For the month of February, I'm living in a nearby big town to concentrate on STI education. It's strange to be staying here and not seeing my host family every day. My first few days have been pretty quiet. The weather has been bad and I've been feeling kind of sick. Tomorrow I should be out and about, getting to work.
In addition to the work, I'm taking advantage of the computer and Internet in the house I'm staying in to work on financial aid and scholarship stuff for grad school. Applying takes a LONG time and I'm losing patience for it.
The other big news is that, for some inexplicable reason, I have developed these sores on my chin. They're really a bother. The funny thing is that Moroccans tend to point them out...also, the word for pimples/sores literally means "holes." So I constantly get questions about the holes on my face. I've taken to wearing a scarf.
I'm at a loss for a good blog topic. Any suggestions are appreciated.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
A Project That Couldn't Have Gone Much Worse
Over a year ago I started talking with a local government official (Mohamed) about potential projects in the region. He mentioned that I should look into a running water project in a nearby village (Mountainville). He said that there was a good association to work with and that the project would be relatively simple. I went out with Mohamed to Mountainville to meet Brahim, the president of the association. We talked about the project and it seemed feasible, although very expensive. The kicker was the a local political figure, with access to money (Haddu) was interested in helping financing the project for political reasons.
Later, Mohamed, Brahim, a technician from the commune, and I went out to the spring near Mountainville to do an estimate on the project. The technician's estimate came out very expensive: 320,000 Dh ($40,000). This seemed to be way more than I could possibly pull together (maximum PC grant to volunteers is $3,500). But then myself and Haddu had a conversation and he thought he could put forward $33,500. SO I wrote a grant, begged my parents for money, and scrapped together some other money.
The grant money came in early April. Haddu wanted to get the project started before elections in June, so I I thought the project would be hurried along. Instead, everyone I was working with started. We finally put the money in a special bank account, allowing for it to be accessed after a public bidding between contractors. But they kept delaying. I went to America for vacation, the elections happened, which removed any political motivation for Haddu to work on the project.
However, everyone kept acting like the project was moving forward. I finally figured out that they were lying to me, so I tried to retrieve the money from the account. I found out that I could not withdraw the money without the presence of Haddu or Brahim. I went and talked to them and they told me that, due to some bureaucratic paperwork, they couldn't access the money now. Mohamed confirmed this with me and told me to be patient (this is in June). So I waited.
After a couple months, PC started getting impatient, so I had them call Haddu. After talking with Haddu, PC told me I would have to wait a little while longer. More time passed. Haddu moved to a different city. Everytime I called him, he told me that the problem was almost fixed. I went to the biggest authority in Tounfite and had him call Haddu. They told me the problem was almost taken care of. I was a little worried that the association was trying to steal the money, but it seemed unlikely because it would be very easy to send them to jail if they did.
PC eventually got fed up and told me to threaten Haddu and Brahim with the police. That got them moving. We met in Tounfite on Monday at the Ministry of Interior to sort out paperwork. My understanding was that we would be able to go to the bank that day to get the money, but it turned out some papers still had to be sent to Midelt for processing. 7.5 months after I told them to get the money, and they still hadn't finished the paperwork. They said that on Thursday we would talk again and figure out a time to go to the bank together to pick up the money.
Instead, on Thursday they called to say they had the money and were coming to Tounfite. When we met up, they were very unhappy with me. I had told the Ministry of Interior that PC thought they were thieves. I had called them out to the most important people in Tounfite and they weren't happy about it. I let them know just how unhappy I was with them and that all of their problems were of their own making. We were having this conversation in a cramped pickup truck. I have never in my life experienced such open hatred between myself and another person. We finally got around to counting the money. There was suppossed to be 52,240 DHs, but there was only 50,000. I got a little angrier. They said the money had "tarwwla" (it escaped). I asked what that meant. They said I had to pay them for all the hassle and transportation costs. Even though I thought it was absurd that I would pay for their transportation costs in order to fix a problem that they had caused by their own stupid decisions, I was prepared to give them some money. But I was thinking 200 Dhs, not 2,000. They told me that if I didn't give them their cut, then I wouldn't get any money and I'd have to go to the police.
So we started going through their expenses line by line. Each expense the got bolder about inflating the cost. Nonetheless, I knocked over 1,000 Dhs off the price that they had estimated, which they gave back to me. 51,000 of 52,240 Dhs recovered. I hated being ripped off for 1,200 Dhs, but it gave me some clarity: I was right to call them thieves.
I made some mistakes, most of them typical development mistakes. First, I got myself involved in politics, supporting a politician who I later discovered to be corrupt. Second, I later learned that the town had a well, but that the men were too cheap to pay the electricity for the pump. If I community values water that little, I shouldn't push it. Finally, I was operating in a system that I didn't understand with people that I didn't know very well.
The most disappointing part of the project is that it didn't go through: it would have brought running water to 800 people. Although the men aren't willing to pay for it, it's the women who would have benefited (they're the ones that collect water).
If this were my only project, it would have been a major disappointment. Luckily, I've got other projects that are going well. This project has turned me off of infrastructure projects and made me favor knowledge based/training projects.
All is well...take care.
Later, Mohamed, Brahim, a technician from the commune, and I went out to the spring near Mountainville to do an estimate on the project. The technician's estimate came out very expensive: 320,000 Dh ($40,000). This seemed to be way more than I could possibly pull together (maximum PC grant to volunteers is $3,500). But then myself and Haddu had a conversation and he thought he could put forward $33,500. SO I wrote a grant, begged my parents for money, and scrapped together some other money.
The grant money came in early April. Haddu wanted to get the project started before elections in June, so I I thought the project would be hurried along. Instead, everyone I was working with started. We finally put the money in a special bank account, allowing for it to be accessed after a public bidding between contractors. But they kept delaying. I went to America for vacation, the elections happened, which removed any political motivation for Haddu to work on the project.
However, everyone kept acting like the project was moving forward. I finally figured out that they were lying to me, so I tried to retrieve the money from the account. I found out that I could not withdraw the money without the presence of Haddu or Brahim. I went and talked to them and they told me that, due to some bureaucratic paperwork, they couldn't access the money now. Mohamed confirmed this with me and told me to be patient (this is in June). So I waited.
After a couple months, PC started getting impatient, so I had them call Haddu. After talking with Haddu, PC told me I would have to wait a little while longer. More time passed. Haddu moved to a different city. Everytime I called him, he told me that the problem was almost fixed. I went to the biggest authority in Tounfite and had him call Haddu. They told me the problem was almost taken care of. I was a little worried that the association was trying to steal the money, but it seemed unlikely because it would be very easy to send them to jail if they did.
PC eventually got fed up and told me to threaten Haddu and Brahim with the police. That got them moving. We met in Tounfite on Monday at the Ministry of Interior to sort out paperwork. My understanding was that we would be able to go to the bank that day to get the money, but it turned out some papers still had to be sent to Midelt for processing. 7.5 months after I told them to get the money, and they still hadn't finished the paperwork. They said that on Thursday we would talk again and figure out a time to go to the bank together to pick up the money.
Instead, on Thursday they called to say they had the money and were coming to Tounfite. When we met up, they were very unhappy with me. I had told the Ministry of Interior that PC thought they were thieves. I had called them out to the most important people in Tounfite and they weren't happy about it. I let them know just how unhappy I was with them and that all of their problems were of their own making. We were having this conversation in a cramped pickup truck. I have never in my life experienced such open hatred between myself and another person. We finally got around to counting the money. There was suppossed to be 52,240 DHs, but there was only 50,000. I got a little angrier. They said the money had "tarwwla" (it escaped). I asked what that meant. They said I had to pay them for all the hassle and transportation costs. Even though I thought it was absurd that I would pay for their transportation costs in order to fix a problem that they had caused by their own stupid decisions, I was prepared to give them some money. But I was thinking 200 Dhs, not 2,000. They told me that if I didn't give them their cut, then I wouldn't get any money and I'd have to go to the police.
So we started going through their expenses line by line. Each expense the got bolder about inflating the cost. Nonetheless, I knocked over 1,000 Dhs off the price that they had estimated, which they gave back to me. 51,000 of 52,240 Dhs recovered. I hated being ripped off for 1,200 Dhs, but it gave me some clarity: I was right to call them thieves.
I made some mistakes, most of them typical development mistakes. First, I got myself involved in politics, supporting a politician who I later discovered to be corrupt. Second, I later learned that the town had a well, but that the men were too cheap to pay the electricity for the pump. If I community values water that little, I shouldn't push it. Finally, I was operating in a system that I didn't understand with people that I didn't know very well.
The most disappointing part of the project is that it didn't go through: it would have brought running water to 800 people. Although the men aren't willing to pay for it, it's the women who would have benefited (they're the ones that collect water).
If this were my only project, it would have been a major disappointment. Luckily, I've got other projects that are going well. This project has turned me off of infrastructure projects and made me favor knowledge based/training projects.
All is well...take care.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Foreign Affairs Letter to the Editor
First, thanks to Colton for last week's post. To answer Patti's question, Atman, according to my host father, means "hunger." It was (and continues to be) a joke with my host family that his name means hunger. However, no other Moroccan was able to corroborate this claim.
Second, I'm getting back into the swing of things after the vacation, which is good. There is lots of work going on. I'm preparing for a move to Boumia for the month of February.
Finally, I got a letter to the editor published in Foreign Affairs. You can read the letter at http://www.foreignaffairs.com/articles/65889/david-a-balton-duncan-gromko/cooling-the-climate
I should have a substantial, original post up in a few days.
Second, I'm getting back into the swing of things after the vacation, which is good. There is lots of work going on. I'm preparing for a move to Boumia for the month of February.
Finally, I got a letter to the editor published in Foreign Affairs. You can read the letter at http://www.foreignaffairs.com/articles/65889/david-a-balton-duncan-gromko/cooling-the-climate
I should have a substantial, original post up in a few days.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Dizzle Blog Entry
I've spent most of the last month - my Winter Break, in exploration of the diverse landscapes of Morocco. Flying into Fez, I reunited with my roommate from Swarthmore and creator of this blog to form one of the tallest, whitest, and most boring travel groups ever to grace this California-sized Kingdom in the Northwest of Africa. (You may recall our last journey in a California-sized area of land: http://coltdizz.blogspot.com) Were it not for Duncan setting up camp there, I don't think Morocco would have been on my radar, so I am grateful for the mind-opening experience this trip had to offer. As an avid reader of the blog, I wanted to see some of the rawness up close with the guy who so vividly wrote about it and could guide me seamlessly through it with an exceptional knowledge of a language that is expected to largely die out this century. Such a guide could cost thousands, so I was fortunate to get a friend deal for which this lousy blog entry hopefully serves as sufficient compensation.
Outside the Fez airport, I was immediately struck by the litter, dirt, and general haphazard of life outside the "new villes" of the large cities of Morocco (which were more in line with Southern Europe). This is the least developed country I have spent much time in, yet we were still able to drink the tap water everywhere. It would take some time to get used to the Moroccan hygiene, especially the norms associated with eating and expelling. Our first meal was in the medina (old city) in a small "hole in the wall" that looked like it had been converted from a bathroom into a restaurant. We ate some delicious fried fish and bean soup and as always, lots of bread. Bread in Morocco is like rice in Korea, where people believe you haven't really eaten a meal unless you've eaten it. There is only one glass for water on each table and it was on the table when you arrived, so you can be sure it is dirty. Also, people wash their hands after they eat, not before, almost everything is eaten without utensils and soap is rarely used. This place should be a swine flu catastrophe according to the information from the mainstream media. There is also an abundance of wild cats roaming streets, bus stations and other facilities. There are beggars, but not an overwhelming amount, and we have rocks thrown at us by a group of boys after we try to play soccer with them but do not give them any of our chicken pitas. We visited the leather tanning factory in Fez which has been in operation for hundreds of years and still uses the same process of tanning with a pidgeon-shit mixture. Needless to say, it stinks and the whole open air factory is a huge, muddy mess. It is amazing that they are able to turn such a mess into the beautiful bags and purses found hanging in all the shops. Is this really the same leather?
Morocco was also my first immersion into a Muslim culture. This hit me hard at about 5:30 am the first morning with the "call to prayer" from the minaret which was literally next door to our hotel. I am told that this is one of the more elaborate calls to prayer and it goes on for an eternity, maybe twenty minutes. Initially, it was a startling and creepy way to wake up, but I got more used to it. The day's first call to prayer is supposed to occur at the first light (not sunrise), which is stated as the moment at which one can discern a black string from a white one. We joke about the poor guy who drew the short straw and got stuck with that job. The pun is intended. Our other major sight to visit in Fez is the Islamic school which possess some of the greatest Islamic calligraphy found anywhere. This was actually supposed to be for our art historian Michelle, who couldn't make it on the trip, so I tried my hardest to stay interested at this point. It was nice to be able to go into the school though, as non-believers are not able to go into the mosques. We met a crazy guy in there who claimed to know Duncan and said I looked like his son with my brown fleece coat on. I learned the hand signal for crazy - slightly different than the American one. We would have plenty of opportunities to use this signal.
The next day we headed out on the expensive bus up North to Chefchaouen, one of the two major hippie hangouts in Morocco. Its location in the hash-field-covered Rif Mountains does a lot to explain its hippie culture. Chefchaouen literally means "look at the peaks", and where we could, they were amazing. Unfortunately, in the winter it is cloudy and rainy here a lot of the time. We did manage one decent day which allowed us to hike up into the Rif a little and get up on top of a rock. Duncan informs me that the Rif have the highest rate of erosion in the world and it is easy to see that the existence of hash-farming (supplying over 40% of the global market) is a major driver of this. There are no peace corps volunteers placed in this region, also as a result of the hash controversy. The scenery is spectacular with steep, green mountains and giant, crooked rocks. We pass a shantytown on the way down that appears to be built into the side of a cliff on the river gorge. The water here is fresh and delicious, and bottle and shipped all over the country. Where the river enters the top of the town there is a nice communal area with a small dam, bathing area, water diversions to drinking water treatment, sinks for doing laundry and waterfalls. We bought some bread, olives, and a huge chunk of the locally-famous goat cheese and came down to the river for a great lunch break. We got to speak a lot of Spanish in "Chaouen" due to the Spanish influence here and some Spanish girls we met in the hostel. The city is also known for its blue and white painted buildings which felt a bit like walking through a Dr. Seuss book at times. Our hotel was pretty cool as well with decorated tile everywhere, a large central atrium and a roof terrace overlooking the lower areas of the city. Due to the rain, we spent a lot of time inside it with our favorite past time, the Chinese game Go.
The next journey was a long slog to Duncan's village in the High Atlas - Agoudim. Getting there was an introduction to the common folk's transport system of dirty buses and cramped grand taxis. We transferred through about six different towns, met a few peace corps volunteers along the way and stayed at one's house. We got into the village about 30 hours after we left Chefchaouen. One leg of the journey stands out in my mind as particularly memorable and hazardous. We were stuffed into a grand taxi (an old Mercedes sedan) with 5 others on a 90 minute trip through a huge rain storm with the sun going down and lots of cars to pass and tailgate and rivers across the road to hydroplane on and the traditional Berber music blaring through the tape deck - composed of traditional strings and drum beats and electronicized voices creating a trance state. Other factors working against our survival were a lack of a window-defrosting method other than the driver's hand, the driver's changing of cassette tapes at impossible times and he even pulled out the cellphone and made a call in the middle of a particularly dangerous stretch. The whole trip was a back seat driver's nightmare and all we could do was close our eyes or look out the side windows. After this particular leg I had enormous confidence in the Moroccan cabbies. In general, I found the transport system to be cheap, efficient, dirty and uncomfortable. The buses are slow (too many stops) and the taxis are FAST (depending on the driver). We stayed in Midelt that evening before reaching the village and headed to the only nightlife available in most towns - the cafe - to sip some sugary tea and watch Spanish league futbol on TV. That night Duncan warned me that we were entering conservative Morocco and would have to be more conscious of our actions. This worried me a little having thought that we had been pretty conservative in our actions thus far.
We awoke the next morning and traveled to Tounfite, the nearest legitimate settlement to the village. We began with the insanity and pure formality of Berber greetings which consist of about ten exchanges of phrases like "how are you?" "are you well?" "are you at peace?" "how's your family?", etc. and each have a standard reply. They are also very keen on the handshake though it is a flimsy one and you have to kiss your finger or hit your chest after giving it. I believe there is a great earlier post about how most of the conversations Duncan has are pretty much the same. He was told in his village that he is a great politician because he knows exactly what to say in every situation. He certainly struck me as a politician as we walked down the main street of Tounfite and he shook hands with men, women, sons and daughters, introducing me, and always having the cookie-cutter response for everything thrown at him. It often felt as though Moroccans were testing him by firing greetings at him rapidly and he was always quick with the response, sometimes getting it in before they were done speaking. Everywhere we went the people loved Duncan for speaking Tamazight and they often claimed to be giving us "good deals" because of it. It was at the souk (farmer's market) here that I received my Arabic name - Atman, from a clever vegetable peddler. The souk was a huge mudpit with mostly fruits, vegetables and shoes for sale. There was not too much variety for foods, perhaps because of the season, and they did not seem to be particularly Moroccan. For vegetables there were huge potatoes, onions, carrots, turnips, peppers, huge squash. For fruits there were mandarins, bananas, tomatoes, sickly apples. Upon fulfilling Duncan's host-parents shopping list, we jumped on the packed van heading out to the village. On board we were greeted and barraged with questions: "Do you have marriage certificates in the US?", "Can I see an American Dollar?", and "Do you drink alcohol?" The last one they were particularly interested in as it is illegal for Moroccans to consume alcohol and there is widespread belief that it makes you fat.
In Agoudim, the politician made his rounds and we dined with the host parents several times and once with another family. We made a nice hike in the afternoon along a ridge of one the lower hills and pondered the conditions on top of the large peaks where, I was surprised to learn, some herders climb to graze their goats. Despite being up in the high mountains and about an hour's drive from the nearest sizable town, we were in no way out of civilization. Two cell phone towers could be seen from up on our ridge, as well as power lines and satellite dishes on many of the homes. Only the connection to the world wide web was missing here and this actually made its first appearance in the post office on the day we left! The satellite dishes indicate a phenomenon I certainly didn't expect. I was shocked to learn that these rural, poor, isolated Berbers shared the same favorite pastime as most Americans - staring at the TV. We watched a few soccer games on Duncan's TV, and struggled through Arabic and French news and soap operas as guests in other's homes. Furthermore, Duncan informed me, most of these people don't understand Arabic or French, only Berber (for which there is only one or two part-time stations), so they didn't even understand what was going on! Never underestimate the power of TV. Along with the cold and relative isolation, another factor makes this a very difficult place to live: the food. There is an enormous lack of variety in the food these people are eating here. Their ingredients seem tasty enough: wheat, chicken, goat, potatoes, carrots, turnips, fruits, olive oil, jam. But, these are pretty much all the ingredients they make into every dish every day. Bread is the big deal, and is eaten with every meal and eaten alone for breakfast. Lunch is the big meal and it's typically Duez which is a meat and vegetable stew cooked in the famous Tajine ceramic dish. It is pretty good if it is cooked well, but not good enough to eat every day (like In N Out Burger), also the method for eating it is quite dirty as there is a communal pot and you only have bread and your fingers to eat with. You are supposed to use the bread to scoop up vegetables and sauce which works kind of well but invariably fingers and bread flakes are contaminating the whole thing. The worst part comes after the vegetables are finished because it is time for the meat. Someone takes the entire hunk of meat out of the bowl, sets it on the dirty table, and starts dividing it into piles by tearing it off the bones and separating it into piles for everyone. These piles also include mystery parts and organs of the animal and your portion arrives in a greasy, dirty hand set on the dirty table in front of you. While the meat looked good in the dish, now it is easily the worst part of the meal. It's also critical that you finish your meat as it is the "luxury" of the dish. Once when I just couldn't stomach finishing the meat they made Duncan finish it for me. Much gratitude. It's not that I am against communal eating, let's just keep our hands out of it and use utensils like the Koreans or Chinese. It's not that I am against eating with hands, just let me touch my own food and you touch your own food. It's not that the Berbers are bad people, they were extremely welcoming and friendly, they are just doing things the way they were taught and have done for a long time. The Peace Corps encourages new volunteers to cook a meal or two for their host families so I asked several volunteers about their experiences. Host families didn't have a taste for pizza, used their hands to eat spaghetti and hated it, and even Duncan's simple vegetable soup was scoffed at by a friend. I kept thinking that these people would love nachos (they could eat communally and with their hands), but the ingredients might be hard to attain. I feel it is also pertinent to point out the status and location of Duncan's humble abode. Placed directly in the center of town, next to the road and "bus stop", it is also right next to the mosque where the minaret makes the call to prayer five times daily. This location is perfect for the politician but terrible for privacy. It is extremely convenient to visit him (and people do), it is loud from the minaret and anyone can see him come and go, hang out his laundry, etc. The home is a simple two room mud home with an uninspiring kitchen and drafty sleeping room. It is cold in there! Thank Allah for the stove. After leaving Duncan's village everything else seemed pretty luxurious and I was no longer thrown by the primitive things.
The next stopping point was the Sahara where we landed in the town of Merzouga and sought a camel trek to take us out into the desert for the night of Christmas Eve. It was a painful 1-2 hour camel ride out, but beautiful and surreal. I recall thinking the entire time "I can't believe I am in the desert." Following the previous trips' camel droppings and our guide, we made our way out to the camp in the middle of three giant sand dunes. We climbed to the top of one, which was much harder than it looked. We were joined later by a Chinese-Australian couple from Hong Kong on their honeymoon. We had a nice chat and they played the new Britney Spears hit on their new iPhone while we lounged in the tent reminiscent of baby jesus's manger. That night it rained a little (in the desert!) and we walked in the pitch black to find out where the music we heard was coming from. We found the other camp and were greeted to come in and eat chocolate and jam in the drum circle. Unfortunately, the visuals were lacking for our trip as there wasn't much of a sunset or sunrise when we were in the desert, nor were there any stars to see. Awaking early, we reluctantly saddled up again and slogged back to civilization for a shower to get the sand out.
We bussed on to get to the city of Tinghir where we stayed with Duncan's host-mom's family, who are relatively rich for that part of the country. They had a nice three-story house built by her brother with gorgeous Casablancan tile, a three-story atrium/breezeway for summer cooling, and a spectacular roof terrace. We stayed three nights here and were put up in the lavishly decorated entertaining room for the men with mats and eight warm wool blankets each. Her sisters cooked great food (though I was still quite sick of the traditional 2 dishes), and they even made a salad plate for me after I started feeling ill from some food poisoning from the previous city. We had actually planned to only stay for two nights but when we told them this they dead-seriously refused and said that when guests come they have to stay for a MINIMUM of 3 nights. That was alright with us, though, as the digs were comfortable, we saved money, and we had more time to focus on the main attraction of that area - the amazing river gorges from Indiana Jones. The first day we taxied to the Todgha Gorge where we ran into another volunteer with his parents, and we took Duncan's host-cousin hiking. The little guy turned out to be more of a fisherman than a hiker and we didn't make it to the top of the gorge. He also wanted to give our food away to a poor family in the hills whose home we passed on the way. That day happened to be the tenth day of the Muslim year, on which we learned that the Koran says you must give 2.5% of your total assets to the poor. We're not sure if this is the reason for his generosity, though after collecting all our trash into the bag he took it and threw it up towards their home in their extended "yard". The environment was the trash can for most places we went in Morocco due to both attitude and a lack of collection systems. The only garbage truck I can recall seeing was a mule in the Fez medina on the last day. The next day we traveled a little further to see the other gorge. It was just the two of us, so we hiked to the top and hung our feet over the edge at lunchtime. The drive out to this gorge was spectacular and we saw several other places, including the "finger rocks", where we would have liked to spend a lot more time exploring. Unfortunately, we had to start heading towards the coast so we could get there in time for the new year.
On the way to the Atlantic we took two long bus rides stopping in between for a night in Ouarzazate where we accidentally stayed in a hotel/brothel and drank the most glorious fresh juice smoothies ever mixed. We loved them so much we visited the shop three times in under 24 hours. The bus ride from there to the beach city of Agadir was the worst of the trip. The seats were so close that I could not physically sit down and put my legs in front of me. This bus was, of course, the longest trip as well, rounding out about 8 hours and totally packed for the majority of the time and winding through mountain passes at the beginning while stopping frequently for the last two hours. Needless to say, we were relieved like a balking starting pitcher to make it to Agadir for a mildly warm evening with the ten other peace corps volunteers. We met up at our rental house and went down for falafel and humus (which is apparently considered Lebanese food) on the boardwalk. The next few days, the rest of the volunteers seemed to spend a lot of time in the rental house while we got out on the town and walked and walked and walked. We spent some quality time at the dirty beach where I jumped in a short 7 v 7 soccer game. We didn't swim in the water because of its filth and the undercurrent warnings. Upon Duncan entering the water a Moroccan came racing towards me yelling "no, no, don't go in the water!" I told him it's okay, "not swimming, only toilet." He said, "oh, that's fine then," and then proceeded to tell me about how three drunk tourists were swept away by the undertow yesterday. I said "really, just yesterday?" To which he replied "well, some time ago." We walked down to the fish stalls, where we ate some delicious fried calamari, and then climbed the hill where the old city used to stand. It was destroyed in an earthquake sometime last century and instead of rebuilding they covered it with all the bodies inside and rebuilt down the hill! We stopped off for a happy hour beer at the Korean restaurant where business was slow, likely because it's only sign was in Korean. On New Year's Eve we were out with several volunteers, including a girl from Duncan's hometown (there was also one that had worked at the same golf course as I in Port Ludlow, WA), and went down to the boardwalk for the fireworks. I got wet in the ocean soon thereafter so we had to return home early where a dance party had broken out in the living room. It was composed of a bunch of people sitting around on the couch and one girl yelling at people to get them to come dance. Duncan showed a few of his moves and the housekeeper came and knocked on the door to quiet us down every couple minutes. That's a lot of detail.
When we got sick of paying too much for sleeping on a couch with no blankets, we headed north to the other hippie joint Essaouira, where Jimi Hendrix posted up for a brief period of time. This town was such a relief from the sprawling, touristy Agadir. Essouira has a nice compact medina out on a peninsula overlooking a beautiful beach and nice fishing boat harbor. In the morning we watched the fishing boats come into port and unload the catch. At lunch we returned to get mildly ripped off and eat some of it. We stayed in a disgustingly damp, moldy-smelling room in an out of order riad that seemed to be operating illegally. It was the only place that we had to pay up front, but we named our price. Following the guidebook's directions, we rambled through the streets of Essaouira and we rambled hard for two whole days. We had little aim, if some food looked good we bought it cheap, we tried to play videogames with some little kids, we played beach soccer and watched the kiteboarders, we watched futbol in the cafe and sunsets from the ramparts. It would have been nice to stay longer if we had more time, a better room, and something to do other than rambling. Call me a dirty hippie, but the town had a cool vibe like Chefchaouen, except trading the mountains for the beach.
As all tourists do, we had to go to Marrakesh. Here, the enormous town square is a UNESCO site due to the market, people and culture. Mi amigo scoffed at the idea of a UNESCO site without historical or architectural significance, as did I initially. Of course we were impressed by the 15 Euro / kg dates and had to savor a quarter kilo. As the sun went down, however, the square began changing from chaotic masses to an organized market of food and culture. The food stands were built up into groups that focused on a particular dish or two. On the outskirts were the tasty fifty cent orange juice stands. Moving inward we encountered the escargot stands, tajine and couscous restaurants, soups and even the sheep brains. The other half of the square was filled with Berber musicians, storytellers and other strange types of entertainers that braved the cold to share culture and make a buck in donation. I imagine this scene would have been much larger were it not for the bitter wind that forced us in after a short visit. We went, instead, for a Hindi film at the only movie theater I saw during the whole trip. It was a horror/suspense movie with all the choreographed song and dance of Bollywood that neither of us could finish, though we left separately.
After only one night in Marrakesh we packed out of our sardine tin of a hotel room and caught the spacious train back to Fez passing through Casablanca, Rabat and Meknes for an eight hour journey in total. In Fez we came full circle by returning to our first hotel and the converted-bathroom restaurant and by getting owned by the early morning call to prayer. We finally got our gaming in a Playstation 2 parlor where we played Pro Evo Soccer for 1 Euro / hr while some 16 year old kids tried incessantly to sell us hash and the middle-aged owner took off his jacket to pile drive one of his mischievous young customers. The next morning we said our farewells and, after a two-day layover in freezing Madrid, I returned back to the dead of Norwegian winter to start classes and reflect on the warm Moroccan sun and the trip of a lifetime.
I've spent most of the last month - my Winter Break, in exploration of the diverse landscapes of Morocco. Flying into Fez, I reunited with my roommate from Swarthmore and creator of this blog to form one of the tallest, whitest, and most boring travel groups ever to grace this California-sized Kingdom in the Northwest of Africa. (You may recall our last journey in a California-sized area of land: http://coltdizz.blogspot.com) Were it not for Duncan setting up camp there, I don't think Morocco would have been on my radar, so I am grateful for the mind-opening experience this trip had to offer. As an avid reader of the blog, I wanted to see some of the rawness up close with the guy who so vividly wrote about it and could guide me seamlessly through it with an exceptional knowledge of a language that is expected to largely die out this century. Such a guide could cost thousands, so I was fortunate to get a friend deal for which this lousy blog entry hopefully serves as sufficient compensation.
Outside the Fez airport, I was immediately struck by the litter, dirt, and general haphazard of life outside the "new villes" of the large cities of Morocco (which were more in line with Southern Europe). This is the least developed country I have spent much time in, yet we were still able to drink the tap water everywhere. It would take some time to get used to the Moroccan hygiene, especially the norms associated with eating and expelling. Our first meal was in the medina (old city) in a small "hole in the wall" that looked like it had been converted from a bathroom into a restaurant. We ate some delicious fried fish and bean soup and as always, lots of bread. Bread in Morocco is like rice in Korea, where people believe you haven't really eaten a meal unless you've eaten it. There is only one glass for water on each table and it was on the table when you arrived, so you can be sure it is dirty. Also, people wash their hands after they eat, not before, almost everything is eaten without utensils and soap is rarely used. This place should be a swine flu catastrophe according to the information from the mainstream media. There is also an abundance of wild cats roaming streets, bus stations and other facilities. There are beggars, but not an overwhelming amount, and we have rocks thrown at us by a group of boys after we try to play soccer with them but do not give them any of our chicken pitas. We visited the leather tanning factory in Fez which has been in operation for hundreds of years and still uses the same process of tanning with a pidgeon-shit mixture. Needless to say, it stinks and the whole open air factory is a huge, muddy mess. It is amazing that they are able to turn such a mess into the beautiful bags and purses found hanging in all the shops. Is this really the same leather?
Morocco was also my first immersion into a Muslim culture. This hit me hard at about 5:30 am the first morning with the "call to prayer" from the minaret which was literally next door to our hotel. I am told that this is one of the more elaborate calls to prayer and it goes on for an eternity, maybe twenty minutes. Initially, it was a startling and creepy way to wake up, but I got more used to it. The day's first call to prayer is supposed to occur at the first light (not sunrise), which is stated as the moment at which one can discern a black string from a white one. We joke about the poor guy who drew the short straw and got stuck with that job. The pun is intended. Our other major sight to visit in Fez is the Islamic school which possess some of the greatest Islamic calligraphy found anywhere. This was actually supposed to be for our art historian Michelle, who couldn't make it on the trip, so I tried my hardest to stay interested at this point. It was nice to be able to go into the school though, as non-believers are not able to go into the mosques. We met a crazy guy in there who claimed to know Duncan and said I looked like his son with my brown fleece coat on. I learned the hand signal for crazy - slightly different than the American one. We would have plenty of opportunities to use this signal.
The next day we headed out on the expensive bus up North to Chefchaouen, one of the two major hippie hangouts in Morocco. Its location in the hash-field-covered Rif Mountains does a lot to explain its hippie culture. Chefchaouen literally means "look at the peaks", and where we could, they were amazing. Unfortunately, in the winter it is cloudy and rainy here a lot of the time. We did manage one decent day which allowed us to hike up into the Rif a little and get up on top of a rock. Duncan informs me that the Rif have the highest rate of erosion in the world and it is easy to see that the existence of hash-farming (supplying over 40% of the global market) is a major driver of this. There are no peace corps volunteers placed in this region, also as a result of the hash controversy. The scenery is spectacular with steep, green mountains and giant, crooked rocks. We pass a shantytown on the way down that appears to be built into the side of a cliff on the river gorge. The water here is fresh and delicious, and bottle and shipped all over the country. Where the river enters the top of the town there is a nice communal area with a small dam, bathing area, water diversions to drinking water treatment, sinks for doing laundry and waterfalls. We bought some bread, olives, and a huge chunk of the locally-famous goat cheese and came down to the river for a great lunch break. We got to speak a lot of Spanish in "Chaouen" due to the Spanish influence here and some Spanish girls we met in the hostel. The city is also known for its blue and white painted buildings which felt a bit like walking through a Dr. Seuss book at times. Our hotel was pretty cool as well with decorated tile everywhere, a large central atrium and a roof terrace overlooking the lower areas of the city. Due to the rain, we spent a lot of time inside it with our favorite past time, the Chinese game Go.
The next journey was a long slog to Duncan's village in the High Atlas - Agoudim. Getting there was an introduction to the common folk's transport system of dirty buses and cramped grand taxis. We transferred through about six different towns, met a few peace corps volunteers along the way and stayed at one's house. We got into the village about 30 hours after we left Chefchaouen. One leg of the journey stands out in my mind as particularly memorable and hazardous. We were stuffed into a grand taxi (an old Mercedes sedan) with 5 others on a 90 minute trip through a huge rain storm with the sun going down and lots of cars to pass and tailgate and rivers across the road to hydroplane on and the traditional Berber music blaring through the tape deck - composed of traditional strings and drum beats and electronicized voices creating a trance state. Other factors working against our survival were a lack of a window-defrosting method other than the driver's hand, the driver's changing of cassette tapes at impossible times and he even pulled out the cellphone and made a call in the middle of a particularly dangerous stretch. The whole trip was a back seat driver's nightmare and all we could do was close our eyes or look out the side windows. After this particular leg I had enormous confidence in the Moroccan cabbies. In general, I found the transport system to be cheap, efficient, dirty and uncomfortable. The buses are slow (too many stops) and the taxis are FAST (depending on the driver). We stayed in Midelt that evening before reaching the village and headed to the only nightlife available in most towns - the cafe - to sip some sugary tea and watch Spanish league futbol on TV. That night Duncan warned me that we were entering conservative Morocco and would have to be more conscious of our actions. This worried me a little having thought that we had been pretty conservative in our actions thus far.
We awoke the next morning and traveled to Tounfite, the nearest legitimate settlement to the village. We began with the insanity and pure formality of Berber greetings which consist of about ten exchanges of phrases like "how are you?" "are you well?" "are you at peace?" "how's your family?", etc. and each have a standard reply. They are also very keen on the handshake though it is a flimsy one and you have to kiss your finger or hit your chest after giving it. I believe there is a great earlier post about how most of the conversations Duncan has are pretty much the same. He was told in his village that he is a great politician because he knows exactly what to say in every situation. He certainly struck me as a politician as we walked down the main street of Tounfite and he shook hands with men, women, sons and daughters, introducing me, and always having the cookie-cutter response for everything thrown at him. It often felt as though Moroccans were testing him by firing greetings at him rapidly and he was always quick with the response, sometimes getting it in before they were done speaking. Everywhere we went the people loved Duncan for speaking Tamazight and they often claimed to be giving us "good deals" because of it. It was at the souk (farmer's market) here that I received my Arabic name - Atman, from a clever vegetable peddler. The souk was a huge mudpit with mostly fruits, vegetables and shoes for sale. There was not too much variety for foods, perhaps because of the season, and they did not seem to be particularly Moroccan. For vegetables there were huge potatoes, onions, carrots, turnips, peppers, huge squash. For fruits there were mandarins, bananas, tomatoes, sickly apples. Upon fulfilling Duncan's host-parents shopping list, we jumped on the packed van heading out to the village. On board we were greeted and barraged with questions: "Do you have marriage certificates in the US?", "Can I see an American Dollar?", and "Do you drink alcohol?" The last one they were particularly interested in as it is illegal for Moroccans to consume alcohol and there is widespread belief that it makes you fat.
In Agoudim, the politician made his rounds and we dined with the host parents several times and once with another family. We made a nice hike in the afternoon along a ridge of one the lower hills and pondered the conditions on top of the large peaks where, I was surprised to learn, some herders climb to graze their goats. Despite being up in the high mountains and about an hour's drive from the nearest sizable town, we were in no way out of civilization. Two cell phone towers could be seen from up on our ridge, as well as power lines and satellite dishes on many of the homes. Only the connection to the world wide web was missing here and this actually made its first appearance in the post office on the day we left! The satellite dishes indicate a phenomenon I certainly didn't expect. I was shocked to learn that these rural, poor, isolated Berbers shared the same favorite pastime as most Americans - staring at the TV. We watched a few soccer games on Duncan's TV, and struggled through Arabic and French news and soap operas as guests in other's homes. Furthermore, Duncan informed me, most of these people don't understand Arabic or French, only Berber (for which there is only one or two part-time stations), so they didn't even understand what was going on! Never underestimate the power of TV. Along with the cold and relative isolation, another factor makes this a very difficult place to live: the food. There is an enormous lack of variety in the food these people are eating here. Their ingredients seem tasty enough: wheat, chicken, goat, potatoes, carrots, turnips, fruits, olive oil, jam. But, these are pretty much all the ingredients they make into every dish every day. Bread is the big deal, and is eaten with every meal and eaten alone for breakfast. Lunch is the big meal and it's typically Duez which is a meat and vegetable stew cooked in the famous Tajine ceramic dish. It is pretty good if it is cooked well, but not good enough to eat every day (like In N Out Burger), also the method for eating it is quite dirty as there is a communal pot and you only have bread and your fingers to eat with. You are supposed to use the bread to scoop up vegetables and sauce which works kind of well but invariably fingers and bread flakes are contaminating the whole thing. The worst part comes after the vegetables are finished because it is time for the meat. Someone takes the entire hunk of meat out of the bowl, sets it on the dirty table, and starts dividing it into piles by tearing it off the bones and separating it into piles for everyone. These piles also include mystery parts and organs of the animal and your portion arrives in a greasy, dirty hand set on the dirty table in front of you. While the meat looked good in the dish, now it is easily the worst part of the meal. It's also critical that you finish your meat as it is the "luxury" of the dish. Once when I just couldn't stomach finishing the meat they made Duncan finish it for me. Much gratitude. It's not that I am against communal eating, let's just keep our hands out of it and use utensils like the Koreans or Chinese. It's not that I am against eating with hands, just let me touch my own food and you touch your own food. It's not that the Berbers are bad people, they were extremely welcoming and friendly, they are just doing things the way they were taught and have done for a long time. The Peace Corps encourages new volunteers to cook a meal or two for their host families so I asked several volunteers about their experiences. Host families didn't have a taste for pizza, used their hands to eat spaghetti and hated it, and even Duncan's simple vegetable soup was scoffed at by a friend. I kept thinking that these people would love nachos (they could eat communally and with their hands), but the ingredients might be hard to attain. I feel it is also pertinent to point out the status and location of Duncan's humble abode. Placed directly in the center of town, next to the road and "bus stop", it is also right next to the mosque where the minaret makes the call to prayer five times daily. This location is perfect for the politician but terrible for privacy. It is extremely convenient to visit him (and people do), it is loud from the minaret and anyone can see him come and go, hang out his laundry, etc. The home is a simple two room mud home with an uninspiring kitchen and drafty sleeping room. It is cold in there! Thank Allah for the stove. After leaving Duncan's village everything else seemed pretty luxurious and I was no longer thrown by the primitive things.
The next stopping point was the Sahara where we landed in the town of Merzouga and sought a camel trek to take us out into the desert for the night of Christmas Eve. It was a painful 1-2 hour camel ride out, but beautiful and surreal. I recall thinking the entire time "I can't believe I am in the desert." Following the previous trips' camel droppings and our guide, we made our way out to the camp in the middle of three giant sand dunes. We climbed to the top of one, which was much harder than it looked. We were joined later by a Chinese-Australian couple from Hong Kong on their honeymoon. We had a nice chat and they played the new Britney Spears hit on their new iPhone while we lounged in the tent reminiscent of baby jesus's manger. That night it rained a little (in the desert!) and we walked in the pitch black to find out where the music we heard was coming from. We found the other camp and were greeted to come in and eat chocolate and jam in the drum circle. Unfortunately, the visuals were lacking for our trip as there wasn't much of a sunset or sunrise when we were in the desert, nor were there any stars to see. Awaking early, we reluctantly saddled up again and slogged back to civilization for a shower to get the sand out.
We bussed on to get to the city of Tinghir where we stayed with Duncan's host-mom's family, who are relatively rich for that part of the country. They had a nice three-story house built by her brother with gorgeous Casablancan tile, a three-story atrium/breezeway for summer cooling, and a spectacular roof terrace. We stayed three nights here and were put up in the lavishly decorated entertaining room for the men with mats and eight warm wool blankets each. Her sisters cooked great food (though I was still quite sick of the traditional 2 dishes), and they even made a salad plate for me after I started feeling ill from some food poisoning from the previous city. We had actually planned to only stay for two nights but when we told them this they dead-seriously refused and said that when guests come they have to stay for a MINIMUM of 3 nights. That was alright with us, though, as the digs were comfortable, we saved money, and we had more time to focus on the main attraction of that area - the amazing river gorges from Indiana Jones. The first day we taxied to the Todgha Gorge where we ran into another volunteer with his parents, and we took Duncan's host-cousin hiking. The little guy turned out to be more of a fisherman than a hiker and we didn't make it to the top of the gorge. He also wanted to give our food away to a poor family in the hills whose home we passed on the way. That day happened to be the tenth day of the Muslim year, on which we learned that the Koran says you must give 2.5% of your total assets to the poor. We're not sure if this is the reason for his generosity, though after collecting all our trash into the bag he took it and threw it up towards their home in their extended "yard". The environment was the trash can for most places we went in Morocco due to both attitude and a lack of collection systems. The only garbage truck I can recall seeing was a mule in the Fez medina on the last day. The next day we traveled a little further to see the other gorge. It was just the two of us, so we hiked to the top and hung our feet over the edge at lunchtime. The drive out to this gorge was spectacular and we saw several other places, including the "finger rocks", where we would have liked to spend a lot more time exploring. Unfortunately, we had to start heading towards the coast so we could get there in time for the new year.
On the way to the Atlantic we took two long bus rides stopping in between for a night in Ouarzazate where we accidentally stayed in a hotel/brothel and drank the most glorious fresh juice smoothies ever mixed. We loved them so much we visited the shop three times in under 24 hours. The bus ride from there to the beach city of Agadir was the worst of the trip. The seats were so close that I could not physically sit down and put my legs in front of me. This bus was, of course, the longest trip as well, rounding out about 8 hours and totally packed for the majority of the time and winding through mountain passes at the beginning while stopping frequently for the last two hours. Needless to say, we were relieved like a balking starting pitcher to make it to Agadir for a mildly warm evening with the ten other peace corps volunteers. We met up at our rental house and went down for falafel and humus (which is apparently considered Lebanese food) on the boardwalk. The next few days, the rest of the volunteers seemed to spend a lot of time in the rental house while we got out on the town and walked and walked and walked. We spent some quality time at the dirty beach where I jumped in a short 7 v 7 soccer game. We didn't swim in the water because of its filth and the undercurrent warnings. Upon Duncan entering the water a Moroccan came racing towards me yelling "no, no, don't go in the water!" I told him it's okay, "not swimming, only toilet." He said, "oh, that's fine then," and then proceeded to tell me about how three drunk tourists were swept away by the undertow yesterday. I said "really, just yesterday?" To which he replied "well, some time ago." We walked down to the fish stalls, where we ate some delicious fried calamari, and then climbed the hill where the old city used to stand. It was destroyed in an earthquake sometime last century and instead of rebuilding they covered it with all the bodies inside and rebuilt down the hill! We stopped off for a happy hour beer at the Korean restaurant where business was slow, likely because it's only sign was in Korean. On New Year's Eve we were out with several volunteers, including a girl from Duncan's hometown (there was also one that had worked at the same golf course as I in Port Ludlow, WA), and went down to the boardwalk for the fireworks. I got wet in the ocean soon thereafter so we had to return home early where a dance party had broken out in the living room. It was composed of a bunch of people sitting around on the couch and one girl yelling at people to get them to come dance. Duncan showed a few of his moves and the housekeeper came and knocked on the door to quiet us down every couple minutes. That's a lot of detail.
When we got sick of paying too much for sleeping on a couch with no blankets, we headed north to the other hippie joint Essaouira, where Jimi Hendrix posted up for a brief period of time. This town was such a relief from the sprawling, touristy Agadir. Essouira has a nice compact medina out on a peninsula overlooking a beautiful beach and nice fishing boat harbor. In the morning we watched the fishing boats come into port and unload the catch. At lunch we returned to get mildly ripped off and eat some of it. We stayed in a disgustingly damp, moldy-smelling room in an out of order riad that seemed to be operating illegally. It was the only place that we had to pay up front, but we named our price. Following the guidebook's directions, we rambled through the streets of Essaouira and we rambled hard for two whole days. We had little aim, if some food looked good we bought it cheap, we tried to play videogames with some little kids, we played beach soccer and watched the kiteboarders, we watched futbol in the cafe and sunsets from the ramparts. It would have been nice to stay longer if we had more time, a better room, and something to do other than rambling. Call me a dirty hippie, but the town had a cool vibe like Chefchaouen, except trading the mountains for the beach.
As all tourists do, we had to go to Marrakesh. Here, the enormous town square is a UNESCO site due to the market, people and culture. Mi amigo scoffed at the idea of a UNESCO site without historical or architectural significance, as did I initially. Of course we were impressed by the 15 Euro / kg dates and had to savor a quarter kilo. As the sun went down, however, the square began changing from chaotic masses to an organized market of food and culture. The food stands were built up into groups that focused on a particular dish or two. On the outskirts were the tasty fifty cent orange juice stands. Moving inward we encountered the escargot stands, tajine and couscous restaurants, soups and even the sheep brains. The other half of the square was filled with Berber musicians, storytellers and other strange types of entertainers that braved the cold to share culture and make a buck in donation. I imagine this scene would have been much larger were it not for the bitter wind that forced us in after a short visit. We went, instead, for a Hindi film at the only movie theater I saw during the whole trip. It was a horror/suspense movie with all the choreographed song and dance of Bollywood that neither of us could finish, though we left separately.
After only one night in Marrakesh we packed out of our sardine tin of a hotel room and caught the spacious train back to Fez passing through Casablanca, Rabat and Meknes for an eight hour journey in total. In Fez we came full circle by returning to our first hotel and the converted-bathroom restaurant and by getting owned by the early morning call to prayer. We finally got our gaming in a Playstation 2 parlor where we played Pro Evo Soccer for 1 Euro / hr while some 16 year old kids tried incessantly to sell us hash and the middle-aged owner took off his jacket to pile drive one of his mischievous young customers. The next morning we said our farewells and, after a two-day layover in freezing Madrid, I returned back to the dead of Norwegian winter to start classes and reflect on the warm Moroccan sun and the trip of a lifetime.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Vacation
I just got back from a three and a half week vacation with Colton travelling around Morocco.
It was a really good trip. We got to see a lot of the big sights in Morocco that I had not yet seen. Colton landed in Fes and we spent one night there. We went to the tannery, where hundreds/thousands of skins are treated. There is a very pungent smell in the tannery because they use pigeon shit and animal piss to cure the skins. We also went to a famous Islamic school in Fes that has beautiful Arabic caligraphy engraved into the stone and wood walls.
After Fes, we headed north to Chefchaouen, a beautiful town in the Rif mountains. It was kind of rainy, but we managed one good hike. The medina (old city) in Chaouen is painted beautiful, dreamy blue white and purple. It's fun to wander around.
Chased away by the rain, we went south. After spending a couple days in my site, we went to Merzouga. Merzouga is the site of the biggest sand dunes in Morocco. We took a camel trek out into the desert and spent a nite in a tent in the dunes. I was skeptical because it is such a touristy thing to do, but it was a lot of fun and the dunes are amazing.
Next we travelled to Tinghir, where my host mother is from. Her family is still there, so Colton and I stayed with them for three nights. They were super welcoming and generous. We used their house as a base to travel to two huge gorges, which are also popular tourist attractions. The Todra Gorge is where the final scenes of Indiana Jones and the Holy Grail was filmed. It's a huge, steep gorge. The Dades Gorges were also spectacular and Colt and I managed a pretty breathtaking hike there.
Tiring of tajine, we moved onto Agadir, a beach town that is over run with tourists. We spent New Years there, sitting on the beach and walking around (we did a lot of walking everywhere we went). After that was Essaouira, also on the beach. It's a UNESCO world heritage site and its not hard to see why. The walls of the medina are an old sea fortress that stand right at the edge of the ocean.
Finally, Marrakech, where we had the most expensive dates I've ever eaten. Delicious.
It was a good trip. I'm back in Tounfite now, stuck here because we got the first snow storm of the year, closing the road to my site. It is warm this morning so I expect to be able to go home in the afternoon. Colton should be posting pics on facebook of the trip soon.
It was a really good trip. We got to see a lot of the big sights in Morocco that I had not yet seen. Colton landed in Fes and we spent one night there. We went to the tannery, where hundreds/thousands of skins are treated. There is a very pungent smell in the tannery because they use pigeon shit and animal piss to cure the skins. We also went to a famous Islamic school in Fes that has beautiful Arabic caligraphy engraved into the stone and wood walls.
After Fes, we headed north to Chefchaouen, a beautiful town in the Rif mountains. It was kind of rainy, but we managed one good hike. The medina (old city) in Chaouen is painted beautiful, dreamy blue white and purple. It's fun to wander around.
Chased away by the rain, we went south. After spending a couple days in my site, we went to Merzouga. Merzouga is the site of the biggest sand dunes in Morocco. We took a camel trek out into the desert and spent a nite in a tent in the dunes. I was skeptical because it is such a touristy thing to do, but it was a lot of fun and the dunes are amazing.
Next we travelled to Tinghir, where my host mother is from. Her family is still there, so Colton and I stayed with them for three nights. They were super welcoming and generous. We used their house as a base to travel to two huge gorges, which are also popular tourist attractions. The Todra Gorge is where the final scenes of Indiana Jones and the Holy Grail was filmed. It's a huge, steep gorge. The Dades Gorges were also spectacular and Colt and I managed a pretty breathtaking hike there.
Tiring of tajine, we moved onto Agadir, a beach town that is over run with tourists. We spent New Years there, sitting on the beach and walking around (we did a lot of walking everywhere we went). After that was Essaouira, also on the beach. It's a UNESCO world heritage site and its not hard to see why. The walls of the medina are an old sea fortress that stand right at the edge of the ocean.
Finally, Marrakech, where we had the most expensive dates I've ever eaten. Delicious.
It was a good trip. I'm back in Tounfite now, stuck here because we got the first snow storm of the year, closing the road to my site. It is warm this morning so I expect to be able to go home in the afternoon. Colton should be posting pics on facebook of the trip soon.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Update
I'm on vacation! Colton is landing in Fes on Tuesday and I'm taking 3 weeks off to travel around Morocco with him. Very exciting.
The last week in site was slow. My host mom went to pay her condolences to the family of my host uncle (who recently died), leaving my host dad and I to fend for ourselves. I cooked tajine for lunch and scambled eggs for dinner for three straight days.
The big news seems to be in the rest of the world. I read Obama's acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize. While I understand why he wants to maintain international support for the war in Afghanistan, I don't think that's the right venue to do so. The Peace Prize is an optimistic, idealistic prize and giving the "just war" speech, didn't fit.
And in Copenhagen things seem to be going about as expected, which is to say badly. Disappointing. Hopefully some sort of framework will be drawn up that can be a starting point for future negotiations.
Finally, I don't know if it made big news in America, but everyone here is talking about how Switzerland recently voted to ban minarets (of mosques). Absurd.
I'll be taking a break from the blog while I'm travelling. Next post won't be until sometime in the first week of January. Take care.
The last week in site was slow. My host mom went to pay her condolences to the family of my host uncle (who recently died), leaving my host dad and I to fend for ourselves. I cooked tajine for lunch and scambled eggs for dinner for three straight days.
The big news seems to be in the rest of the world. I read Obama's acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize. While I understand why he wants to maintain international support for the war in Afghanistan, I don't think that's the right venue to do so. The Peace Prize is an optimistic, idealistic prize and giving the "just war" speech, didn't fit.
And in Copenhagen things seem to be going about as expected, which is to say badly. Disappointing. Hopefully some sort of framework will be drawn up that can be a starting point for future negotiations.
Finally, I don't know if it made big news in America, but everyone here is talking about how Switzerland recently voted to ban minarets (of mosques). Absurd.
I'll be taking a break from the blog while I'm travelling. Next post won't be until sometime in the first week of January. Take care.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
STI Education
Post is long. If the beginning is boring, stay patient because it gets more interesting as it progresses.
On Saturday, another volunteer and I did an STI and HIV/AIDS education event in a nearby town (Boumia, population 30000). We were working with an association that we had done events with before.
After setting a date last week, I got to Boumia at 930 on Saturday morning. I happened to run into a couple guys from my town, Mohamed and Rachid (all Moroccan names changed). Mohamed is one of my best friends from my community. They got me to come eat breakfast and drink tea with them at a cafe. While we were talking, they told me they were in Boumia to go see prostitutes. They tried to get me to come. When I refused, Rachid told me he would pay for everything. Hearing my friends talk like that is pretty upsetting; it was especially poignant given that the group of people that we had targeted for the education: sex workers.
After a little while, my PCV friends showed up at the cafe. They talked with my Moroccan friends for a while as we had tea and scrambled eggs (which the Moroccans insisted on paying for).
My PCV friends and I left the cafe to go find our friend, Smail, who we were working with. We found Smail and Brahim (another guy helping with the project) at a different cafe. Brahim left to do some other work and Smail, Falisha and I went to invite girls and women to the event (scheduled for 3 that afternoon).
I've invited sex workers to one previous event and it's an emotionally difficult thing to do. Frankly, the prostitutes are a depressing group. Something about the alleys reeks of sex. The women are smoking (which is something that only prostitutes do in most of Morocco). They are dressed inappropriately. And groups of men and boys prowl the street, laughing and joking loudly with one another. Having Smail with us is crucial. He has a comfortable relationship with many of the women because he wrote his master's thesis on the sex industry in Boumia, which included surveying and interviewing. Inviting the women gave Falisha and I a chance to introduce ourselves - a long term goal we have is to build relationships with the women. One very positive part about the recruiting was that we got feedback about the previous event we had done: the women really liked the distribution of medicine (STI meds). In addition to the emotional difficulty of inviting the sex workers, I also had the shock of running into Mohamed and Rachid back in the "red light district." They were sufficiently embarrassed that they ran away without talking to us (or did I run away from them?). I told Smail that they were my friends. We are helping him learn English and he replied "they search."
After inviting the women, Smail, Falisha and I got into a car, suppossedly to go to another part of town to invite more women. We ended up driving around town without any aim as Smail's friends kept calling him and asking him to pick them up, only to disappear when we arrived at the rendezvous spot. Weird. Then we drove 5km out of town to pick up a clay tajine for Falisha (which apparently you can't get in town despite their ubiquity on dinner tables). The drive out of town was notable for the "tarkarbusht" that we were driving (takarbusht means something like "piece of shit car" in Tamazight). Every time Smail tried to shift into 3rd gear, the car went into 1st gear, sending the engine revving to 5000 rpms and causing the car to jerkily slow down. Smail attemted the shift approximately 16 times on the 30 minute round trip, each with the same result. It got old quickly.
On our return, we picked up Sam, the new PCV in Boumia. Then we went to the Caid's for formal permission from the Ministry of Interior. The Caid was at lunch (1245 pm), but we called someone and got the go ahead. Next, the 4 of us went to Brahim's house for lunch.
Brahim's house felt like a whole other world. Brahim lives in a very nice house with 2 cute kids. We had a good lunch and watched his 5 year old daughter, Samira, dance to a song played on repeat on her brother's cellphone. This girl had huge dimples and probably could not have been any cuter.
After lunch, Smail, Falisha, Sam and I went to the Dar Chebab - the site of the meeting. A Dar Chebab is like a youth center. It just so happens that another member of our association, Driss, has access to the center, allowing us to us the space for our meeting.
The meeting got started a little late (330), but attendance was good. There were 27 women there; we only directly invited 10. I was able to greet a couple of the women by name - always a good step. Smail did an excellent job leading the meeting. Falisha and I gave introductory remarks, but mostly we were silent because the meeting was conducted in Arabic.
The first half of the meeting was devoted to sex/reproductive health. Smail talked about condoms, disease transmission, and prevention and treatment of STIs. The women were mostly quiet during this part of the meeting, but I think the topic was appropriate. Smail talks about the subject in a PG way that allows people to feel comfortable, while still getting the point across.
The second half of the meeting (which consumed the majority of the time) was Smail leading a discussion about alternative options for work for the women. This is really Smail's primary agenda for the meeting. He thinks that if we can find work for the women, we can free them from sexual prostitution. I applaud this hope, but I think that he is overly optimistic. As a powerful man in Boumia, however, he has access to real resources that could be helpful. He proposed having a carpet making workshop, a couscous making project, having the women take care of cows, and starting a patisserie. Hopefully, one of the projects works out. Some of the women were enthused.
The meeting got more informal as women came to the head table to sign up for the projects. As I was sitting there, a 45 year old woman came up to me with her daughter. She didn't speak Tamazight, so she spoke through a translator. She told me that her daughter was 11 years old (she looked about 7). Apparently, the girl had some sort of heart disorder. They had been to Meknes and Khenifra (regional hospitals) and gotten medicine, but the condition hadn't improved. The woman asked me to bring some heart medicine when we brought the other medicine (we had told the women that we were planning another STI testing date, which includes medicine distribution). It was really difficult to tell the woman that I couldn't help her daughter. I probably could have been a little more direct, but I managed to communicate that I did not have means to do anything. I told her "God will help," which sounds insensitive in English, but is appropriate in Arabic. Just about broke my heart.
Unbelievably, that wasn't the most upsetting part about the meeting. As the women started to break up into smaller groups, I tried to find some women to talk to. I wanted to see how much Jamal had touched on some of the sensitive details, which I can't understand very well in Arabic. I went up to a group of women and asked who spoke Tamazight. 5 younger girls said yes, which was suprising because normally the younger ones are the Arabic speakers. The girls were 16-19 years old.
I asked them if they knew how to stop STIs. They said condoms. I asked them what they would do if a man asked them to not use a condom. They said they would tell him to leave. That was very encouraging and better than I hoped for (our worry with this project is that targeting women is ineffective because they have no say over condom use). Next I asked them, out of 10 men, how many used condoms. One girl started speaking at length. She said that not a single man uses condoms - they don't like them and they refuse to use them (immediately deflating the hope the previous, probably false answer had created). She started talking about how hard their lives were. How when they were working they didn't think about what they were doing, but being at this meeting made it impossible to forget. One of the girls, who was wearing heavy lipstick, mascara, and had her nails painted brightly started silently crying. Tears slowly leaked from her eyes and she wiped them away one by one. The girl started talking about how the health clinic in town charges them for condoms (they're suppossed to be free) and the ones at the pharmacy are expensive (2.5 DHs (40 cents) for a condom...considering that the going rate for a prostitute is 10-20 DHs, this a lot). She said they hated their work: the men, the illnesses, the government/police (who collect bribes and hassle them) and the "problems." The girl with make up kept crying. She was probably 18 years old and it was all I could to to stop myself from giving her a hug. At this point, despite the long-shot nature of the projects Smail had proposed, it was hard not to hope that maybe we could give them some other options. Telling them just "use condoms" suddenly seemed heartlessly insufficient. Improving their sexual health would make just a small difference in their difficult lives. Moreover, they didn't even have the power to make a decision about condoms. The girl started praising us and thanking us. I told them God will help - my classic "I don't know how to help you" response. She said that we were the cause to help them chane their lives. I don't know if she meant "you have motivated us to change our lives" or "you will help us change our lives with these projects."
The day was emotionally exhausting. The meeting went about as well as it could have gone in terms of communicating a message to a receptive audience, but it revealed such deep-rooted problems that are beyond our capability to make a real impact on. It showed us just how much work there is to do. It was incredibly informative. There is clearly a need to address the availability of condoms and medicine. Furthermore, it seems that a large effort needs to be made in order to reach the male population, which is much more daunting. It is a much larger, less centralized, less receptive population. Mostly though, the meeting was heartbreaking.
It's hard not to draw negative conclusions about the society that I live in based upon the sex industry in Boumia (and other nearby towns/cities). Rural, Muslim, Berber culture has successfully stigmatized female sexuality to the point where it is impossible for a woman to express sexuality and remain a part of society. Men, seeking sex (hypocritically not taboo for them), take advantage of poor women with no other options. By compartamentalizing and isolating female sexuality to the sex industry, society is able to maintain the myth of female purity. The cost (in addition to the suppression of sexuality in the female population) is the creation of social pariahs: the prostitutes. Women in the sex industry have violated one of the most basic social rules, ostracizing themselves from normal society. Marganalized, they are powerless to prevent abuse by the authority figures, who hassle them and collect bribes from their meager earnings. Earning pittances for social suicide, they are unable to protect even their own health: condom use is up to the discretion of the man. Ugh.
On Saturday, another volunteer and I did an STI and HIV/AIDS education event in a nearby town (Boumia, population 30000). We were working with an association that we had done events with before.
After setting a date last week, I got to Boumia at 930 on Saturday morning. I happened to run into a couple guys from my town, Mohamed and Rachid (all Moroccan names changed). Mohamed is one of my best friends from my community. They got me to come eat breakfast and drink tea with them at a cafe. While we were talking, they told me they were in Boumia to go see prostitutes. They tried to get me to come. When I refused, Rachid told me he would pay for everything. Hearing my friends talk like that is pretty upsetting; it was especially poignant given that the group of people that we had targeted for the education: sex workers.
After a little while, my PCV friends showed up at the cafe. They talked with my Moroccan friends for a while as we had tea and scrambled eggs (which the Moroccans insisted on paying for).
My PCV friends and I left the cafe to go find our friend, Smail, who we were working with. We found Smail and Brahim (another guy helping with the project) at a different cafe. Brahim left to do some other work and Smail, Falisha and I went to invite girls and women to the event (scheduled for 3 that afternoon).
I've invited sex workers to one previous event and it's an emotionally difficult thing to do. Frankly, the prostitutes are a depressing group. Something about the alleys reeks of sex. The women are smoking (which is something that only prostitutes do in most of Morocco). They are dressed inappropriately. And groups of men and boys prowl the street, laughing and joking loudly with one another. Having Smail with us is crucial. He has a comfortable relationship with many of the women because he wrote his master's thesis on the sex industry in Boumia, which included surveying and interviewing. Inviting the women gave Falisha and I a chance to introduce ourselves - a long term goal we have is to build relationships with the women. One very positive part about the recruiting was that we got feedback about the previous event we had done: the women really liked the distribution of medicine (STI meds). In addition to the emotional difficulty of inviting the sex workers, I also had the shock of running into Mohamed and Rachid back in the "red light district." They were sufficiently embarrassed that they ran away without talking to us (or did I run away from them?). I told Smail that they were my friends. We are helping him learn English and he replied "they search."
After inviting the women, Smail, Falisha and I got into a car, suppossedly to go to another part of town to invite more women. We ended up driving around town without any aim as Smail's friends kept calling him and asking him to pick them up, only to disappear when we arrived at the rendezvous spot. Weird. Then we drove 5km out of town to pick up a clay tajine for Falisha (which apparently you can't get in town despite their ubiquity on dinner tables). The drive out of town was notable for the "tarkarbusht" that we were driving (takarbusht means something like "piece of shit car" in Tamazight). Every time Smail tried to shift into 3rd gear, the car went into 1st gear, sending the engine revving to 5000 rpms and causing the car to jerkily slow down. Smail attemted the shift approximately 16 times on the 30 minute round trip, each with the same result. It got old quickly.
On our return, we picked up Sam, the new PCV in Boumia. Then we went to the Caid's for formal permission from the Ministry of Interior. The Caid was at lunch (1245 pm), but we called someone and got the go ahead. Next, the 4 of us went to Brahim's house for lunch.
Brahim's house felt like a whole other world. Brahim lives in a very nice house with 2 cute kids. We had a good lunch and watched his 5 year old daughter, Samira, dance to a song played on repeat on her brother's cellphone. This girl had huge dimples and probably could not have been any cuter.
After lunch, Smail, Falisha, Sam and I went to the Dar Chebab - the site of the meeting. A Dar Chebab is like a youth center. It just so happens that another member of our association, Driss, has access to the center, allowing us to us the space for our meeting.
The meeting got started a little late (330), but attendance was good. There were 27 women there; we only directly invited 10. I was able to greet a couple of the women by name - always a good step. Smail did an excellent job leading the meeting. Falisha and I gave introductory remarks, but mostly we were silent because the meeting was conducted in Arabic.
The first half of the meeting was devoted to sex/reproductive health. Smail talked about condoms, disease transmission, and prevention and treatment of STIs. The women were mostly quiet during this part of the meeting, but I think the topic was appropriate. Smail talks about the subject in a PG way that allows people to feel comfortable, while still getting the point across.
The second half of the meeting (which consumed the majority of the time) was Smail leading a discussion about alternative options for work for the women. This is really Smail's primary agenda for the meeting. He thinks that if we can find work for the women, we can free them from sexual prostitution. I applaud this hope, but I think that he is overly optimistic. As a powerful man in Boumia, however, he has access to real resources that could be helpful. He proposed having a carpet making workshop, a couscous making project, having the women take care of cows, and starting a patisserie. Hopefully, one of the projects works out. Some of the women were enthused.
The meeting got more informal as women came to the head table to sign up for the projects. As I was sitting there, a 45 year old woman came up to me with her daughter. She didn't speak Tamazight, so she spoke through a translator. She told me that her daughter was 11 years old (she looked about 7). Apparently, the girl had some sort of heart disorder. They had been to Meknes and Khenifra (regional hospitals) and gotten medicine, but the condition hadn't improved. The woman asked me to bring some heart medicine when we brought the other medicine (we had told the women that we were planning another STI testing date, which includes medicine distribution). It was really difficult to tell the woman that I couldn't help her daughter. I probably could have been a little more direct, but I managed to communicate that I did not have means to do anything. I told her "God will help," which sounds insensitive in English, but is appropriate in Arabic. Just about broke my heart.
Unbelievably, that wasn't the most upsetting part about the meeting. As the women started to break up into smaller groups, I tried to find some women to talk to. I wanted to see how much Jamal had touched on some of the sensitive details, which I can't understand very well in Arabic. I went up to a group of women and asked who spoke Tamazight. 5 younger girls said yes, which was suprising because normally the younger ones are the Arabic speakers. The girls were 16-19 years old.
I asked them if they knew how to stop STIs. They said condoms. I asked them what they would do if a man asked them to not use a condom. They said they would tell him to leave. That was very encouraging and better than I hoped for (our worry with this project is that targeting women is ineffective because they have no say over condom use). Next I asked them, out of 10 men, how many used condoms. One girl started speaking at length. She said that not a single man uses condoms - they don't like them and they refuse to use them (immediately deflating the hope the previous, probably false answer had created). She started talking about how hard their lives were. How when they were working they didn't think about what they were doing, but being at this meeting made it impossible to forget. One of the girls, who was wearing heavy lipstick, mascara, and had her nails painted brightly started silently crying. Tears slowly leaked from her eyes and she wiped them away one by one. The girl started talking about how the health clinic in town charges them for condoms (they're suppossed to be free) and the ones at the pharmacy are expensive (2.5 DHs (40 cents) for a condom...considering that the going rate for a prostitute is 10-20 DHs, this a lot). She said they hated their work: the men, the illnesses, the government/police (who collect bribes and hassle them) and the "problems." The girl with make up kept crying. She was probably 18 years old and it was all I could to to stop myself from giving her a hug. At this point, despite the long-shot nature of the projects Smail had proposed, it was hard not to hope that maybe we could give them some other options. Telling them just "use condoms" suddenly seemed heartlessly insufficient. Improving their sexual health would make just a small difference in their difficult lives. Moreover, they didn't even have the power to make a decision about condoms. The girl started praising us and thanking us. I told them God will help - my classic "I don't know how to help you" response. She said that we were the cause to help them chane their lives. I don't know if she meant "you have motivated us to change our lives" or "you will help us change our lives with these projects."
The day was emotionally exhausting. The meeting went about as well as it could have gone in terms of communicating a message to a receptive audience, but it revealed such deep-rooted problems that are beyond our capability to make a real impact on. It showed us just how much work there is to do. It was incredibly informative. There is clearly a need to address the availability of condoms and medicine. Furthermore, it seems that a large effort needs to be made in order to reach the male population, which is much more daunting. It is a much larger, less centralized, less receptive population. Mostly though, the meeting was heartbreaking.
It's hard not to draw negative conclusions about the society that I live in based upon the sex industry in Boumia (and other nearby towns/cities). Rural, Muslim, Berber culture has successfully stigmatized female sexuality to the point where it is impossible for a woman to express sexuality and remain a part of society. Men, seeking sex (hypocritically not taboo for them), take advantage of poor women with no other options. By compartamentalizing and isolating female sexuality to the sex industry, society is able to maintain the myth of female purity. The cost (in addition to the suppression of sexuality in the female population) is the creation of social pariahs: the prostitutes. Women in the sex industry have violated one of the most basic social rules, ostracizing themselves from normal society. Marganalized, they are powerless to prevent abuse by the authority figures, who hassle them and collect bribes from their meager earnings. Earning pittances for social suicide, they are unable to protect even their own health: condom use is up to the discretion of the man. Ugh.
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