in the Dubai airport also known as Las Vegas, my dad and I finally landed in Entebbe, the “I’m not really the capital of Uganda in anyway except on paper” capital of Uganda. It’s nestled on Lake Victoria, which is picturesque, but apart from that….not too much there. As my Dad and I stood in line waiting to get checked-in, a massive group of UN soldiers were escorted by us with– brace yourselves– Moroccan badges! The UN sent them to just protect me from the real Africa!

After successfully entering the country, we met up with my dad’s co-worker and our driver. That’s right bitches. This PCV got a driver during her visit to real Africa. We went from Entebbe (capital in name-only) to Kampala (not capital in name but pretty much the capital city). Kampala looked a lot like the child of Morocco and Atlanta, GA. The weather and the foliage reminded me of good ol’ ATL (it’s veryyyy green and verrryyy muggy), and the rhythm of the street was 100% Morocco. A mess of motorcycles carrying everything from towers of chickens to stacks of coke bottles (plus a family of 4) mingled in perfect, chaotic harmony with donkeys, brand new Mercedes, and jam-packed minibuses. Street vendors took the “street” part of their name seriously, selling everything from belts to cell phones to mangos at your car window. My personal favorite thing, though, were the mannequins outside of all of the roadside clothing stores. 90% of them were the average mannequin size….until you reached the hips. Then BOOM! Some had serious booty, others just had carboard stuffed in ‘em to ensure the buyer that yes, this dress/ pair of jeans/ skirt is equipped to hold the booty of your dreams. Funny, and definitely a lot better than the mannequins at home that are the size of my arm!

After an aesthetically-stimulating drive where my head was stuck out the window in dog fashion, our driver took us to the Sheraton hotel. Savor that last sentence. The air-conditioned, hot-showered, comfy-bedded, full-barred, consistent wifi-ed, mosquito-free Sheraton. I can say, without hesitation, that this is the cleanest and most well-fed I’ve been during my Peace Corps experience.

Our first full day in Uganda was spent being 110% tourist. We hired another driver who took us to the Kasubi tombs of the Ugandan kings, the palace of the current Ugandan king, and the Uganda museum. Highlights include the chickens running around the king’s palace, the African huts in the “backyard” of the museum, and the surprise Christo installation at the tombs (this, my friends, is a bad joke– apparently El Chabab burned down the tombs in a terrorist statement and, during the rebuilding process, have been temporarily covered with bright orange tarp. But you can’t blame an art history major for making the tasteless connection…!) My dad and I had a great time attempting to make jokes and being met with blank stares. We found out that sarcasm and irony don’t necessarily translate here– for example, my dad’s remark about the “great drivers” constantly darting in and out of traffic elicited a confused look from our driver, who thought it was obvious that these were in fact the opposite of great. Nevertheless, they dealt with us and just ended up smiling a lot.

Day two was all business. We woke up early and ventured over to the Tuberculosis clinic, where everyone talked shop while I read a book. From there, it was over to Makerere University for lab tours. Our day also involved an extensive stint at a used car dealership, bartering with two very unhappy Indian men over 500,000 shillings (in the context of 75,000,000, it’s not that much). The UGA-Mackrere partnership required a fancy shmancy vehicle to endure the rugged terrain of rural Uganda, and, with the help of university professor/ weekend used car salesman Noah, we landed on our dream vehicle.

We experienced a location change at the end of day two, driving once again to Entebbe to stay the night and flee to the nearby airport in the morning. Our hotel, the aptly named Imperial Botanical Royal Fancy Lovely Beach Hotel (or something along those lines), sat on Lake Victoria and offered us a great range of television to watch (if Spanish soap operas and Fundamentalist revivals get your motor purring). In the morning, Dad and I enjoyed a “breakfast” of goat stew and mashed bananas cooked in banana leaf– our first Ugandan meal of the journey. We got to share it with an friendly orange cat and a camera-sky monkey.

The trip was short and sweet. I got a nice vacation after our interfaith dialogue and a week with my family in Morocco (blog entry about that coming soon!), lots of great food (a surprising amount of cheese…?), a very 5-star exposure to a new country, and, of course, quality time with Fred ice.

Nothing quite beats father daughter time, especially when it’s in real Africa!

A few months ago, I described the joys of project planning in Morocco. It’s been quite an experience! In my former life, I actually did have a few projects under my belt that I had planned. However, not only were those all in a university setting (cough ivory tower), but they also happened to be in the great US of A. 110% of this project just happened to be in Morocco– and we all know what they say about “location, location, location!”

Mustapha and I began this project with just a simple idea. We talked it out, filled out paperwork for grants, and then hit the pavement trying to get everyone else as excited about the idea as we were. And, well, that was kinda tough. Like I said, this was not the ivory tower, where anything for the sake of education seems to be supported enthusiastically. Also, this was not America, where interfaith anything is pretty standard in most civilized areas of the nation. We were advocating a completely unprecedented gathering of three faiths– all of which have extensive histories in Morocco, and therefore, extensive positive and negative interactions– and it made people nervous! A meeting with the Catholic priest confirmed that this was an initiative that could and would only happen if proposed, organized, and managed by an Islamic organization. In a country where proselytization (try to write that one without a spellcheck) is illegal, it made total sense.

In addition to the caution that people felt about the subject, we also got to deal with the bastard of all bastards: discrimination. As I mentioned earlier, because of these religions’ long presences in Morocco, there have been a plethora of both good and bad religious representatives in the country. Throw in the whole Palestinian-Israeli conflict on top of that, and, well, we’ve got some slight misconceptions about other faiths that we had to navigate a bit. But that made the actual project all the more important, right? So, taking a cue from my exceptional counterpart, patience became the name of the game. Which ended up being integral to the success of the entire project.

In our initial project proposal, we wrote about and stressed organization. Committees would be formed, tasks would be delegated, oversight would be abundant. In the reality….organization was the redheaded stepchild of our project planning process. It’s so hard to get people to plan for an event that is happening in 6 months, but at the same time, you need every second of those 6 months to be used for very detailed project planning! People wanted the date pushed back. People wanted to know who were speaking. Speakers wanted to know who was coming. Attendees wanted to know when the date was. And so forth. After nailing down a date (after several changes), we just threw our momentum towards that light at the end of a rapidly corroding tunnel. I think there were two or three weeks in January and February where Mustapha and I went into Marrakech every single day to work with graphic designers on our event’s “propaganda” (banners, posters, brochures….you get the idea.) Our mantra that began every single day was, “So, what’s the program for today?” and every day was ended with “So, what’s the program for tomorrow?” Even within those two brackets, our answers to those questions had the potential (and likelihood) to change drastically. Designs had to be amended after the checking of an email. Speakers had to be switched with the ring of a phone. A French translation needed to be corrected after a third or fourth revision. People didn’t show up to meetings. Information given to people got messed up. The amorphous nature of the project was a little problematic…and a little stressful.

There was one thing that wasn’t quite so slippery though– the support of fellow Peace Corps Volunteers. We had an amazing response from a rather impulsive post I put on our Facebook group, asking if anyone might possibly be interested in helping out with our event. We had a plethora of responses and 14 warm bodies who showed up to help. Additionally, a group of 10 American high school students studying in Marrakech agreed to help us out as well. With all of this new responsibility, I asked my fellow PCV Lucia if she would be interested in serving as our Volunteer Coordinator. Ask anyone from our group who you would want if you had a situation that needed order and professionalism, and I guarantee the answer will be this girl. Within a week or two of our event, she was taking care of every volunteers’ concerns and lifting a giant burden from Mustapha and myself. If you ever meet this girl, give her a hug. I’m sure this won’t be the last time she saves a friend from drowning!

The night before the event, we had boxes of all of our carefully designed folders and other materials lining the hallway of my apartment. All of the PCVs were gathered in my apartment for a feast and run-down of event protocol. It was nerve-racking! If the event blew up (literally or figuratively– both equally bad!), it would be bad for a lot of reasons…but the PCVs made it feel like the event was really going to happen instead of just being some far away idea that I spent all of my time working on.

The next morning, we all woke up early, got dressed up in whatever the Peace Corps equivalent of “business casual” is, and rode our minibuses to the Private University of Marrakech, located about 5 minutes outside of Tameslouht proper.

I should mention at this point that the location of the project had been a point of contention during our project planing process. We had a meeting back in December or January where we spent time specifically looking for an event space in Tameslouht. We decided on hosting the event in the ancient zaouia, or religious school. I loved the idea. Not only was it picturesque and symbolic, but it was a really empowering move for the people of Tameslouht. Event attendees would be coming to a part of Morocco they might have never been to before and might never go again, but that beautiful site would leave such an impression on them.

Some people we were working with, however, were concerned about image. The zaouia isn’t in the best condition, and asking important government officials to sit in the grass under plastic tents isn’t the best photo op. I get it. I really do. But, if you couldn’t tell from what I just wrote, I was pretty emotionally invested (on top of everything else) in the location. AND the invitations had been mailed with the zaouia as the event location. Minor deets. I fought hard for the zaouia, and, in the end, we struck a compromise– the event would be held in the UPM, and lunch would be in the zaouia.

So, the morning of the event was the first time I actually got to see the UPM in all of its glory. Mustapha told me it was nice– I didn’t realize just how nice. We’re talking tree-lined, fountain-equipped walkway into the conference hall. Reception tables in the entrance. VIP room off to the side. Romantic lighting. Plenty of chairs. It was perfect!

PCVs set up in the lobby and we got to work signing in all of the guests. It’s a good thing we had so many volunteers– over 250 people ended up coming. As I spend time reviewing my initial grant proposal for my final grant assessment, I’m looking at the number of attendees we predicted– 100– and remembering how Mustapha and I considered that an amazing number to end up with.

The event started out with what I kept referring to as the “boring, obligatory” speeches. You know, the important people who speak on behalf of the event and what it means to them– the part that we as Americans usually sleep through when attending events. However, I was very pleasantly surprised by how well the speakers captivated the audience with their opening words. French, Arabic, and English were all used to emphasize the importance of the event and its goals. I think that the three languages coming together is symbolic in itself!

Our wonderful speakers included the President of the Region of Marrakech Tansift El Haouz, the President of Tameslouht, the President of the Jewish Communities of Marrakech and Essaouria, the Head of the Catholic Church in Marrakech, the Head of the Synagogue in Fes, Mustapha (the director of the event), and yours truly!

From there, we had our panelists speak. We had four professors from Kadi Ayyad University in Marrakech speak about various topics related to Islam. We had two Jewish speakers, including the head of the new synagogue in Fes. Lastly, we had one Catholic priest give a great talk on the history of Catholicism in Morocco.

After all that chatting, it was obviously time for lunch!

We departed in various modes of transportation to the zaouia. From there, the “VIPs” (speakers and their cohorts) were invited to dine in the riad owned by the President of Tameslouht (who also generously paid for all of the food— hollah!). The rest of the event attendees got to enjoy couscous under the tents by the old religious school.

This was my first (to my knowledge) interaction with Kosher food. Obviously I’ve been chowing down on Halal food for quite sometime, but Kosher food is another entity. I un-knowingly sat down at the Kosher table and wondered for quite sometime why all of the delicious, steaming plates of couscous were passing right by us. It was a moment of sadness, but I did still get to chow down on Moroccan sweets after lunch finished.

We also had the idea to advertise our women artisans at this event. We had them set up all of their goods in the zaouia so that all of the lunching attendees could have the chance to browse and– inchallah– buy!

After lunch, we returned to the UPM for a question and answer session addressing the topics discussed. We had the awesome, flawless idea of asking all attendees to write down and submit any questions they had. This was our method of controlling the content of the questions– no inflammatory  accusations about anyone’s ancestors killing someone else’s ancestors in the Crusades and the like. However perfect this theory was, it didn’t quite translate to reality. We ran out of questions, and people are more used to standing up and asking them anyways, so we just transitioned into that format– and it worked out really well! At least, I think it did– everything was in French and Arabic– but everyone made it out alive, so…success!

The day ended with the formation of a new association that will be working towards building and sustaining the interfaith community of Morocco. We had such a positive response at the event, and met so many enthusiastic youth in the process of planning the event, that I really think we made something happen.

If you’re interested in keeping up with our association (and hearing about NEXT year’s interfaith dialogue), “like” us on Facebook!  If you want to read more about our event (and happen to be fluent in Arabic), click here! If you want to see us on TV, track us down on the 2M website….and then let me know if you find the video clip, because I sure can’t.

Thanks to all of you who supported our idea and helped to make it a reality. We really, truly could not have done it without you!

1. Maroc telecom is satan incarnate. Seriously though, this internet/ phone provider is the worst thing since unsliced bread. We’ve had consistently inconsistent internet access since January, and at the rate we’re payin’, we should have internet encased in gold. So, alas, even if I could have logged on long enough to update all of you about the Moroccan goings-ons, it probably would have shat out halfway through and left me having to retype everything 4 or 5 more times before giving up. This is an oddly specific number because it’s happened to me a lot lately.
2. Our project HAPPENED! SUCCESSFULLY! We worked our tails off getting everything ready for our interfaith dialogue. Lots of tales of hilarity/ hair-pulling frustration that probably will never see the light of day on the internet, as they’re mostly anecdotes of complete incompetence and obese egos that some might find to be offensive. Last thing I need right now is a lawsuit for libel. But, all of that aside, everything went off without a single hitch, we’re so fucking excited that we pulled this off. Detailed blog post coming soon (and in the meantime, check out our Facebook page for pictures)!
3. The Quinns came back to Morocco! A second round of the Quinns in Morocco is coming to a close tomorrow. Always entertaining and full of great pictures– this time, with many monkeys. Again, detailed blog post to come!

In the midst of all of this pre-project frenzy and post-project visitor extravaganza, Mustapha and I connected with a group of students studying at Al Akhawaiyn University in Ifrane, Morocco. These students have formed an interfaith group (I bet you see their relation to our project) and we were very interested in meeting up with them.

Al Akhawaiyn is a fairly new private university that gives all of its courses in English. It’s nestled right in the mountains in an area affectionately (and accurately) referred to as “Little Switzerland.” Mustapha had a weekend workshop to attend there, so we packed up our bags and set off to have some meetings with the students, go to the workshop, and inchallah enjoy some nature before our extremely busy project week.

Holy wow. I’ve gotten so used to the red scenery of Marrakech that I forgot nature comes in other colors– specifically, GREEN! The 8 hour bus ride to Ifrane was a vacation in itself. The view from the bus window was astounding– rolling green hills, deep blue lakes, lots of trees, remnants of snow….the works. It was also nice to feel cold again. A warm spring has pretty much settled down in Tameslouht, but this trip was an opportunity to dress like a Moroccan and bear the cold. What I mean is, they have mastered the art of layering. If there is anything resembling a breeze or a cold front, I can walk up to anyone in my town and they will proudly show me their 5+ shirts underneath their 2-3 sweaters and large coat. This is all occurring in 60 degree weather. Anywho, I jumped on the bandwagon and wore 2 sweaters, 4 shirts, one big coat, and tied it up with a nice little scarf. And I was still cold! Glorious.

We arrived in Ifrane in the early afternoon and spent awhile gaping open-mouthed at the scenery. I felt like I was in America– tree-lined streets, manicured lawns, houses with sloping, tiled roofs, no sheep in sight. We learned from Karen, the chaplin of Al Akhawaiyn, that the town was founded by the late King Hassan II in the 1920s. He made building zone laws to preserve the architectural aesthetic of the city, and also made business laws concerning what types of stores could actually be in the city. This meant no dry cleaners until recently– people had to drive to Azrou to do all of that “commoner” stuff. It definitely left us with an impression, though, summarized best by Mustapha’s comment about all of our pictures. “What fun times in Great Britain!”

Days 2&3, Mustapha was in his workshop, so I explored the nearby city of Azrou. It’s a beautiful little city nestled in the mountains. I took lots of pictures.