By the Seaside

            Last week was a huge break from my regular, mountainous Peace Corps life.  I travelled down to Essaouira, a city on the coast, in order both to watch the Gnawa music festival and to work with a Moroccan anti-AIDS association, the ALCS.

            ALCS and Peace Corps have partnered together for many years at the Gnawa festival.  ALCS uses the opportunity of the festival, when Essaouira is loaded with concertgoers both foreign and domestic, to provide free HIV testing, condoms, and information from two trucks near the main stages of the festival.  Peace Corps Volunteers, along with local volunteers, pass out fliers, talk with people, and lead interested people to the trucks for testing.  People seemed very interested in talking with us, both because they don’t often meet Darija speaking Americans and because they know very little about AIDS and HIV, but are rightly terrified.  I spent a lot of time correcting misconceptions about the virus and working to convince young men that it was in their best interests to get tested.  Those free condoms turned out to be a useful bribe, though because of limitations on what Americans are allowed to do in aid work I could only lead them to Moroccan volunteers who were passing them out.

            After I’d gotten over the initial discomfort of approaching random groups of young men (I left the awkward work of approaching young women to the female Volunteers) to talk with them about AIDS the work actually turned out to be quite fulfilling.  People were mostly genuinely interested in learning, and if there was a clown in their group the rest usually shut him up so they could learn more.  Often times those who had been joking became the ones who suggested they all get tested right then.  Three moments broke the pattern and are worth talking about.  The first was when I approached a couple of older men and asked what they knew about AIDS.  They responded that they had beautiful wives and therefore didn’t need to worry about it.  Funny, but misguided.  The second happened after I’d finished talking to a group of four or five young men.  They thanked me for the information and then went about their way, but one hung back and, in a perfect Southern accent, complemented my Arabic.  It turns out he’s a programmer in the States and was back to visit family here.  We talked a little about volunteer opportunities there, which he wants to do, especially since he can try and naturalize himself soon.

            The third break from the pattern was far and away the most distressing.  Talking with a group of disrespectful young men (really the only very disrespectful group I met all day) two of them walked off and dragged over a bunch of young women who they explained were their women for the night.  They said these were the ones we should talk to.  They continued to hoot and holler as another volunteer and I explained to the prostitutes about the disease, ways to prevent it, where the testing was, and how to get in touch with ALCS.  They seemed grateful for the information even as they were intimidated by their clients.  It was a pretty disgusting moment, though I’m glad the women got the information.

            Apart from my work, last week was also the celebrated Gnawa Music Festival.  The festival (which I would really call more of a concert series, since there was only music in the evenings at a very few venues) features Gnawa, but also allows other musicians from across the world to play.  Gnawa is an interesting genre.  Like American blues and jazz its roots are in music which West African slaves brought to their new country, in this case Morocco.  Gnawa, which means black in a Tamazight dialect, is a fusion of Amizigh music with West African, and had a big influence in Morocco’s mystical Sufi tradition, where people would smoke and listen to the music for a spiritual experience.  It centers around chant like call and responses, triplet heavy rhythms, and often (though not always) a low bass instrument called a gimbari.  In many cases it also involves ecstatic dancing, sometimes even the drummers and members of the rhythm section will make gigantic leaps into the air.

            For the most part I like the recordings of Gnawa music that I’ve heard, but most of the acts at the festival left me cold.  I think a big part of the problem was with the festivalgoers themselves.  At most music festivals anywhere there are going to be a number of high people, it’s pretty much expected, but Moroccan young men on drugs seem particularly unpleasant.  Any time I went to music with female volunteers I felt worried for them, and with good reason, most of the time we left early after one too many men took liberties grabbing at the women.  The only time I was able to relax a little was the time I checked out a little of the music alone, and even then I’m glad I’d tucked my wallet into the breast pocket of my shirt, because I felt a pickpocket’s hand go into my pant pocket while his high-as-a-kite buddies tried to distract me with their singing and dancing along with the musician.  The musician playing was named Omar Hayati, which can translate to Omar the Living One.  He was fantastic, and I stayed for awhile after moving away from the pickpockets, but it was too little too late to let me really enjoy the music at the festival.

            This all sounds negative, but I actually did enjoy my time in Essaouira.  The work with ALCS was very rewarding, the counterparts we worked with fantastic, and in addition I get to spend time with a lot of other volunteers and hang out in Essaouira, a city with great food and laid back attitude.  Watching Omar the Living One was also great, it may have been the only bit of live music I enjoyed at the music festival but I enjoyed it a lot. 

Immediately after finishing work at the festival the volunteers in my training group all travelled up to Rabat together for our Mid-service training, two days where we reconvened, talked about our work, and got some further language training from Peace Corps.  I was able to get a lot of language questions cleared up, and as frequent readers know I always enjoy Rabat.  Now I’m back in site, but not for very long, soon I’ll be making the attempt up Toubkal with my C.L.I.M.B. students!

Let It Shine

            In some ways the two weeks since my last post have raced by, in others the time pretty much stood still.  In some ways I had some really rewarding work, in others I felt like I wasn’t doing anything all that important and was missing my main purpose.  In other words, it was a normal two weeks.

            You may recall that as of the last post the English Language Spring Camp in my site had been cancelled so I was heading down to work at another in a city far to the south named Taroudant.  Taroudant is located in the Souss valley, a prosperous region famous for Argan trees and the oil which comes from them.  People use argan oil both for consumption and cosmetically and worldwide it only grows in a small part of Morocco, making it an extremely valuable export for that region.  While the argan crop, along with extensive citrus farming, has brought a lot of wealth to the region it has also brought a lot of problems.  Most female Peace Corps Volunteers find that the very worst harassment they experience is in the Souss.  This is largely because of the large migrant population of young men that comes to work on the farms.  These men, disconnected from the communities they live in and with no fear that word of their misdeeds will get back to their families, behave atrociously around young women, both Moroccan and foreign.  Despite this there is a preponderance of female volunteers in the region because in most of the region parents are so conservative that they won’t let their daughters attend the Dar Chebab if there is an American man working there.

            Taroudant, as a large city popular with both tourists and more permanent expatriates—including former French President Jacques Chirac—is itself immune to some of these problems, though by the standards of larger, touristy cities Taroudant and Agadir, the other large city in the region, are notable for harassment.  Nestled in a beautiful part of the valley just south of the High Atlas, the city’s stunning red walls have stood for almost a millennium, though apparently the surprisingly organized “old” city owes this organization to an 18^th century sultan who razed the city when it rose in rebellion against him.  The camp took place on the campus of one of the city’s large high schools, which conveniently had a dormitory attached for the students.

            Taroudant is about twelve hours south of me, and travelling down I stopped to spend the night in a friend’s site.  We were both invited to a party at the local high school for students in the ACCESS program, which she works with.  This was my first interaction with ACCESS, which does not have a branch in my town.  ACCESS is a program run by the American Embassy in association with the Moroccan Association of Teacher’s of English (MATE).  It allows promising young students extra opportunities to learn and practice English and to learn about American culture.  The students’ English abilities really shocked me; although my friend’s site is not much larger or wealthier than my own even the least advanced ACCESS students were miles ahead of the advanced students in my town.  Admittedly this is a special group singled out for their ability, but it was still shocking to see how valuable even a little extra emphasis on actually using English was for the students.

            The next day my friend and I travelled down to Taroudant, and in the course of travel we both get some very interesting phone calls.  Mine came first, actually just after we’d gotten back from the ACCESS party.  My mudir informed me that, by official order of the ministry, at the last minute our camp was back on.  I, of course, could not go back, as it was I was already half the way there, and while with me the Taroudant camp had a ratio of about 30 students to every one American the camp in my site only had 12 students total, something my counterpart could (and did) easily handle on his own.  My mudir, to his credit, was very understanding and did nothing to try and guilt me into coming back, though I still did feel a little guilty all through the camp.  My friend’s call came the next day, when we were literally minutes away from the city and her mudir informed her that there would be a camp in their site!  Now this was far more ridiculous than mine, because while my mudir and I had planned and then had to cancel a camp for lack of students, her mudir and she had never talked about having a camp in their site.  When I’d been in his office the day before I was introduced as “the other volunteer I’m travelling to Taroudant with.”  She even had her schedule hung up on his wall, saying she’d be gone for two weeks for the Taroudant camp.  Despite all this he expected her to drop everything and come back to work a camp starting the next day for which they had done zero preparation.  Needless to say she refused, and he then tried to get her in trouble with Peace Corps, who very nicely phoned her to inform her that they had informed her mudir he had no right to expect this last minute camp.

            These last minute, “let’s have a camp” decisions plagued Peace Corps Morocco this break.  Most times the interaction between the mudir and the volunteer fell somewhere in between my mudir’s, “ok, I messed up, see you in two weeks” response and my friend’s mudir’s angry response.  Regardless, I think it demonstrated a major problem in Moroccan planning.  A great number of mudirs—mine thankfully not among them—seemed to think it was possible to design an entire camp the day before it started and they hadn’t even bothered to inform their volunteers there would be a camp, even when the volunteers asked so that they’d know if they should stay in their sites or work at another camp.  The Peace Corps did a great job standing by volunteers in our efforts not to cave to ridiculous expectations, though of course in most cases we would have made a problem either way, had my friend and I returned to our sites the ministry’s darling Taroudant camp couldn’t have functioned.  Hopefully next year the ministry will remember this fiasco and try to work things out ahead of time.

            Once actually in Taroudant the camp went very well.  We had six Peace Corps Volunteers, one coordinating the camp and five to work at it along with a large and helpful Moroccan staff.  We volunteers were expected to run an English class everyday, run a “club,” and help the Moroccan staff with their activities, which ran around ours.  I taught the advanced class, which was far and away the most advanced group of students I’ve worked with in Morocco.  Many of them were part of the Taroudant ACCESS program, and one has even received a YES scholarship to study for a year in an American high school.  While she was easily the student with the best English I’ve worked with in country my most impressive student was actually a little boy, just 13 years old, who had much better English than pretty much any student I’ve worked with outside of this camp.  Students don’t usually start English until they’re 14 here, sometimes later.  His English was so good I suspected he must have lived abroad for a while, but when I asked him he told me no, it wasn’t that, he just watched a lot of American and English movies!  Another girl, just 15, said most of them had learned that way.  Our class was a discussion-based class focusing on good citizenship.  It was one of the most fun things I’ve had a chance to teach here.  They were a great group of students and it was a real pleasure working with them, though by the end of the camp they were all exhausted since I’m pretty sure not much sleeping took place in the student dorms.

            My club was less successful.  For the clubs we worked with a different group of students every day.  Mine was on environmental education, specifically repeating the first lesson of the CLIMB program using a game to teach environmental codependency and resource management.  Some days the group of students I got was really interested and we had a great session, but other days the students couldn’t have cared less about the environment.  In the Moroccan led activity time I usually helped out with the music club.  Three of the Moroccan counselors were professional musicians.  They taught the kids the basics of reading music, notes and rhythm and taught them a few songs including, oddly, “This Little Light of Mine” (hence my title).  These Moroccan activity times were my favorite part of the camp.  The Moroccan staff was extremely professional, friendly, and talented there, making a nice counterpoint from the ridiculous ministry battle we’d had in the days leading up to the camp.

            After the camp ended getting home was a challenge in itself.  We spent the day after camp in Agadir relaxing on the beach, but when we tried to leave the next day we discovered that the buses only leave from there very early in the morning or very late at night.  The next day we backtracked to Taroudant and left from there, but somehow the three hour trip to Marrakech ended up taking ten, so it was too late to get home then.  On the third day of travel I finally made it home, but even then there was a little bit of Peace Corps work.  After one stop the bus was overcrowded and I saw a woman with a young child standing, so I did what I thought was the only decent thing and gave her my seat.  She and the assistant driver had a quick discussion, wherein she argued I was very nice and he argued I was very crazy.  After awhile another seat opened up, but since this bus was constantly a little too full I found myself standing to give a seat to some woman or kid throughout most of the ride.  The assistant driver and I became good friends, after awhile he started calling me the assistant’s assistant and joked that I was doing pretty well, but it would take at least twenty days training to master the art of being an assistant driver.  The great success came later in the ride, when the bus was very crowded and two mothers with young children were standing.  I gave one my seat, and then a young Moroccan man a few seats up gave the other his seat.  I guess that makes me a chivalry development volunteer!

Where the Caravan Camels Roam

            I brought in the New Year by emerging from the desert on camelback.  Needless to say I missed family and friends back home this holiday season, but if I have to miss you all I’m glad I did it in the most awesome way possible.  The way involving a camel.  Actually, they’re massively uncomfortable, but we’ll get to that later.

            The Christmas season started a day or two after my last post when the first of my friends arrived at my site to help decorate and carry the massive amount of veggies we’d be eating for the next week from souk.  Not too much to talk about there, other than a few culinary successes (I had run out of curry powder, but managed to make a pretty passable blend using spices in my kitchen, the ingredients list on an empty jar, and my nose as guides (I’m sure some of my Indian friends are scoffing that I ever use premixed powder)).  Before the other guests arrived we took a hike up a nearby mountain, stopping off at a local friend’s family farm, since Moroccan hikes often involve a tea break.  Up on the mountain we found evidence of wild boar.  For one terrifying moment we were convinced we were done for when we confused the sound of flushed quails for a boar snarl.  If you’ve never heard it before they’re quite loud and terrifying en masse for such small birds.  Once all my guests had arrived we made a valiant attempt at Christmas decorations, complete with a singing Alvin and the Chipmunks tree left by a previous volunteer, blue tinsel, a blow up Santa we’d disconcertingly found in Khenifra, and even some jerry-rigged mistletoe.  It led to a weird juxtaposition between indoors and out.  Inside my house ‘twas the season to by jolly, outside it was just any old day in Morocco.

            Christmas itself went remarkably smoothly, though one of my local friends got to play hero when he dealt with a dangerously clogged toilet.  This Christmas plumbing miracle netted him an invite to a solidly American holiday breakfast of eggs, pancakes, and sweet potato hash browns (sweet and savory), though we had to warn him off the bacon one of my guest’s boyfriends had brought from the States.  The day after Christmas we hosted a Christmas party at the local Dar Chabab.  Precluding most of the religious elements (we just mentioned that it celebrates the birth of the Christian prophet), we explained how Christmas is an important American holiday celebrated by spending time with family, exchanging gifts, and eating special foods.  We caroled a little for the kids, explained Santa Claus and the tree (the singing tree also caroled), and served Christmas cookies (which were a hit) and apple cider (which wasn’t).  After most of the 83 younger kids filed out we sat and chatted with some of the older kids, who we taught the chorus of “Deck the Halls” and in turn heard some songs sung to celebrate the birth of the prophet Mohammed.  Other than the one girl who late in the night asked “Shnu Christmas?” (What is Christmas?), the party went well, and luckily the other students could define it for her.  For me, the happiest moment was when the director of the youth center made a speech for the younger kids about peace, goodwill, and how Americans, Moroccans, and the rest of the world aren’t really that different, proving that he at least understood the true sentiment of the holiday.

            The days between Christmas and New Year’s were long and hard and I kind of wish I’d taken the time off instead of trying to teach since I don’t think my lessons were all that good.  Despite that, the students seemed happy and kept up learning, so it could have been worse.  The day before New Year’s Eve my scattered guests returned (some had stayed and helped with classes) and we all travelled together down to Erfoud, a city at the edge of the Sahara desert.  Meeting up with a host of other volunteers we set out into the desert from the popular starting point of Merzouga. 

Now, without further ado, my impressions of riding a camel.  They’re not particularly high, as I said above camels are not a comfortable form of travel.  The first day I rode a smaller, older camel (who the Moroccans called El-Hajj) with a lot of experience, and with him the ride wasn’t too bad.  After a few minutes my body learned how to roll with his motion—it’s not too far off of the motion used to stay stable on a boat—and since he wasn’t all that fat I didn’t get the famous saddle sores people always complain about.  However, on New Year’s riding out of the desert I rode the largest camel, a young and inexperienced buck we christened Walt (Moroccan name unknown).  Walt was very fat, and I learned all about saddle sores from him.  He also had an inconsistent, rough, and pronounced rhythm, so while I’d ridden gracefully on El-Hajj, Walt made me feel like I was riding a jackhammer.  If I were ever to be in a caravan I’d want El-Hajj, though I guess if I were riding a camel into battle Walt would be the beast of choice.

Since I had my beard and my friend had his djellaba he was "Ali Baba" and I was "Ali Baba without djellaba"

The desert is too stunningly beautiful for words.  “Desolate” doesn’t begin to describe it, “breathtaking” is an understatement, and “expansive” can’t contain the wild expanse of sand.  Even the pictures won’t come close to doing it justice this time; it’s just too otherworldly.

Out at the desert camp we ate tagines, watched the sunset, listened to our guides sing and drum, sang for them in return, gazed at the stars, and traded riddles and jokes late into the night.  That was actually harder than it sounds, none of the guides spoke much English and some of them weren’t fluent in Darija either, their first language was Tamazight and one or two only knew as much Arabic as we do.  One claimed he knew less.  That being said, we still got by.  I’ll share my favorite Moroccan riddle I learned that night.  There are three sisters.  One always eats, one sleeps and will never rise again, the last will travel and never return.  Who are they?  I’ll put the answer at the end of the post.

After I returned home I jumped right back into classes, and I’m glad I did because some students mentioned an interest in organizing the old Dar Chabab library so that we can start lending out books.  After the writing club on Saturday four students and my mudir sat through a lesson of mine on library organization and we started to decide on Dewey decimal numbers for some of the nonfiction collection.  They really seemed to enjoy it and took ownership of the project really quickly, so hopefully this time the library will continue after the volunteer leaves (it has basically been an unused room since the last Youth Development Volunteer left three years ago).  As for the classes themselves this week I felt like I had some real successes.  In the writing club some students finally had the confidence to write and read some longer pieces.  In my advanced class we started to parse the Declaration of Independence.  While we had to proceed quite slowly I was impressed at how well they dealt with it, because the only “edits” I made were to correct for modern spellings.

That’s all for now, Happy New Year to everyone, and remember, if you want an exotic vacation this year I’m always willing and excited to show people around!

The answer to the riddle:

Fire always eats, kindling sleeps and never rises, and smoke travels but will never return.