fin tht yidd, tht ashra

The past week has been spent re-acclimating to life without three other Quinns in it. If you have ever met the Quinn family, you will understand why the transition period takes some quality time. Apart from missing the witty banter (or sometimes, so witless that it doubles back to being extremely clever) and constant arguing about important topics (is illegal downloading immoral? 5 years later, we still can’t agree…), I’ve had to ease back into a Moroccan schedule of quiet and calm. I know this sounds trite, but any PCV will tell you that it’s quite a different pace of life than in America, one that requires a fine combination of ignoring/ turning off/ destroying the voice of efficiency at times. I’m talking about the voice that tells you,  ”I could make one trip to the hanut today and buy everything at once!” Ha, please. It’s a 3 minute round-trip from my house. I’ll buy my lightbulbs, bread, and necessary cookies over the course of 7 different trips. The voice also tells you, “Gah, I really don’t have time to make a decent meal. I need to study Darija, map out all of my lesson plans a week in advance, maybe finish another book. Soup again!” Are you kidding me, self? You’ve got enough time to make a Thanksgiving feast without the 5 meetings, 400 pages of art history methodology readings, and 4 hours of work at the college dining hall. You’re even going to get 7 hours of sleep tonight. Cool it. Slow down.

I’m sure everyone can empathize with the inner-struggle for efficiency despite, well, your surroundings. Being around Americans for a week was a semi-transition back into that go-getter mentality, especially when acting as a tour guide to my family (“…fun things to do in Tamslouht? You mean, besides wandering aimlessly around the olive orchards…?”). Now, it’s back to life as usual. Just me, Tamslouht, and some really cute stray puppies that occasionally follow me around.

This week’s activities eased me off of American energy slowly. Currently, Eric and I are teaching 7 classes of varying levels, a healthy (and usually manageable) jump from the 4 we had maintained for the first few months. Additionally, we’ve begun testing the waters for other projects. 8am on Sunday saw the first of these endeavors: a modest, yet (I would dare to say) successful trash pick-up project with some of our English students.

Our high school students have been learning about volunteerism in school. Since Eric and I know a thing or two about that topic, we planned an entire lesson around discussing the benefits of volunteering. (We would have covered the drawbacks too….if they existed…) The lesson ended with the students designing their own mini volunteer project. Or…at least…we tried to end it that way. A little/ a lot of prodding culminated in the (rough) blueprint for a community trash pick-up. Sunday, March 25th at 8am: be there.

An elite, brave few heeded the call. A few more random kids chipped in. I tell ya, being a gawky white gal sure attracts attention here, and it’s times like these when it comes in handy. I often play the “subtitle” game for Moroccans’ collective thoughts on my various odd American habits. For example: stage right. White girl is crouched in the dirt with an empty flour sack. She’s rummaging through the dirt…only wearing one plastic glove, typically used for henna-ing hair. Doesn’t she know to just leave that trash there? We just burn it to get rid of it. And why is she playing with that puppy? Oh well, this is pretty entertaining either way. I’ll bring her some tea! ::end scene::

Yup, some dude brought me a glass of Moroccan whiskey while I was trash picking-upping. It was awesome, until I accidentally knocked over the glass and ended up having to throw that in my flour sack of trash too. But, as I said, standing out definitely has its advantages when you actually want to get yourself noticed. Several kids stopped to help pick up trash for a few minutes here and there, probably out of morbid curiosity. A few women and men  chatted with me about the weather, perhaps as an informal testing of my mental state (again, refer to the subtitles). One dude bought all of us volunteers yogurts and cookies. A woman who I’ve never met before, Meriam, stopped to help for a solid hour and asked if we’d repeat the activity tomorrow. Girlfriend wanted to continue cleaning the entire town. Um, snaps for Meriam.

After four hours of (the Moroccan version of) non-stop work (there were a few breaks thrown in here and there), we loaded all of the trash into a donkey cart, which was then “driven” off into the sunset.

Concluding thoughts. So, was it a sustainable project? Definitely not. Was the trash pretty much just relocated to a dump? Yup. Were the kids enthusiastic about it? Meh, sort of. BUT. Several older community members voiced their support of the project, want to make it a regular thing, and want to look into alternative venues for the trash. When walking back home at the end of the day and kicking around new trash that had replaced everything we picked up in the morning, one of my friends optimistically pointed out all of the spots that were still clean. He also commented about the “change in mentality” that would come slowly if the project was repeated. Idn (so), the morning was not even close to a “waste” (trash pun!) of time. All 6 of us who stayed for the full 4 hours would probably agree.

And this was only the morning portion of my Sunday.

While picking up trash/ entertaining the citizens of Tamslouht, a few of my female students (after calling me “crazy” in what I assume was a very affectionate and respectful way) passed by and invited me to a women’s picnic. I insh’allah-ed the heck out of the invitation (as much as I wanted to just leave the trash pick-up and go frolic in a freaking garden), but when the pick-up was done, I headed over to the bus stop with the intention of heading into Kech and meet up with them. Allah, however, was not insh-ing it. He had other plans for my Saturday.

As I was milling around the bus stop, I ran into one of my running buddies, Simo. He invited me into the Artisan Ensemble for a snack. “The bus isn’t here yet,” he observed astutely. “Come in and have some tea!” He had a completely valid point. The bus had yet to show itself. Why the heck not go in and drink some tea? So, I did just that. 10 minutes later, when we heard the bus roll in, Simo insisted that I just stay a bit longer. “There are a ton of buses. You can catch the next one.” Tea, as always, turned into an hour long conversation. I lost track of how many buses passed by. The hour lively discussion about my “abilities” in the kitchen turned into me assisting in shelling peas (re-asserting myself as the malika dyal kuzina).

Shelling peas turned out to just be the gateway into the fate of my Sunday afternoon. The peas were for the massive tajines being made for a meeting with between the artisan association and a European fair trade organization, CTM Altromercato. I ended up staying for the entire meeting and was introduced to several Italians, some Spaniards, a few Slovenians, two people from Malta, and a Moroccan Italian. Fortunate/ unfortunate asides: the entire thing was conducted in English…LUCKILY, seeing as how studying Italian for two years did not pay off in the least. I couldn’t remember a single thing past “buongiorno” and “come stai?” It took me several attempts to nail the pronunciation of “grazie.” I blame it (like everything else) on the Darija. BUT I met a lot of very interesting people, and, sadly, learned a ton about Tamslouht and the artisans through this session. I only say sadly because I’ve been here six months at this point. You would think I could tell you the history of my town, right? Meh. Kinda. I can glean the general idea of most of my conversations, but specific details are still lost on me because of my limited vocabulary (“fair trade” just isn’t in my arsenal yet). SO. Having the translator for CTM Altromercato explaining the history, current practices, and aims of the artisans was really fascinating. I also got to hang out with my students while they made their various handicrafts, which, for those of you who know me know, was HEAVEN. Matalan (for example):

Aforementioned running buddy, Simo, works with leather. He makes traditional leather boots and house shoes completely by hand. For those of you art nerds (my target audience), you’ll probably be fascinated to know that the boots are made with two types of leather: goat leather on the outside, because this material holds the color of dye really well, and sheep skin on the inside. All of the stitching is done by hand by Simo’s mother. He spent 5 years learning the trade with his father, and has been working independently for 3 years. The blue boots that he’s making in the pictures are worn for the tbourida (or the fantasia…discussed in a previous post, for all of you loyal blog fans). Pretty freaking snazzy, yak?

Lots of meetings and eating occurred as well. Abderrahman, president of one of the youth associations, gave a presentation about Tamslouht (where I learned everything there is to know). Fun Tamslouht fact of the day? Why, I never thought you’d ask! The largest Tanjia in the world was made here in my little town. And for those of you uncultured heathens who don’t know what a Tanjia is (uncultured heathens including myself, up until about a week ago….), a Tanjia is a type of ceramic vessel that food is cooked in. Think ceramic pressure cooker. Very traditional dish of Marrakech. Anywho, three people could fit in this thing. And I’m sure they know that because they actually put three people in there.

So, here’s Abderrahman working the crowd with his jokes and wits about Tanjia…the CTMers examining some leather lamps….and of course, my crazy artisan students. Very proud of all one of them who practiced their English and introduced themselves in English to the organization. Oh well, next time!

Family Matterz

The pretense of this blog is that there is only one Quinn in Morocco (please refer to the catchy domain name for further information). However, Morocco’s collective mind got blown this past week when three more Quinns crossed international waters and entered the stratosphere. Mar7aba (welcome) to Mom, Dad, and my brother, Shannon!

I met up with these worldly travelers in Marrakech. They successfully navigated the train system from the airport in Casablanca all the way to Kech, which, as any PCV will tell you, is a pretty impressive feat for people with debatable language skills. Because no expense is too great for my kin, I booked an all-inclusive weekend at a hotel with an accurate embodiment of the Peace Corps spirit.

Totally kidding. This place has camels and flat screens outside (can you imagine what the inside is like?). We enjoyed more economical and festive accommodations at Dar Nahkla, the riad us PCVs stayed at over Christmas. Here’s a glimpse into our room….and Dad playing with his Stargate app on his iphone.

Our weekend in Marrakech consisted of a fair amount of aimless wandering, meandering through the stimulus-overloading streets, gawking at storks’ nests on mosques, pointing at donkeys pulling carts alongside Pepsi trucks, and, of course, some quintessential touristy stops. It was quite a different experience giving into the tourist psyche for once. I’ve reached the point where trips to Marrakech pertain to specific objectives, such as using the bank, buying teaching supplies from Marjane’s, hunting down ice cream….very important matters. Walking through Jemaa El Fnaa, the landmark tourist and vendor square, usually involves avoiding the monkeys and snake charmers with a 39 and a half foot pole as to ensure I can make it to my intended destination (without contracting TB). However, this time, I had three Americans with me who came for the Morocco experience. And really, what’s Morocco without a snake charmer after all?

So, away with the jaded “I live here” attitude and away with the 39 and a half foot pole. When we walked through the square for the first time, I led the family right by the tourist trap of snakes and monkeys instead of avoiding entirely. This walks the perfect line, right? They get to be close enough to see the animals but far away enough to, you know, not have to touch ‘em. However, at one point, I realized I was walking alone. I turned around to see my father with a snake around his neck. A very eager Moroccan snake charmer was assuring him that it didn’t bite, and that a picture would only cost an unspecified “special” price “just for him.” Of course. I intervened, negotiated a bit, and we were on our way once again. 5 minutes later, I realized, yet again, that I was walking alone. I turned around and my father is talking to a man with a monkey on a leash. Oh dear. Apparently, my dad had tried to take a picture of the monkeys without paying. I intervened, negotiated, paid the dude 10 DH, and moved on. Let’s just say this behavioral pattern became something of a typical interaction while navigating through the streets of Kech. I have no idea why this little troupe could attract so much attention….talk about looking like locals. The camera around the shoulder seals the deal.

Sunday began with a brisk morning walk to the local Catholic Church. Yes, you read that correctly. The Catholic Church that I scoped out on Christmas with my fellow PCVs was a huge hit with the Catholic Quinn clan when I submitted the item to the Marrakech itinerary, so we left our riad around 10:30 to get to the 10:30 mass. Mass not starting on time has to be universal, right? Ha. We arrived around 11:10…just in time to hear the closing announcements (in French) and watch the procession out of the Church (to a song also in French). Who has EVER heard of a Catholic mass ending early? There’s got to be some punchline in here somewhere (among all of the others about Catholic Churches in Morocco….) The location of the church is pretty great, too- right across the street from a mosque. The oldest of friends:

After a sprinkling some holy water on our 10 minute-Catholic-selves, we entered into a fresh new day and oriented ourselves towards the tourist Meccas. Of course, we needed more inconspicuous white people to add to our caravan to give this activity more of an authentic “tourist” feel, so, enter: Lauren, Justin, and Bryant, members of the original Moulay Yacoub CBT!

The seven of us explored the Mdrassa Ben Youssef, an old Quranic school…

The mt7ef Mrrksh, or the Marrakech museum…

And an ancient bathroom, as described by tour guide Hajji Yassin…

Hanging out with my fellow PCVs was great. (Because they are great! And people like them!) We also got to see Malika, our language teacher, and Lucia, our other member from CBT, both in the evening. It rounded out the whiteness and touristy-ness of our weekend in Marrakech, for sure.

The fam in tow, we headed back to the bustling, cosmopolitan hub of Tamslouht on Monday afternoon. To get the authentic Moroccan experience, we rode in a transit rather than a city bus. A transit can only be described as a personally-owned van that may or may not break down while you are riding in it. About 10-15 people can fit comfortably in one (a few of those standing) although it usually accommodates 20+ and a few bags, jars of olive oil, and/or sheep. Warning: this vehicle makes frequent, completely sporadic, and sometimes lengthy stops along the side of the road to pick up even more passengers. There’s got to be a joke here about how transit drivers never view the van as half-empty. I mean, literally, there seems to always be room for one more person (and their 20 personal belongings). To top it all off, there’s usually a very loud CD of Berber music playing over the whole circus. The family loved it.

So, we finally arrived to Tamslouht- more or less in one piece- in all its raging glory:

Our week included a lot of relaxation, Moroccan hospitality, eating, acclimation to the Turkish toilet, more eating, dust, and teaching English. Oh, and eating. Shannon’s 27th birthday was on Tuesday, the 13th, so we celebrated with a treat of MEEEAAATTT. I concocted some meat sauce, noodley wonder in the kitchen with my mother while the men hung out in the salon. It was a very Moroccan arrangement of women, men, and space. One of my students, Simo, joined us for the festivities and even brought over a very Moroccan birthday gift: house shoes and a scarf. Too bad a Moroccan with size 16 feet does not exist….the shoes were a tad small (fit about half of Shannon’s foot). The evening was fun either way, and definitely a unique method of celebrating the entry into Shannon’s 27th year of existence. Birthday candles in noodles? Why the heck not?

Throughout the week, eating also occurred at both my and Eric’s host families’ houses. Massive portions of couscous, chicken, salad, bread, tea, and cookies were consumed- massive to the point of even Shannon feeling the fatigue of eating. During these epic mealtimes, they were able to pick up on a few important Darija words, including “kul” (eat!), “shukran” (thank you), and even a “salaamu 3likum” (peace be upon you) every once in awhile. Shannon got down the greetings pretty well too, after noticing that all you have to do is respond using the question as a response. For example: Bikhir? = Bikhir!….Labas? = Labas!…Kulshi mzyan? = Kulshi mzyan!

Language rocket science.

The fam also attended pretty much all of my English classes. They were great props. Shannon was my model for body vocab, assisted me with singing “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes,” and my mom and dad helped pretty much everyone with their basic greetings. Obviously, I also taught my beginners family vocab and had them draw family trees. Pretty fantastic output overall.

So, it was a very short but wonderful visit. It was great to have my family experience my strange and wonderful new life, meet the new Americans and Moroccans that have become my dear friends, become addicted to the same foods as me (donuts…titos…dates…ohhhh my), and hear life conducted in an entirely different language that I don’t even always understand. Baby goats on the dinner table, showers in a bucket, quiet afternoons on a sunny ponj, intense Uno games with seven year olds, English classes that make me question my own comprehension of the language, casual conversations about my eventual Moroccan wedding….they got to taste the good life indeed.

الشعر من المغرب: Zajal (and the Anatomy of a Moroccan Meeting)

Post-holiday blues, man. Ever since the completion of L’Mosim and the general slow and mournful return to school and studying, our students have exhibited a collective attitude of “meehh” towards our English classes. Case in point: Our first class post-holiday, one whole student showed up. When asked where his fellow studious brethren were, he responded that they didn’t want to study. Kan hss bihum— I feel them. Especially with the weather edging slightly towards warm and delightful, plus a bit of rain to clear the air…everything is becoming generally more lovely, and the thought of sitting in a classroom has become mildly stifling. Shuf. If the view from your roof resembled this, could you sit still and concentrate on the art of using a phrasal verb? I think la.

So, after two-ish weeks of lukewarm attendance and/ or enthusiasm, Friday rolls around. Eric and I venture over to the dar chabab to teach our 4pm class. A class that, the previous days, no students had shown up (phrasal verb!) for. Low and behold— there were a ton of students there! Suspicion should have accompanied this exciting observation, especially since there were many students from not just our 4pm class, but rather, many of our classes. Some of our students were even wearing official-looking badges, as well. Not the typical accessory for English learning, but hey, if they wanted to learn in chicken suits, I’d be willing to theme a lesson plan accordingly.

Turns out the students were congregating for an altogether different purpose than celebrating the joys of English class. One of the very active associations in Tamslouht, Association Jeunesse Sans Frontieres pour le Developpment, put together a 3-day program about Zajal, or poetry written in Darija (more on this subject in a bit). The mukh (brains) behind the operation:

…and from this group, here’s a shot of Fouad and Ahmed with me from day 2 of the program. These are two of my students who helped everything run smoothly. Their favorite English phrase is “You are CRAZY!” and they inform me of this all the time.

This program coincided with the Zajal Spring Festival in Marrakech, but is infinitely more cool because it happened in TAMSLOUHT. Several university professors, poets, and artists came to speak on the subjects of Darija, Zajal poetry, life, love, the pursuit of happiness…kulshi. Everything. The panel changed daily, but generally looked like this (If you thought “last supper!” and then considered the overall irony of the situation…that makes two of us!):

The format of the panel was interesting (if not a tad hard to decipher— damn you feeble Darija skills!). Each session began with an invocation of the muses, Moroccan-style— a young man singing verses from the Quran (I think). The first man was incredible, and definitely had me considering conversion to Catholicism’s sister religion for a hot second. From there, the panelists were introduced, all proceeding to share their thoughts passionately with the crowd. Students also got up to share their own work, ranging from poems to short stories to singing. I caught bits and pieces and shreds of what was undoubtedly very intelligent insights into the importance of Darija and the various applications of the language. Here’s one of my mujtahidas (a really good student) reading her work.

For those of you people who have been carrying out your lives beneath a giant rock of ignorance and have no idea what Darija is….don’t feel bad, I had no idea what it was until I came here and had to learn it to survive. Darija is Moroccan Arabic, a spoken dialect of the umbrella mother language of Arabic. One of my students summed it up perfectly— it’s street Arabic. Although it uses the same script alphabet as Fusha (Modern Standard Arabic, the language that everyone in Arabic-speaking countries learn in school) and even boasts some interchangeable words, on the whole, someone from, oh, say, Egypt, would have no clue what I was saying to them if I was speaking in Darija. It doesn’t adhere to a lot of the fancy-shmancy rules of MSA and has integrated bits of French, Spanish, and  English into its repertoire. Not that Darija comes close linguistically to these tongues. No, no no, that would be too easy. And….this extremely long digression finally comes full circle: Zajal is poetry that is written in Moroccan Arabic, rather than the standard Fusha. Here is a table full of books written in Darija (some of the authors attended the panel discussions) with Youness stoically guarding/ occasionally selling them. AND two of my other mujtahidin  checking out the selection.

My role in this cross-cultural excursion? DOCUMENTER EXTRAORDINAIRE! The mudir, or director, of the dar chabab— for all intensive purposes, my boss— handed me his camera and instructed me to take pictures. Mashi mushkil, no problem! I’d like to think that I can hold my own with a point and shoot camera. I mean, I have a degree in art— this should be natural, right? Maybe…if I were in America. Moroccan standards for photographing events, as it turns out, are completely divergent from ours back home in Murrica. Biggest difference? Quantity over quality, baby. One or two shots of the panel isn’t enough. Even if it’s a good one! I needed to continuously shoot the same angles, the same people, the same setup— otherwise, a friendly but stern pep talk was sure to ensue. At one point, the mudir’s assistant, Mostapha, took me aside and told me “The mudir likes a lot of pictures.” Hint hint. Moroccan indirectness, front and center. To further the culture shock? It’s not considered rude to flash your way through a panel discussion. Okay, actually, that would probably be extremely rude. Strike that. It’s not considered rude to continuously use flash photography throughout a panel discussion! Walking up in front of the entire room of people, snapping a shot or two…or seven….it’s encouraged. It’s expected. The panel speakers apparently expect to be blinded while lecturing on the role of Darija in Moroccan society. Despite recognizing this laissez-faire attitude, in a room full of Moroccans, I’m not exactly the most inconspicuous person for the job. Girlfriend was feeling a little insecure about the whole ordeal. All of these factors led to my overall sub-par performance by Moroccan standards, as indicated by the vast amount of pep-talks I received throughout the evening.

Another interesting component of the Moroccan meeting was the tea.

To drive home my earlier point of a general laissez-faire attitude, I ask you to visit the notion of tea time with me. I took this picture during the panel discussion. Yes, that’s right. There is a man speaking about important things while tea and cookies are being passed out to the entire crowd. Lots of talking, standing in people’s lines of sight for extended periods of time, moving, shhhhsh-ing, clanking, and other various noises provided a nice change of pace from just listening to Darija. I’m not even sure the panelists noticed.

Check out this packed house. Now, imagine trying to navigate this sucker politely or quietly with a tray full of hot tea. Not happening.

The program ended each day with presentations of certificates to the panelists, hand-shaking, and, of course, picture-taking by yours truly. I was able to capture some pretty great moments by standing in front of a large crowd of people and blocking their collective views. I mean, check out these smiles…and the Oscar-worthy kiss below.

Being the one blonde in the room with a constantly-flashing camera ended up attracting just as much attention as I assumed it would. After the program finished, I was rushed by a crowd of my students. Everyone, surprisingly, wanted their picture taken. And, thus, a photoshoot ensued.

The last day of the program, Sunday, was probably the funniest in terms of culture shock. Eric and I both got called upon (in Darija) to make speeches during the closing ceremony. And when I say called upon, I mean literally, our names were thrown into a heap of Darija that I didn’t understand, and then Abderrahman, the association’s president, would make eye contact and motion for us to come forward. Total improv time. I think I said something about how, since all of my students were in the room, they better understand the English that I was about to use to explain my thoughts about the whole ordeal. Eric and I also both served as presenters for various gifts to participants, and even received gifts of our own for our help. I now have three beautiful books about….well, what they are about is hard to tell, exactly, as they are written in Fusha, but they are absolutely wonderful nonetheless.

After an impromptu drum circle (check it out here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YRVGbC3JAwc&feature=youtu.be), we left for Youness’ house to celebrate the success of the event. I need to take a minute to describe this breathtaking house. It is three stories of tiled, palatial beauty…but very Moroccan. The second floor of the house contains small studios for artisans, like that of my dear friend Ahmed. See him in action (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8fZqEu9y7Q0&feature=youtu.be). The next floor up? Devoted entirely to rabbits. Free range, my friends. The roof was the best of all, though. View’s not too shabby!

Simo and I were in charge of the kitchen, where we whipped up tea, a tajine dyal djej (chicken tajine) and shlada (salad). Turns out that I’m a total kasula dyal kuzina (bad student of the kitchen). Simple tasks like chopping up vegetables are approached completely differently here, so my time to shine got drastically minimized by my lack of knowledge concerning skinning tomatoes. Needless to say, I don’t think I’m much of a catch for Moroccan men. Abderrahman insisted that I wasn’t useless….just “bad in kitchen” and used this as a selling point in the announcement of my marriage to our (other) friend Simo (surprise, mom and dad! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vBBRM8rLTf0&feature=youtu.be)

My time in the kuzina was definitely one small step forwards for American women (or at least those of us who don’t know how to cut veggies Moroccan-style). I now feel confident enough to help out a Moroccan cutting up vegetables for a tagine. Malika (queen) of the Kuzina with the Malik (king):

And then…we ate it.

Even though I think everyone was aware of my minuscule contribution to the finished product, they nevertheless insisted that it tasted delicious because I made it. Moroccans will kill you with kindness if you don’t watch your back. I’m tellin’ ya.

So a Peace Corps Volunteer walks into a bar…

A little humor relating to my dusty corner of the world. Thanks internetz.

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

How I Got Morocco-ed

There have been points in my service thus far where I actually wonder if I can live a life that produces enough blog-worthy material for two whole years. Not that this wouldn’t be an incredible, potentially life-changing experience if it didn’t- but I gotta throw some juicy tidbits out to all of my friends and family back home so that they know I’m still alive, right? Well, this past weekend served up my monthly quota for “stories to tell the grandchildren about when I was young and crazy in Morocco.” Allow me to begin where all beautiful things begin: da beach.

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.

Heads of State

Last week I went to Mehdiya for In-Service Training (IST) with my fellow 39 PCVs. IST consisted of a lot of meetings, a high level of donut consumption, long walks on the beach, and a lot of drawing.

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

The Need for Youth Development: From NPR

A very timely article from NPR. This is essentially why there is such an emphasis on Youth Development in Peace Corps Morocco.

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