Still in the thick of Ramadan, so the adventures of Colin Gettle are sort of on hold. Unless that is, you think of Ramadan as an adventure unto itself. I thought that it was going to be, and maybe I may look back on it as such, but right now it has already sort of turned into a daily grind. Get up late, laze around my apartment, break fast with someone, hang out at the café until midnight or so, and then back to the apartment to read or watch a movie until my late bedtime. Same thing every day.
Now that I think about it, it’s strange how quickly things become routine and feel stagnant. Ramadan only started two weeks ago and there are less then to weeks to go. I’ve been trying lately to find a way into a mindset of contentment with the moment. I always seem to be living dreading the future or dreamily dwelling on the past, but rarely enjoying the moment. I know that I join pretty much everyone else in that problem. I have read that smoking pot and meditation both help in bringing a person into their present state of being. I have access to both, but I think meditation is probably the better long-term solution. I think my parents and the Moroccan police would probably agree with me on that too.
To break the routine (and also to try to take care of some personal business) I took a little trip down to Jerada on Monday. Jerada is not the nicest place in Morocco to go to, but as Joe, one of the volunteers who lives there can attest, it’s not the worst place either. Its main employer is the big coal plant just on the outside of town. I know in the US we think of coal plants as dirty dirty places, but I imagine with the environmental standards that they have to comply to, they look a lot better than this place. There are days when it looks like Dante’s Peak with a dusting of ash drifting down from the sky. Anyway, I went there for a change up and some business. The business wasn’t taken care of, but it’s always great to see Joe and Socorra, the nearest volunteers. We always eat well and have fun playing cards, music, or watching the countless hours of movies and TV series on their external hard drives. In this trip also went to see Socorra's site of Gafait about half an hour further from Joe. Her site is beautiful and spread out with a very popular river running through the middle of it. Fasting didn’t make for a pleasant ride back, but in Berkane I saw a group of little old Spanish women who clearly looked like they were having the time of their lives venturing into this part of the country on their own, and that made me happy.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Rain and Shine
This last week has been tough. One of the tougher of the almost six months that I have been here. Ramadan has, in a sense, trapped me in my own head. A scary thought really. What I thought was unstructured time before this month of fasting started now seems busy in comparison. I truly have very few duties or objectives that I can accomplish as my village, the whole country actually, is on hold until the 10th of September when they can break the final day of fasting. It has become a creative struggle everyday to keep myself going and stay sane.
My biggest challenge has been creating structure and order. Where normally (I say normally meaning the average of my adult life) I would be looking on my calendar for the free time to do whatever I want to do, now I desperately try to think of actual obligations that I have to fulfill so that I can throw it up on the calendar like a little island of scribbled ink hope in a big ocean of blank squares.
I guess, while yes this unstructuring of my life has been and continues to be a huge obstacle, I am increasingly able to see the value of the experience. Not constantly having a barrage of events, obligations, and work to saturate my time, and especially not having English speaking people to be busy with, I have been forced to reduce my speed and enter into the uncomfortable world of reflection, patience, and self discovery. It’s a scary place too! I will tell you that!
In addition to all this wonderful philosophical self-enhancement, I do get to so some other things that are probably good for me. For instance I now read a lot. I cant vouch for the quality of all I’ve read (most of my reading materials are contained on one and a half shelves of my little book case), but its nice to get back into habit that I abandoned along time ago when the calendar started to fill. I’ve tried my hand, to a less successful degree, at painting and yoga as well. Thinking of meditation (perhaps a more fruitful means of introspection than self pity) in the near future. I’m welcome to tips on any of these things as well as suggestions for books to read. Though, if you suggest it with any passion, you might have to send it. I haven’t yet found the Barnes and Noble down the street.
When I think about this new life of undefined time, I imagine that I’m in good company. I probably share this experience of isolation and introspection with prisoners, monks, and the occasional hermit in addition to all the other Peace Corps workers out there. We all know that monks and Peace Corps volunteers generally turn out to be good people, and if Shawshank Redemption has anything to teach us, it’s that prison has its benefits too. I don’t know about hermits, but I’ve met some pretty hermitic volunteers here and they don’t seem worse off for the experience. Maybe a bit more skittish around other foreigners, but not worse off.
I don’t want to make it sound like I’m being to productive though. I still spend plenty of time in empty thought, goofing off or watching Star Trek.
Right. I spend a lot of time in my house by myself finding ways to occupy my time. That’s my life right now. Tafoghalt remains in its Ramadan stupor. One noteworthy thing. It has begun to rain more. This week has seen at least a couple of storms. Fall seems to be on its way. With the rain came a discovery. By discovery, I mean it should have been obvious before, but I never stopped to consider it fully. The discovery was this: when it rains (and if I’m to believe anyone, it rains a lot in the fall and winter), my house floods. Not just a little of it. No, pretty much all of it. The reason is that at some point before I even moved in the wind took part of the roof off. I obviously new that part of my roof was missing; I just never stopped to think of the consequences of it. In my defense there is a drain where the water comes in. It just drains at a rate of molasses. In any case, such is life in Morocco.
My biggest challenge has been creating structure and order. Where normally (I say normally meaning the average of my adult life) I would be looking on my calendar for the free time to do whatever I want to do, now I desperately try to think of actual obligations that I have to fulfill so that I can throw it up on the calendar like a little island of scribbled ink hope in a big ocean of blank squares.
I guess, while yes this unstructuring of my life has been and continues to be a huge obstacle, I am increasingly able to see the value of the experience. Not constantly having a barrage of events, obligations, and work to saturate my time, and especially not having English speaking people to be busy with, I have been forced to reduce my speed and enter into the uncomfortable world of reflection, patience, and self discovery. It’s a scary place too! I will tell you that!
In addition to all this wonderful philosophical self-enhancement, I do get to so some other things that are probably good for me. For instance I now read a lot. I cant vouch for the quality of all I’ve read (most of my reading materials are contained on one and a half shelves of my little book case), but its nice to get back into habit that I abandoned along time ago when the calendar started to fill. I’ve tried my hand, to a less successful degree, at painting and yoga as well. Thinking of meditation (perhaps a more fruitful means of introspection than self pity) in the near future. I’m welcome to tips on any of these things as well as suggestions for books to read. Though, if you suggest it with any passion, you might have to send it. I haven’t yet found the Barnes and Noble down the street.
When I think about this new life of undefined time, I imagine that I’m in good company. I probably share this experience of isolation and introspection with prisoners, monks, and the occasional hermit in addition to all the other Peace Corps workers out there. We all know that monks and Peace Corps volunteers generally turn out to be good people, and if Shawshank Redemption has anything to teach us, it’s that prison has its benefits too. I don’t know about hermits, but I’ve met some pretty hermitic volunteers here and they don’t seem worse off for the experience. Maybe a bit more skittish around other foreigners, but not worse off.
I don’t want to make it sound like I’m being to productive though. I still spend plenty of time in empty thought, goofing off or watching Star Trek.
Right. I spend a lot of time in my house by myself finding ways to occupy my time. That’s my life right now. Tafoghalt remains in its Ramadan stupor. One noteworthy thing. It has begun to rain more. This week has seen at least a couple of storms. Fall seems to be on its way. With the rain came a discovery. By discovery, I mean it should have been obvious before, but I never stopped to consider it fully. The discovery was this: when it rains (and if I’m to believe anyone, it rains a lot in the fall and winter), my house floods. Not just a little of it. No, pretty much all of it. The reason is that at some point before I even moved in the wind took part of the roof off. I obviously new that part of my roof was missing; I just never stopped to think of the consequences of it. In my defense there is a drain where the water comes in. It just drains at a rate of molasses. In any case, such is life in Morocco.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Ramadan Fun
This week marked the official start of Ramadan, the Muslim holiday commemorating the 9th month of the Islamic calendar when Muslims believe the first verses of the Qur’an were revealed to the prophet Muhammad. As one of the seven pillars of Islam, fasting during Ramadan is hugely important here in Morocco as in other Muslim countries. It means abstaining from eating, drinking, and sexual activity.
I returned to my site from PPST training on Sunday, and until its start two days ago I tried to gain a sense from my friends here as to what I should expect. I asked how long the fasting was. What do people eat when they break fast? Do people work during the day. How is the time of the Call to Prayer determined? As in so many things though, nothing really prepared me for the actuality of Ramadan. Here’s how it works as I’ve so far experienced it.
By Wednesday, most people were pretty sure that Thursday would be the start, but officially it depends on the moon (it has to be crescent, usually the day after the new moon) and therefore, until it is determined to be the correct moon, Ramadan doesn’t start. The only answer I got when I asked when it started was “probably Thursday, maybe Friday.” Fasting, and thus Ramadan itself, did start at the 3:30 AM morning call to prayer (called fajr) on Thursday. I actually slept through it, and thus didn’t get a chance to gorge myself before the day began and I couldn’t eat or drink. I am fasting with everyone else, so missing my chance was a big mistake for the first day and by 3 in the afternoon with the sun scorching hot, I very much regretted not having set my alarm.
Now I don’t really have to worry about missing “dinner” because there is a Ramadan schedule and, as it seems to be the easiest way to do things, I’ve adopted it. The schedule is pretty similar to the one I was on when I worked night shift. I get up around 11 AM. At this point it’s pretty hot outside, and as I don’t have a lot of work to do (at least not while everyone is fasting), I stay inside to conserve my water. It’s pretty nice. I get a lot of reading and writing done. In the afternoon I take a nap and wander outside for a little, never straying too far from home, and always trying to dart from one cool shadow to another. Some people are out doing the same thing or working and we greet each other, but the conversations are brief in order to conserve what little energy and water we have. We will have time later. At about 5 PM I start to catch the scents of the foods the women are preparing for the nights “breakfast.” These smells seem to awaken the town, and by 6 people are out moving around, talking, buying last minute food, and getting to wherever they are going to break the fast that night. At about 7, the tables are set with food. Almost everyone has made it to their destinations and is eagerly awaiting the evening call to prayer to sound so they can start eating and drinking.
So far I have only broken fast at my host family’s house. I arrive early and wait outside with my “parents” and “siblings” to catch the first “Allahu Akbar.” They live a little ways out of town and on more then one occasion we have gotten excited over the faint start of someone’s car stereo blaring: false alarm. When we do sit down to eat, the table is already full of different things. A hotdog, hardboiled egg salad with ketchup. Bell peppers “tagined” in olive oil. Olives. Dates with M&Ms. Some pastry type things. A very dense cornbreadish thing called Hrsha (one of my favorites by far). Sometimes a small bit of chicken. Bread and sweet tea of course. And as a main dish, a Moroccan soup called harira which is mmm mmm good.
There’s no real formality to it. As soon as the call to prayer is heard, everyone mumbles a quick “bismilla” (their version of grace) and digs in. The eating is over with in a matter of minutes it seems. And then, at least with my family, we sit around for a while talking and picking at nearby leftovers whenever hunger strikes again. It’s a bit like Thanksgiving.
After dinner, the town really comes alive. People awake from their foodless, drinkless stupor and move outside, where the men go to the cafes, and couples walk around town together, taking advantage of the new energy and cool evening air. Since I am a man and I don’t have a nice young lady to walk around town with, I go to the café where I sit with the men of the village and watch TV or talk (mostly I listen because I don’t understand much of what they are saying and wouldn’t know how to say what I wanted to say even if I had something to say). When I take my leave a little after midnight, there are still lots of people out. I go home, eat another snack, and sit out on my roof under the stars listening to the noise in town grow thinner as people make their way back to their homes. At around 2:30 AM I cook up “dinner” and down as much water as I can, aware that my sleep will no doubt be interrupted numerous times because of it. I go to bed around 3.
I’ve had a lot of people ask me why I’m fasting and there is really only one good reason. I want to integrate into my community as quickly as possible, and there are not many better ways of doing so that I can think of than going through a difficult experience with those people. Already I feel like I’ve gained a certain measure of respect. Almost everyone I talk to asks whether I am fasting or not. When I tell them that I am, I get a lot of excited expressions and eager questions about how it’s going. I’m not really sure though, the excitement might actually be because they think I’ve converted. If that’s the case, I will let them believe what they will.
Again, we are only in the 3rd day of the month long “celebration”, but this has been how it has been the last few nights. It’s not too hard for me as I don’t have lots of physical work to do and also I live in a relatively cool place by Moroccan standards. I like the schedule and the relaxed feeling that comes with it (of course if I have to do any traveling, I will have to throw the relaxed feeling out the window), but I will be glad when the final breakfast happens and I can hopefully start working with people on things they want to accomplish here.
I returned to my site from PPST training on Sunday, and until its start two days ago I tried to gain a sense from my friends here as to what I should expect. I asked how long the fasting was. What do people eat when they break fast? Do people work during the day. How is the time of the Call to Prayer determined? As in so many things though, nothing really prepared me for the actuality of Ramadan. Here’s how it works as I’ve so far experienced it.
By Wednesday, most people were pretty sure that Thursday would be the start, but officially it depends on the moon (it has to be crescent, usually the day after the new moon) and therefore, until it is determined to be the correct moon, Ramadan doesn’t start. The only answer I got when I asked when it started was “probably Thursday, maybe Friday.” Fasting, and thus Ramadan itself, did start at the 3:30 AM morning call to prayer (called fajr) on Thursday. I actually slept through it, and thus didn’t get a chance to gorge myself before the day began and I couldn’t eat or drink. I am fasting with everyone else, so missing my chance was a big mistake for the first day and by 3 in the afternoon with the sun scorching hot, I very much regretted not having set my alarm.
Now I don’t really have to worry about missing “dinner” because there is a Ramadan schedule and, as it seems to be the easiest way to do things, I’ve adopted it. The schedule is pretty similar to the one I was on when I worked night shift. I get up around 11 AM. At this point it’s pretty hot outside, and as I don’t have a lot of work to do (at least not while everyone is fasting), I stay inside to conserve my water. It’s pretty nice. I get a lot of reading and writing done. In the afternoon I take a nap and wander outside for a little, never straying too far from home, and always trying to dart from one cool shadow to another. Some people are out doing the same thing or working and we greet each other, but the conversations are brief in order to conserve what little energy and water we have. We will have time later. At about 5 PM I start to catch the scents of the foods the women are preparing for the nights “breakfast.” These smells seem to awaken the town, and by 6 people are out moving around, talking, buying last minute food, and getting to wherever they are going to break the fast that night. At about 7, the tables are set with food. Almost everyone has made it to their destinations and is eagerly awaiting the evening call to prayer to sound so they can start eating and drinking.
So far I have only broken fast at my host family’s house. I arrive early and wait outside with my “parents” and “siblings” to catch the first “Allahu Akbar.” They live a little ways out of town and on more then one occasion we have gotten excited over the faint start of someone’s car stereo blaring: false alarm. When we do sit down to eat, the table is already full of different things. A hotdog, hardboiled egg salad with ketchup. Bell peppers “tagined” in olive oil. Olives. Dates with M&Ms. Some pastry type things. A very dense cornbreadish thing called Hrsha (one of my favorites by far). Sometimes a small bit of chicken. Bread and sweet tea of course. And as a main dish, a Moroccan soup called harira which is mmm mmm good.
There’s no real formality to it. As soon as the call to prayer is heard, everyone mumbles a quick “bismilla” (their version of grace) and digs in. The eating is over with in a matter of minutes it seems. And then, at least with my family, we sit around for a while talking and picking at nearby leftovers whenever hunger strikes again. It’s a bit like Thanksgiving.
After dinner, the town really comes alive. People awake from their foodless, drinkless stupor and move outside, where the men go to the cafes, and couples walk around town together, taking advantage of the new energy and cool evening air. Since I am a man and I don’t have a nice young lady to walk around town with, I go to the café where I sit with the men of the village and watch TV or talk (mostly I listen because I don’t understand much of what they are saying and wouldn’t know how to say what I wanted to say even if I had something to say). When I take my leave a little after midnight, there are still lots of people out. I go home, eat another snack, and sit out on my roof under the stars listening to the noise in town grow thinner as people make their way back to their homes. At around 2:30 AM I cook up “dinner” and down as much water as I can, aware that my sleep will no doubt be interrupted numerous times because of it. I go to bed around 3.
I’ve had a lot of people ask me why I’m fasting and there is really only one good reason. I want to integrate into my community as quickly as possible, and there are not many better ways of doing so that I can think of than going through a difficult experience with those people. Already I feel like I’ve gained a certain measure of respect. Almost everyone I talk to asks whether I am fasting or not. When I tell them that I am, I get a lot of excited expressions and eager questions about how it’s going. I’m not really sure though, the excitement might actually be because they think I’ve converted. If that’s the case, I will let them believe what they will.
Again, we are only in the 3rd day of the month long “celebration”, but this has been how it has been the last few nights. It’s not too hard for me as I don’t have lots of physical work to do and also I live in a relatively cool place by Moroccan standards. I like the schedule and the relaxed feeling that comes with it (of course if I have to do any traveling, I will have to throw the relaxed feeling out the window), but I will be glad when the final breakfast happens and I can hopefully start working with people on things they want to accomplish here.
Monday, August 9, 2010
We're on a souk bus...
I'm going to try something here. In addition to updating what is going on on a weekly basis (which I dont really do anyway), I'm going to write a few blogs about general life here. For instance, the first one is on travel. I know what your probably thinking if you care at all about this blog. I should try to write something period before adding anything. Yeah... I'm going to do it this way. It is my blog after all.
Traveling in Morocco is a challenge. I discovered this almost as soon as I had set foot here. The challenges come in all kinds of forms. Sometimes it’s the vehicle, sometimes the driver, other times it’s the dudes sitting next to you (and by that I mean more like on top of you). Always, though, it is neccesary for one to muster up as much patience as they have, and go expecting nothing less than an adventure.
Being on the far east side of Morocco, I’ve perhaps had to endure more traveling than most of the other volunteers. Almost nothing Peace Corps related happens anywhere near me. The closest place that I would go to for PC is Fes, which is about 7 hours away, and I would only do that in emergencies because its my “consolidation point.” Otherwise, if its PC its usually at least 9 hours away. It takes me 3 days to get some places.
It seems that rarely is any means of transportation ready for what its about to do (i.e. go somewhere) but somehow, sometimes by seemingly miraculous means, they always get me where I want to go, and, at least to this point, I have gotten there alive. Inshah Allah it stays that way!
I think it was the second month that I was in this country; I was coming back to my CBT site with my fellow trainees from some little outing. I think we were trying to catch some lizards to eat for dinner or something. Anyway, we ended up getting a ride with a cousin of somebody in his fire extinguisher truck/car/van thing. It was full of fire extinguishers. The car itself was pretty shady, not really right on its wheels, but it wasn’t until one of the fire extinguishers exploded in the back that we panicked. I think we were all pretty sure someone had just gotten shot like the lady in the movie “Babel”. I don’t think our Arabic could have gotten us very far.
Here’s how traveling with a group of PC volunteers usually goes. We all walk to the station (petit taxis could get us there but they are expensive, and its way more hardcore to lug 60 pounds of stuff on your back) where there are generally grand taxis, souk buses, and sometimes CTM buses. Grand taxis are usually the quickest, as they go from one point to another without stopping. They are, however, a bit expensive and also whoever chooses this option generally gets the honor of sharing the car with 6 other dudes. To say the least it’s cozy. In the summer, you usually get out of the taxi covered in the sweat of the two guys sitting on your lap. If this is not appealing, then there is the souk bus, but beware, although the souk bus may be the cheapest, what you save in money you lose in time, patience, and body water. The last option is for the xans flus (the dirty rich). It’s called CTM and it’s definitely the nicest option other than train travel. Almost always you get your own seat, there is air conditioning, and there is no having to endure the 200 random stops along the way to pick up and drop off people. But, as mentioned before its for the xans flus, which is not usually us. Ok, so we get to the station and these are the options we are looking at. We stop, dripping with sweat, in the middle of the taxi lot. What now? Do we pay the money for comfort and reliability? Or do we bite the bullet and risk the souk bus? Oh CTM… if only. The discussion is almost always the same (the merits of one, the problems with the other), and when we get on the souk bus, we wonder what the point of having it was.
Just a couple of days ago we had this exact chat. Milling around the taxi lot in Azrou, we surveyed our options to get home from Post PST Training. There was a taxi with 3 open spots. There were 4 of us. Buying out a whole taxi would be expensive, and also we are above being ripped off in any way. CTM would be nice… of course. In the end, as always, we ended up lugging our stuff into the adjacent bus station to look at the souk bus times. One in 10 minutes!? Perfect. We went outside to wait. 10 minutes, 20, 30. The bus wasn’t even in the lot. Finally, it showed up and we got on. From the outside, as we loaded our bags, we could already see that it was full. Oh well. We got on and grabbed the few remaining open seats. We were off… sort of. We hadn’t even gotten out of town when the bus stopped. It couldn’t get up the hill. Every time the driver tried to shift, the bus stalled and started drifting backward. Luckily, the quick thinking assistant guy threw some rocks behind the wheels and tried coxing the bus up the hill. No luck. For every 5 feet we gained, we drifted 30 back down the hill. And each time the bus went backward, a group of women on board sent out a dramatic scream that stirred the bus into a pandemonium of panic and crazed discussion.
Now the assistant guy had a better idea. Lets get a running start up this thing. Not a bad idea and to give him credit, we made it about 10 feet passed our previous record before the bus couldn’t go any further. Right. Lets get everyone off the bus and then try it again. We walked up the hill, while the bus slowly struggled along beside us. It was working, but the hill was at least a couple of km long and I don’t think any one of the paying customers was keen on walking the whole way to Fes. Soon the driver thought it would be a good idea to get everyone back on. He honked his horn impatiently as if we were wasting his time sitting outside the bus. As soon as we got back on, we started back down the hill. We got off again, and started it all over. Nope. Not this time either. Finally, the driver called somebody at the station and said a new bus was coming. The bus arrived, but when we saw it, we all laughed. It was about half the size of the previous bus. We unloaded and then reloaded our bags onto the new bus and climbed on. Of course, being half the size as the previously full bus, there were not enough seats. Not a huge problem, considering we had just spent over an hour trying to get up a hill 6 blocks from the bus station. We finally got on our way, but as souk buses usually do, we were forced to keep stopping to let new people on. Before long, the aisles were full, people were sitting on the stairs, and someone was on my lap. Also, there was a good chance we were not going to make it in time for our train. Then, having caught glimpse of the whities the assistant guy of the new bus climbed over dozens of people to get to the back of the bus where we sat. He wanted more money for our luggage. We had already paid extra on the last bus. We laughed. We knew if we didn’t pay, he would probably pester us for the rest of the trip or until we did. Pestering is pretty easy to ignore, though, if you don’t understand most of what’s being said.
If that story wasn’t fun enough, here’s another. This happened a little over a month ago. Two friends from the states came to visit. Hi Katie and Ashley if your reading this. It’s about you. I had just picked them up and we were on our way back to Tafoghalt on the souk bus. About an hour into the uneventful, even pleasant, drive, I heard a scream and then loud commotion from the back of the bus where Katie and Ashley were sitting. I couldn’t see what was going on, only that people were getting up and crowding around the girls’ seat. I craned my neck to get a glimpse. I saw the girls. They seemed fine. Whatever had happened happened in the seat ahead of them. I could see a woman in that seat. She was crying frantically. The woman besides her seemed to be asleep on her shoulder. Some people were kind of nudging the sleeping woman, but no one was really doing anything other then crowding. The bus pulled over and I finally caught what had happened. There are shelves above the seats in souk buses like in airplanes, except without doors. And like in airplanes stuff can fall from them. This time, what fell happened to be a bulk pack of canned corn and it fell smack onto the woman’s unsuspecting head. We sat on the side of the road waiting for the police, the woman left to her unconsciousness and her friend left to her frantic crying. The police finally arrived, but instead of helping the woman, they went straight to questioning the owner of the cans, trying to determine what he was doing with them, why he had put them up there, etc. This went on for over an hour while the woman drifted in and out of consciousness. Finally she was moved off the bus, but had to continue to wait for the police, who were now going through the bus reenacting what had happened and searching for other dangerous canned corn. We ended up leaving two hours later. The woman and her friend were still there on the side of the road.
I’m not sure why so little attention was paid to her. It might have been strictly due to beaurocracy or maybe it was because she was a woman. I’m not sure. Katie and Ashley were surprised and outraged. I guess it was here that I realized how accustomed to the ways of Morocco I had become. I was outraged, but not surprised. Things like this happen, and where there would almost certainly be a lawsuit in the States, here people just carry on, only now with something exciting to talk to their buddies about at the café.
So, that’s just a little glimpse into some of the more exciting moments of travel that I’ve had so far here in Morocco. Most of the time, while crowded and hot, it is at least usually reliable and comprehensive. I’ve met some of the most interesting people and had some of my best conversations in taxis, buses, and trains. Even though it’s always exhausting and almost never predictable, in the end, what kind of adventure would this be without it.
Traveling in Morocco is a challenge. I discovered this almost as soon as I had set foot here. The challenges come in all kinds of forms. Sometimes it’s the vehicle, sometimes the driver, other times it’s the dudes sitting next to you (and by that I mean more like on top of you). Always, though, it is neccesary for one to muster up as much patience as they have, and go expecting nothing less than an adventure.
Being on the far east side of Morocco, I’ve perhaps had to endure more traveling than most of the other volunteers. Almost nothing Peace Corps related happens anywhere near me. The closest place that I would go to for PC is Fes, which is about 7 hours away, and I would only do that in emergencies because its my “consolidation point.” Otherwise, if its PC its usually at least 9 hours away. It takes me 3 days to get some places.
It seems that rarely is any means of transportation ready for what its about to do (i.e. go somewhere) but somehow, sometimes by seemingly miraculous means, they always get me where I want to go, and, at least to this point, I have gotten there alive. Inshah Allah it stays that way!
I think it was the second month that I was in this country; I was coming back to my CBT site with my fellow trainees from some little outing. I think we were trying to catch some lizards to eat for dinner or something. Anyway, we ended up getting a ride with a cousin of somebody in his fire extinguisher truck/car/van thing. It was full of fire extinguishers. The car itself was pretty shady, not really right on its wheels, but it wasn’t until one of the fire extinguishers exploded in the back that we panicked. I think we were all pretty sure someone had just gotten shot like the lady in the movie “Babel”. I don’t think our Arabic could have gotten us very far.
Here’s how traveling with a group of PC volunteers usually goes. We all walk to the station (petit taxis could get us there but they are expensive, and its way more hardcore to lug 60 pounds of stuff on your back) where there are generally grand taxis, souk buses, and sometimes CTM buses. Grand taxis are usually the quickest, as they go from one point to another without stopping. They are, however, a bit expensive and also whoever chooses this option generally gets the honor of sharing the car with 6 other dudes. To say the least it’s cozy. In the summer, you usually get out of the taxi covered in the sweat of the two guys sitting on your lap. If this is not appealing, then there is the souk bus, but beware, although the souk bus may be the cheapest, what you save in money you lose in time, patience, and body water. The last option is for the xans flus (the dirty rich). It’s called CTM and it’s definitely the nicest option other than train travel. Almost always you get your own seat, there is air conditioning, and there is no having to endure the 200 random stops along the way to pick up and drop off people. But, as mentioned before its for the xans flus, which is not usually us. Ok, so we get to the station and these are the options we are looking at. We stop, dripping with sweat, in the middle of the taxi lot. What now? Do we pay the money for comfort and reliability? Or do we bite the bullet and risk the souk bus? Oh CTM… if only. The discussion is almost always the same (the merits of one, the problems with the other), and when we get on the souk bus, we wonder what the point of having it was.
Just a couple of days ago we had this exact chat. Milling around the taxi lot in Azrou, we surveyed our options to get home from Post PST Training. There was a taxi with 3 open spots. There were 4 of us. Buying out a whole taxi would be expensive, and also we are above being ripped off in any way. CTM would be nice… of course. In the end, as always, we ended up lugging our stuff into the adjacent bus station to look at the souk bus times. One in 10 minutes!? Perfect. We went outside to wait. 10 minutes, 20, 30. The bus wasn’t even in the lot. Finally, it showed up and we got on. From the outside, as we loaded our bags, we could already see that it was full. Oh well. We got on and grabbed the few remaining open seats. We were off… sort of. We hadn’t even gotten out of town when the bus stopped. It couldn’t get up the hill. Every time the driver tried to shift, the bus stalled and started drifting backward. Luckily, the quick thinking assistant guy threw some rocks behind the wheels and tried coxing the bus up the hill. No luck. For every 5 feet we gained, we drifted 30 back down the hill. And each time the bus went backward, a group of women on board sent out a dramatic scream that stirred the bus into a pandemonium of panic and crazed discussion.
Now the assistant guy had a better idea. Lets get a running start up this thing. Not a bad idea and to give him credit, we made it about 10 feet passed our previous record before the bus couldn’t go any further. Right. Lets get everyone off the bus and then try it again. We walked up the hill, while the bus slowly struggled along beside us. It was working, but the hill was at least a couple of km long and I don’t think any one of the paying customers was keen on walking the whole way to Fes. Soon the driver thought it would be a good idea to get everyone back on. He honked his horn impatiently as if we were wasting his time sitting outside the bus. As soon as we got back on, we started back down the hill. We got off again, and started it all over. Nope. Not this time either. Finally, the driver called somebody at the station and said a new bus was coming. The bus arrived, but when we saw it, we all laughed. It was about half the size of the previous bus. We unloaded and then reloaded our bags onto the new bus and climbed on. Of course, being half the size as the previously full bus, there were not enough seats. Not a huge problem, considering we had just spent over an hour trying to get up a hill 6 blocks from the bus station. We finally got on our way, but as souk buses usually do, we were forced to keep stopping to let new people on. Before long, the aisles were full, people were sitting on the stairs, and someone was on my lap. Also, there was a good chance we were not going to make it in time for our train. Then, having caught glimpse of the whities the assistant guy of the new bus climbed over dozens of people to get to the back of the bus where we sat. He wanted more money for our luggage. We had already paid extra on the last bus. We laughed. We knew if we didn’t pay, he would probably pester us for the rest of the trip or until we did. Pestering is pretty easy to ignore, though, if you don’t understand most of what’s being said.
If that story wasn’t fun enough, here’s another. This happened a little over a month ago. Two friends from the states came to visit. Hi Katie and Ashley if your reading this. It’s about you. I had just picked them up and we were on our way back to Tafoghalt on the souk bus. About an hour into the uneventful, even pleasant, drive, I heard a scream and then loud commotion from the back of the bus where Katie and Ashley were sitting. I couldn’t see what was going on, only that people were getting up and crowding around the girls’ seat. I craned my neck to get a glimpse. I saw the girls. They seemed fine. Whatever had happened happened in the seat ahead of them. I could see a woman in that seat. She was crying frantically. The woman besides her seemed to be asleep on her shoulder. Some people were kind of nudging the sleeping woman, but no one was really doing anything other then crowding. The bus pulled over and I finally caught what had happened. There are shelves above the seats in souk buses like in airplanes, except without doors. And like in airplanes stuff can fall from them. This time, what fell happened to be a bulk pack of canned corn and it fell smack onto the woman’s unsuspecting head. We sat on the side of the road waiting for the police, the woman left to her unconsciousness and her friend left to her frantic crying. The police finally arrived, but instead of helping the woman, they went straight to questioning the owner of the cans, trying to determine what he was doing with them, why he had put them up there, etc. This went on for over an hour while the woman drifted in and out of consciousness. Finally she was moved off the bus, but had to continue to wait for the police, who were now going through the bus reenacting what had happened and searching for other dangerous canned corn. We ended up leaving two hours later. The woman and her friend were still there on the side of the road.
I’m not sure why so little attention was paid to her. It might have been strictly due to beaurocracy or maybe it was because she was a woman. I’m not sure. Katie and Ashley were surprised and outraged. I guess it was here that I realized how accustomed to the ways of Morocco I had become. I was outraged, but not surprised. Things like this happen, and where there would almost certainly be a lawsuit in the States, here people just carry on, only now with something exciting to talk to their buddies about at the café.
So, that’s just a little glimpse into some of the more exciting moments of travel that I’ve had so far here in Morocco. Most of the time, while crowded and hot, it is at least usually reliable and comprehensive. I’ve met some of the most interesting people and had some of my best conversations in taxis, buses, and trains. Even though it’s always exhausting and almost never predictable, in the end, what kind of adventure would this be without it.
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