Megapost

Before reading further, BEWARE. This entry is long. It is tedious. And frankly, it is maybe quite boring. But that is just, like, my opinion man. That is just a preface; an “I told you so” if you start fading part way through it and want someone to blame. I relinquish myself of the blame.

With that said, I admit that the idea for this post was stolen from other PC bloggers. Their responses to the always asked question, “so…what is it that you do everyday?,” were to write a detailed description of a single, random day. I am taking that idea one step further. One day in the life of a Peace Corps volunteer is not always very representative of the average, if there is such a thing as an average day. I, therefore, will detail one week in my attempt to give all you bold readers a hopefully more representative eyeful of how different and, at the same time, repetitive days in the Peace Corps can be. I would say that the week that I’m about to embark on is perhaps a little more exciting than most, but it is representative of how new and exciting things are always happening, even in the midst of what seems like endless, repetitive boredom.

So, without further delay. The week of October 4th in all its glory. Good luck!

MONDAY

7:00 AM
I have no alarm clock. I like to think that I don’t need one. I have adapted to my circumstances like any good Peace Corps volunteer, and use my natural surroundings to my advantage. More likely, I have no choice. An alarm clock wouldn’t stand a chance against the noises that bombard my house every morning. Noises that rush through every window and door, every crack, the place where my roof should be, even the walls. Children playing, my neighbor yelling…or talking (still not sure which she is doing, though if she is yelling, she sure yells a lot), goats and sheep bleating, the sound of their hooves echoing down the roughly paved streets as they head towards food, towards a new day. There are roosters crowing, and hens doing…well whatever hens do. Gawaking maybe. By this time the dogs have pretty much stopped barking, but the occasional dog, interrupted from sleep, may make his presence known and get me out of bed. No, an alarm clock would be redundant.
I’m up. Sort of. This is still the hardest part of the day. I have to draw every bit of motivation to overpower the thought: what do I have to get up for. I lie back down and try to push this negative thought out of my head, instead pondering the strange dream I had last night. I keep having similar dreams that seem so vivid until I wake up and everything instantly fades out of focus. They always seem to throw my Peace Corps and US worlds together into dizzying places where there are football games in big swimming pools, big islands that float in the air (I know, very Avatarish) where I drink beer with friends, and feelings of isolation and unattainablity; feelings that linger even where the memory wont. The world can wait another half hour.

7:30 AM
Alright, I’m up. The sounds are carrying through the concrete that is my house and vibrating in my ears and body. I think it would be quieter on the street from where they emanate than here in my bed. There is no point in pretending that I can sleep any more anyway. I’m up and have my running shorts, shoes, and i-pod on in a matter of minutes. I grab a quick drink and head downstairs. With a clank the metal door pops open and I am back in Morocco. The bright sun makes me blink and wakes me up instantly, while the chickens cluck merrily around my feet, picking up discarded crumbs, grubs, and bugs here and there. I step off my doorstep and start my jog out of town. What seemed like such a dark, intimidating world only a few minutes ago lying in bed, seems instantly more accessible once I’m out in it. Sometimes anyway. Today the quarter mile through town is not so unintimidating. All along the streets, as if I’m an exotic float in the Macy’s Day Parade, gangs of adolescent boys point and talk excitedly as I pass by. It occasionally seems to me that there is a lot of malice in their laughing. I just turn my i-pod up and smile. I don’t understand them anyway. Mostly I just feel bad that a boring looking white guy running by is the most exciting thing to watch and talk about. Just before I hit the edge of town I have to pass by the middle school. If I didn’t get my share of stares on the streets, I certainly do now. Just boys. The girls, I assume are already in the school or not coming at all. They tend not to linger in the world outside their homes after a certain age.
My run takes me out of town through a valley and up over a pass. It’s mostly scrub and brush so not much shade, but today it’s late enough in the year that the mountains are still casting a shadow over me. This morning, not much exciting. My i-pod is shuffling through some Ingrid Michelson, Eminem, Nickel Creek, Shostakovich, and a Mexican band whose name I forget. I pass by a few men on donkeys, a few more on mopeds, and one or two big trucks full of kids heading to school in Tafoghalt from the countryside. Just before I reach my turnaround point on the pass, I see a feral dog ahead. I know the drill and grab a rock. I’ve never been attacked, but you never know. It’s all downhill on the way back.
When I get back up to my apartment, I try to do some sit-ups and push ups, but even Mr. Mathers cant get me going. Pretty half hearted I would say. Who would appreciate my chiseled abs here even if I had them?

9:00 AM
This morning is a coffee morning so I throw a kettle of water on the gas stove, and eat my bread and butter while I wait. So extravagant I know. I’m excited about the coffee. A precious gift from America that I have to ration out. Like so many things I don’t enjoy that much in America (Eminem, chain stores, Lady Gaga, driving), coffee takes on a whole new meaning here. With its taste and smell, it carries me back, even if just for a few minutes, to a more familiar place. A place where I feel like I belong. A place that empowers and motivates me.
I turn on a recent Talk of the Nation podcast, sit down next to the window, and pour myself a big glass of handkerchief-filtered coffee. So good!

10:00 AM
With the power of coffee and a plan for the day I push on. I grab my box of Darija flash cards; beat up from being carried around Morocco, and sit down to learn my ten words for the day. To organize, to produce, to participate, cooperation, to profit, to share, fabric, ago, some time ago, damn it! I hope to meet with the president of the women’s weaving cooperative later today so I have to learn the important words at least. I will reserve the “damn it” for when I really need it. Xzit! Its time to get back out there.

10:30 AM
I hurry up and throw what I need in my daypack. It’s almost always the same. Notebook, pen, water bottle, and leisure book for when things don’t happen at an American pace. Pretty much always. I have to move quickly because her house is about 5 km away in Tegma, and if I don’t get there soon, she will be busy cooking lunch, and I’m not sure what her rules of men in the kitchen are. I take the back road up to the pass. The volunteer before called it the “Africa road” because it is one of the few places around here that really feels like Africa, or at least the Africa of our western dreams. Red dirt road full of ruts and boulders that runs through tall eucalyptus trees and a tropical looking understory. Emerging from this road, as always, I’m struck with the beauty of the view that greets me as I make my way over the crest of the hill. In front of me is the village of Aunute, built on a small plot of flat ground and perched on a cliff. Just below the cliff is Tegma, and further down the valley is another, Tasserirt. Below Tasserirt the valley opens up into a wide green plain that runs until it hits the Rif Mountains in the west and the Mediterranean in the north. I have to stop here for a breather and to acknowledge that I may just have the most beautiful Peace Corps site in Morocco. For the other volunteers reading this, feel free to argue this one with me.

11:00 AM
I make my way down the steep path into Aunute. Jonathon had suggested I live here instead of Tafoghalt, and I had blown him off thinking that it would be so inconvenient to have to go so far for all my food and for my work. This morning, just as every time I pass through, I wish that I had listened to him. It’s so quiet here and the view is incredible. At the bottom edge of town, I see my friend Mohammad sitting outside his hanut (or general store) staring out over the cliff on which he is perched. No one else is around, and I figure I have time to sit and chat for a few minutes. Sitting with Mohammad talking about my new home, his only home, and my home in America overlooking the world below, I feel so good about what I’m doing. This is 2/3 of my job, talking about my home and learning about theirs, and I right now I can’t think of a better thing to be doing.
But, alas, I still have that third goal of bringing technical assistance to get back to, and so I buy a cheap chocolate bar and continue down the path. The path wanders down under the cliff and into the gardens of Tegma. It seems to me that the Garden of Eden would have a hard time surpassing these. The path winds through olive trees, over streams and irrigation canals, into tunnels of figs and pomegranates, past little shaded plots of assorted veggies, and grazing goats. On my way to Yamina’s (the coop president) house, I have to pass by my friend Yemani’s gite (bed and breakfast complete with organic garden). I knock on his door and a woman and girl answer. I don’t know them so I ask them to pass on my hello. They happily agree and tell me to pick a pomegranate on my way through their garden. Yes please! I find the reddest, most delicious looking one on a nearby tree and sit down to eat it. 15 minutes later, stuffed, and sticky all over, I continue on.

12:00 PM
Finally, I have made it to Yemina and her husband Mohamad’s house. I knock. No one. I knock again, a little louder… Nope. Once more… Xzit! No one home. Mohammad keeps telling me to come by for tea, and when I ask him what time, he always looks at me like it’s the stupidest question in the world. Just come by anytime he says. Well, here I am outside his door, coming by as instructed. I would consider this in the spectrum of anytime. Oh well, dak shi li kayn. That’s life. It was a beautiful walk and there is always tomorrow. The beauty of living on Moroccan time.

1:30 PM
I arrive back in Tafoghalt, hot and sweaty from the uphill climb. Going up the quick way is the opposite of coming down the back way. Steep, dull, and exposed. But it’s quick, and I want to get back. It does mean that I have to pass through the “downtown” equivalent of Tafoghalt, and wanting to just get to my house to eat some food and sit down for a bit, I try to keep a low profile and slip through unnoticed. A hard thing to do when you are the only white guy tromping through town with a backpack and hiking shoes on. I wave off my host father’s invitation to join him for tea as politely as possible and head straight for my house.

1:45 PM
I get back to my apartment, throw together the normal lunch of fried egg sandwich and sink down on a chair. I watch my two new kittens Scout and Ryker wrestle around while thinking about when I should attempt the Tegma meeting again.

2:00 PM
Nap…

3:30 PM
One joy of being a Peace Corps volunteer is the lack of structure and abundance of time. I don’t feel like getting up yet, so I put on a podcast and get comfortable. This time “What You Should Have Learned in History Class.” I close my eyes again and try to absorb some of the fascinating facts of Catherine the Great and her many supposed lovers. A bit of a flusey, but she seemed like a pretty good queen.

4:15 PM
Back out into the world, I try to hurry down to the “village” so I can check my PO box before the post office closes. I get there just in time, greet my friends YahYah and Brahim who work there, and find an envelope from the Peace Corps in Rabat. A new edition of the Peace Corps times, a glossy Saudi Aramco World magazine, good mostly for its nice pictures, and The Forager’s Harvest: A Guide to Identifying, Harvesting, and Preparing Edible Wild Plants. New entertainment! Yes! I flip, through the pages of the plant book. I don’t think that I’ll find any wild rice or goosefoot here, but its all good, entertaining reading anyway.

5:15 PM
I carry my new treasures down to Ramdan’s (my host father) café. Most of the guys there have gotten over the novelty of my reading there, so I don’t draw a lot of attention like I used to when I pull out the magazines. The pictures are entertaining, but my friends go back to what they were doing when they get bored with them. I imagine English is as boring as Darija when you don’t understand it. It’s nice to see what other volunteers are doing around the world, and I quickly finish the Peace Corps paper.

6:30 PM
It seems like just yesterday that I was sitting at this time at my host family’s house waiting anxiously for the call to prayer to mark the setting of the sun and the end to the day’s Ramadan fast. It’s completely dark now, though, as I make my way home.

6:45 PM
I turn on a “Car Talk” podcast (yes I know how nerdy these podcasts are) and, amused, start the arduous task of making this week’s soup. Its only the second week I have done it, but making a big pot of soup once and eating leftovers for a week, albeit a little boring, makes life so much easier. And, I’m sure my mom will be happy to know this; it keeps me from settling for popcorn for dinner. In keeping with the season, this week’s soup is a ginger root stew.

8:00 PM
I carry my new creation to the table on my roof, a copy of Barack Obama’s. Dreams of my Father in hand and two kittens struggling up the stairs after me. It’s colder than it has been for a while and I run back down to grab my sweatshirt. With the stew and cats to keep me warm, and a good book to keep me entertained I sit up here until bedtime.

10:00 PM
Climb into bed, turn on my ipod and sink into sleep. What will I dream tonight?

TUESDAY

9:00 AM
I wake up late this morning, but for the first time in a while, feel excited about getting out of bed. I have no real reason I guess. Maybe the terror and anticipation of trying to fill the coming days with constructive activities is ebbing.

9:15 AM
I’m up and have a pot of water on the stove within 15 minutes. Once I am out of bed and have my day sort of mentally organized by what I need to accomplish and how I might go about accomplishing it, this is my favorite time of day. I turn on one of Minnesota Public Radio’s podcasts, Midday, cut some bread, and throw it on the skillet with some butter for toast. With a little bit of the wild raspberry jam my parents sent, a cup of reheated coffee from yesterday, and the sound of Gary Ichten coming from my computer, I can almost imagine that I am home.

10:05 AM
Study time again. 10 more words plus the words from yesterday. This morning I do a pretty good job of remembering yesterday’s words. 8 out of 10. Stupid “produce” and “share!”

10:45 AM
I decided yesterday that today I needed to do some major cleaning before the rain and cold really takes a hold of my mountain. I take all the blankets off my ponjes (they are kind of like cheap couches) and the sheets off my bed and take them up to the roof. It’s a sunny, warm day. There is a slight breeze, but not many clouds in the sky. As perfect a washing day as it gets, though as much as I dislike doing laundry, that’s not much of a consolation. Even though I don’t like doing laundry, I must admit, I am pretty good at it. I have my buckets all laid out in the shadiest part of the roof, next to the tap. I throw some water and bleach in one and start soaking the sheets. In the others, I put the blankets with soap. I acquired the blankets from the previous volunteer, and while they were being stored before I moved out of my host house, they must have picked up a few bed bugs. Despite washing them a few times already, the little guys seem to want to stick around and bite all my guests. This time I mean business, though. They will not make it out alive! Washing thick blankets is a workout and by the time I lug them up to the drying line, I am beat.

12:40 PM
As promised, soup for lunch with a piece of fresh bread and butter. Talk of the Nation on the ipod. Sitting in the sun at my plastic table on the roof.

1:15 PM
Even when I have things to do in my house, I feel guilty if I don’t get out for at least a few hours every day, so I make my way down the through town to the line of cafes where Ramdan’s café is. On the way, I am called over by my friend Mimoon whose vegetable stand I frequent nearly every day. He orders me to sit down in a rickety lawn chair and offers me some sugary mint tea, as is Moroccan custom. I like Mimoon a lot, though I have a very hard time understanding him. Most people here mix up the local Berber dialect with Moroccan Arabic, which is confusing enough, but Mimoon likes to throw French in there as well, which makes for a pretty one sided conversation. With guys like him though, I can hear the kindness in their voices and see the recognition in their eyes that they know their words are not being understood. I think he continues on, knowing that I just need someone to talk to me. If not for the language practice, than for the company of another human.

2:30 PM
While I am sitting with Mimoon, I see my friend Abdelghani walk by with his father down towards the cafes. I have been trying to get a hold of him for a while, so after my 3rd glass of tea, I politely refuse the 4th, and hurry down to the cafés. Abdelghani and his dad are sitting with other men, whom I can probably assume are family of some sort, at the last café in the line. I take a seat and accept the glass of tea, knowing if I don’t that if will be more trouble than it’s worth. As usual I try to listen to the conversation going on, but soon recognize that, as usual, they are speaking Berber and I don’t understand any of it. I promise myself for the 100th time that I have to start learning at least some.

2:50 PM
I excuse myself from the table of men and run across the street to take care of some business with the chief of the local Water and Forest office. As usual he is not there, and, as usual I tell myself that it can wait until tomorrow.

3:00 PM
I get back to the café just as the men are leaving. I walk with Abdelghani back to his house, where his mother prepares for us some, you guessed it, tea. Abdelghani’s family is one of my favorites here, and I like to go there as often as possible, despite always being described as “mskin” or “poor thing.”

3:40 PM
Back at my house, I lie down for a nap. I am generally out for only several hours a day, but it always exhausts me.

5:00 PM
Refreshed from my nap, but not ready to get up again, I grab Dreams of My Father and read, while my cats wrestle around in my lap.

6:00 PM
I hear the persistent buzzing of my doorbell and know that Abdelghani is back. He tells me that he misses me and wants to go for a walk. I need to get out, and I like walking with him, so I put my shoes on and we go. I usually like our walks. Abelghani practices his English, I practice my Arabic, and we often talk about some unusually deep things. Tonight, however, Abdelghani just wants to talk about screwing girls and the horror of having to guide a couple of gay tourists. I don’t have the patience tonight.

7:00 PM
I collapse on a cushion on my roof with a bowl of soup and my book, and spend the rest of the night reading under the stars.

Wednesday

7:30 AM
Drag myself out of bed for my run. I’m starting to feel my strength come back as I climb the mountain, and decide that next week I will increase the distance.

9:00 AM
After some pushups and sit-ups, I get some water for coffee going. This feels like a special day, so I mix some precious quick oats with a few of the dried blueberries from home and some brown sugar. I wouldn’t trade any of these ingredients for all the couscous in Tafoghalt!

10:00 AM
I pull out 10 new words to study. I’m having a hard time concentrating on them this morning though. The cats seem far more interested in the scrap paper flashcards than I am. I need to stay disciplined though! For my sanity and because the quicker I learn this language, the easier life will be.

11:00 AM
Do some cleaning around the house. With no kitchen, things tend to get messy more quickly and take longer to clean up. Dishes and sweeping take up an hour and a half. It gives me a better idea of what the women might spend their days doing.

12:30 PM
Soup


1:15 PM
Down to the post office to make copies of a form that I need signed by the chief of the Water and Forest. It’s a simple form that gives me permission to go on vacation, but the gregarious bureaucracy here makes even the simplest form hard to get approved. My friend Yahyah, the postman, is working and we talk. As I try to do every day, I give him a few words of English. He seems to be picking up English a lot faster than I’m picking up Darija.

2:00 PM
My friend Muneem greets my as a long lost friend as I approach Ramdan’s café. He works there, and, despite hardly ever understanding him, he continues to treat me like we know each other well. I am very grateful to him for that. We sit down and he watches idly, joint in mouth, as I page through some grammar sections in my ragged Peace Corps issue language book, trying once again to absorb the material.

2:30 PM
Just as a few of the regulars are gathering around trying to distract me with arguments about language, Islam, and girls, I slip away. I need to again try to find the Water and Forest chief. He again is not there. No answer on his phone. This form needs to be turned in soon. It can only wait until a few more tomorrows.

2:40 PM
Resolved to give this day up as a failure, I start home. On my way though, I pass the touristiest restaurant in town where my friend, Tofiq, works. He had told me a few days ago that he would set up a meeting with his boss, a successful businesswoman from Fes, so that I could tell her about a tourism association project that I am trying to establish. He meets me at the entrance, and after a few Moroccan pleasantries, he tells me that the boss is there and I can meet her. I’m as prepared as I ever will be so I agree. We sit out on the patio and I tell her about the idea, the benefits, and the possible timeline. She likes the idea a lot and wants to help, even maybe take a leading role. I need this kind of motivation and she is well qualified for the role, but her expression of distrust and view that all the locals are lazy makes me leery about bringing her on board in a large capacity.

4:15 PM
Nap

5:30 PM
The sun is starting to set early these days, and when I wake the light is low. I try to punch out a few emails and work on this blog, so I can be prepared for an efficient visit to the internet café tonight.


7:00 PM
The buzzing at the door that can only be Abdelghani. He wants me to go to the Hammam with him. I’m tired, but this isn’t an opportunity I should pass up. I want to find out where the Hammam is in Tafoghalt, and, not really knowing what I am doing when it comes to skin sloughing public bathing, I should take advantage of having a friend with me. Compared to the one other Hammam that I went to the first month I was in Morocco, this one is much more relaxed. I foresee myself coming here quite a bit this winter as bucket baths and cold showers become less appealing. I will have to get used to the idea of other men rubbing dead skin and dirt of my body, though.

8:30 PM
Refreshed and clean I head to the cyber café to send some emails, re-up my podcasts, and chat with whoever might be online at that odd US time.

10:15 PM
Soup dinner and bed

THURSDAY

9:00 AM
I’m up and out of bed late this morning. I know that I mentioned before how hard mornings are. Some mornings are worse than others, and for no obvious reason this is one of them. I need a boost bad. Coffee alone wont cut it. In a desperate attempt to change the mood of the day, I again deviate from my rationing system and dig into my precious supply of oatmeal and dried wild blueberries. With a few fried eggs on the plate I have a breakfast.

9:30 AM
With the good breakfast, I feel ready to take on the day’s activities. The main thing I want to accomplish today is to set up internet in my house. After a few months of mental deliberations that have taken on the air of being moral, I have decided that, at the price I suspect, the internet will be a huge benefit to me as long as I can keep from being sucked into its control. My friend Yunis is going to go down to the Moroc Telecom store in Berkane with me to make sure I don’t do something stupid. As my track record has proven, this happens a lot when I’m left on my own. I’m just waiting for his phone call. In the meantime flashcards are out and I’m making a poor attempt at studying.

10:45 AM
I get the call from Yunis and head down to the Café Fiugiug a few blocks from my place. It’s still early, so the place is nearly empty. I spot Yunis there and sit down for some coffee and a discussion of our plan of action. I pull out a bill (one of the period bills I still get for Jonathon’s uncanceled internet), and tell Yunis that I want the exact same thing. Don’t ask me how, but he, along with just about everyone else we talk to, knows the exact price for what I want. It is definitely not the same as Jonathon’s. In fact, it has gone up pretty substantially. Poop! That throws a wrench into my plan. One of Yunis’s friends comes over and offers his advice. He is the town computer nerd, so I trust what he has to say. Internet is good, but the price is really that high. There are cheaper alternatives by getting internet through cell towers, but the reception is not always great in Tafoghalt. We spend about half an hour scribbling some math, and in the end I can spend about 2.5 hours a day at the internet café for as much as I would pay to have it in my house. That’s more than double the time that I already use. No internet for now. Maybe when I’m bored and snowed into my house this winter I will change my mind.

12:00 PM
As Yunis is leaving, Abdelghani stops in. We have tea. Of course.

12:45 PM
I have leftover soup waiting for me, so I head back to my apartment. While I eat I catch up on my news through Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me. No judging me for where I get my news.

1:30 PM
Nap.

3:00 PM
Back out. I walk down to the village to buy some vegetables from Mimoon and end up having tea again. I resisted at first, but I have grown kind of fond of these impromptu tea sessions. I’m not sure my body thinks the same though. The conversation, as usual, is a little slow and revolves around what I know, which is pretty limiting, but Mimoon seems pretty patient and kindly puts up with my bumbling.

3:45 PM
Back in my kitchen, I pull out today’s golden find, fresh apples, and sit down on my living room floor with two bowls and begin the meditative practice of apple peeling. I think that even if I didn’t like the applesauce that came from the work, I would still like doing the peeling. But I do like the applesauce, and this stuff does not disappoint. It fills the kitchen with steamy cinnamon and apple aromas, and I feel someplace comfortable.

5:30 PM
With a Tupperware full of fresh, still warm, apple sauce in hand, I zoom down through town on my bike to my family’s house. It’s been a while since the last time I had tea there and I miss them. I want to see the kids, ask them how school is going, maybe play a game of something or other. At the house, I am greeted by an excited Ramdan, who, after parking my bike, takes me back behind the house to where there are two new cows. A mother and its calf. This is a huge purchase for a poor family and I can see the energy in Ramdan’s eyes as he talks about buying them and building the little outbuilding that shelters them. I am energized by it as well as we sit down to tea. I ask him what his plans are for the cows and the future. He tells me he hopes to build the number of his cows, and then he brings up an idea for a food cooperative. I have not met many of them, but it will be motivated people like Ramdan that make my service, but more importantly, Tafoghalt’s future, a success.
They didn’t serve the applesauce. My past attempts at American food have made them leery I think.

7:00 PM
Can we say “soup!” It’s what’s for dinner!

7:30 PM
Blog time. Here I am writing.

10:00 PM
Nothing like a little time altering wormhole action to settle me down. Star Trek.

10:40 PM
Bed time.

FRIDAY

8:30 AM
Quick charge the Ipod and a few new songs and I’m on the road for my run. This morning I got up without much trouble after I dreamt I was stuck in a movie theater that ran nothing but looping, never-ending B movies. For some reason riot police were shooting adolescent boys with paintguns in the theater as well. Maybe it has something to do with my growing dislike for their real life Moroccan counterparts.

9:45 AM
A few sit-ups a few pushups. The cats don’t get it.

10:00 AM
Whoah! Cold shower!

10:15 AM
Toast, butter, and jam for breakfast. Not bad, but definitely getting old. I miss my Captain Crunch! Being able to listen to a podcast about the Medici family almost makes up for it though.

11:30 AM
It’s Friday, which means the mosque is busy. Like our Sunday. It also means that I have to get down to the post office pronto if I want to check my mail before it closes and YahYah goes to pray. I get there in time and have a brief chat with him. We speak English and he is quickly become quite good. That or I am getting good at piecing together broken English. I have a date to have couscous with my friend Tofiq at the tourist restaurant at 12:00, so I kill some time sitting in the shade of one of the many eucalyptus trees and try to strategize how I am going to fulfill my promise to eat two couscous lunches in one day.

12:00 PM
I get to the restaurant on time, but Tofiq is busy setting up a long fancy table for a group of soon arriving tourists from Belgium. He quickly seats me by myself, and soon I have my own plate of couscous. I will be eating by myself I guess. The couscous is done in the Fesi style and I can’t help but finish it. Bad idea! I walk out of the restaurant stuffed and a little ashamed at having eaten at the one place in town none of the locals eat at.

12:45 PM
Right, so at tea yesterday I promised my family that I would go to their sadaqa the next day. I didn’t have a clue what it was, but I knew that it would probably involve a lot of food. Anyway, after stumbling out of the restaurant I am almost immediately directed to the right place. It seems as if all the men from Tafoghalt are congregating here on rugs under the tree in my uncle Hussein’s yard. I sit where I am directed. The mood is jovial and after some inquisition, I learn that the sadaqa is pretty much just an excuse to get together and have a party. Community members contribute some money and the host buys lots of food. The women cook and the men socialize and eat. Luckily, the meal is nothing formal; just a communal plate of couscous and lamb, and another of chicken. I am able to eat little without rendering chastisement from my hosts. My brother Yassine is serving food and drink, my friend Nordeen is sitting across from me, and I know all the other men I’m sitting with and they all know me. Although there is still a great divide of understanding, I feel, right now, like it is closing. It feels good.

1:15 PM
I stumble back home, full with way too much food. There is a group of kids sitting on my doorstep waiting for me. Among them is Mohammad, Abdelghani’s young brother. I greet them all and ask them what they are doing. I like the kids, but right now I’m not really feeling like doing much other than lying down. Mohammad asks if he can come up with me. I tell him not today. I’ve made the mistake of letting young Moroccan boys into my place before, and I will probably not do it again.

2:00 PM
I lie down in recovery mode for a bit, but I have to finish some emails and get things prepared for my internet run, so I regretfully get back up. Emails, work on blog, prepare a list of things to research and accomplish.

3:00 PM
The internet café is a success. I send off all the necessary emails, do the necessary research and have a nice chat with my good friend from home, Margaret, who may or may not read this blog. If you are out there, it was good to here your voice. Although, it seems to be becoming an increasingly more abrupt and uncomfortable shift from Tafoghalt to “my old world” via internet, I always feel reconnected when I am there. There are a lot of purists PC returnees who talk about their services 30, 40 years ago and brood over the demise of the real Peace Corps experience because of the new ways volunteers of today have to be connected with their real world. I understand the sentiment. We will never be forced to let go of our US lives, for sanity sake, and dive fully into our new temporary worlds. I feel like I am missing something with that, but I also am so grateful for the fact that I can talk with my family and friends every week for little money, that I can see what is happening in the world, and that I can research ways to make my projects and service better.

5:45 PM
Back home after too much time in the internet café. Accomplished everything that I needed to, but also putzed around a little too much. Greet the kitties.

6:00 PM
I finish up this week’s soup. Thank God! For desert I blend up a nice fig/banana smoothie. All while reading up on successful ecotourism projects.

7:30 PM
Dishes. On the roof. In the dark. In Morocco.

8:15 PM
A little blog action. Here I am again.

9:15 PM
For those concerned about my sanity, first of all thank you. Secondly, I do everything that I can to preserve it except come home. This includes establishing some weekly rituals that I can look forward to. Partly because I don’t have many movies, and partly because I want to preserve some of their excitement, I only watch movies on Friday nights. Tonight I sit up late watching Eternal Sunshine on a Spotless Mind for the millionth time, drink a beer (the last of the good beers I hauled back from Melilla), and munch on popcorn as the cats chase each other around me in their never-ending game of tag. I’m glad that I can preserve times like these to make me feel good… and sane.

12:00 AM
Bed.

SATURDAY

9:00 AM
I wake up later than I had wanted this morning, causing me to have to rush through breakfast. A quick piece of pan-fried toast with butter and coffee run through yesterday’s grounds. Sad I know, but you would be surprised at how good it tastes under the circumstances. I stuff the breakfast down, feed the cats, and run out the door. I had meant to get up early so that I could easily catch a taxi out of town towards Oujda. Now at 9:30 there is hardly a car on the road, and I am forced to park myself under a tree to wait. Before long I turn my efforts towards hitching a ride from anyone, but just as the few taxis that are passing by, most of the cars are full or uninterested. Before Ramadan there was a regular bus that came from and went to Oujda on a schedule. At some point during that month of fasting the bus gave out just as many people were giving out, and from what I hear its not coming back any time soon. Too expensive. I now see it parked in a field between here and Oujda every time I go; it’s purple glistening hide sadly reminding me of how easy and cheap it used to be.

10:30 AM
A taxi finally seems to see my hand waving frantically for it to stop and after a quick inquiry of where it’s going (I’ve made the mistake of not asking before), I stuff myself in next to a fairly smelly guy and we are off. We make our stop in the small midpoint of BouHria where I switch taxis easily and continue on my way. Despite now having seen it many times now, I still love to watch the beautiful plains go by outside my window. Now they are starting to green up and fill with wildflowers as a result of the cold fall rains.

11:30 AM
The taxi unceremoniously pulls into the Oujda city taxi stand. I try to reexpand my body after the cramped and contorted ride, and at the same time I give my friend Socorra a ring. The reason I am here is technically to “work” with her on a few joint projects, but of course there might be just a little bit of underlying motivation. I needed to get out of Tafoghalt. It was becoming a little overwhelming… or underwhelming. I needed new faces and sites. Plus I have a mission to check out what kind of Christmas Eve services the church in town might have and to get an outfit for our Peace Corps prom. Soon enough Socorra pulls up with her friend Mo and he takes us back to his house. Mo used to teach English and now he teaches teachers how to teach it. Needless to say he speaks English. He also does a lot of other things that set him apart from the average man in Morocco and its nice to see a little free thinking in a place that seems to lack it, or at least where it is not readily expressed.

1:00 PM
After zigzagging through Oujda’s streets to the other side of town we arrive at Mo’s house. We sit in his living room with his kids watching CNN while his wife (reluctantly and I don’t blame her) makes lunch for her husband’s new friends. I never thought I would say it, but city life is a refreshing change from small town Morocco.

2:30 PM
Another volunteer from Jerada calls to tell us he is also in town for a few hours. Mo instantly loads us into the car so we can go pick him up. I think we are all ready to get out of the house by this point. We drive back across town and find Joe sitting on the curve of the Marjane (like Wal-Mart) looking like he indeed did just come out of the countryside. He hops in and we drive back to Mo’s house.

5:00 PM
Joe’s stay is short. He leaves and Socorra and I take a taxi to the souk near the city center. We were thinking that the evening would be the best time to shop, but as it turns out we barely make it in time.

5:30 PM
In a few weeks we will be heading to Marrakech for a Peace Corps training, and as a cap to that training some volunteers have, of course, volunteered to organize a prom, of which the theme is “clothes you find at souk”. That leaves a lot of room for creativity and interpretation. The Moroccan souk is a thing unique unto itself, and as such, it is hard to describe. Just imagine blocks of winding narrow streets filled with clean vendors selling things like new, brand name clothes to grubby guys who have laid out their smuggled electronics on a blanket in the street. While it seems chaotic, there is a precise order to things, and goods for the most part seem to be organized and placed into categories. A garage sale, mall, grocery store, flea market all thrown into a big mess. As it turns out our taxi drops us off in front a street lined with tables piled high with used clothes. People are crowded around each table picking through the piles and the vendors are yelling prices. Socorra and I look at each other and jump right in. If we are going to find something good, and cheap, this will be the place we find it. Before long we each have horridly wonderful sweatshirts that are sure to be hits at the prom. If you thought the Spice Girls were dead, come to Morocco. They are not.

7:00 PM
We leave the souk, buy some DVDs off a shady vendor, and head down the street to the big church in the center of town. We have both tried to find someone to talk to about it, but it is always closed. This time is no different, but we are bold enough to ask around. The parking lot guard next door points to a door at the back of the church and claims a French woman is always there. She is the one to talk to. We warily approach the door, noticing the 666 spray-painted over it, and knock. No answer. Again. No answer. As we say just about every day here, “mura xra” next time.

7:30 PM
Mo picks us up in front of the church. As one of the few Moroccans that openly (sort of) drinks alcohol, he takes every opportunity he can to do so when he has willing friends. After being in the countryside for weeks, both Socorra and I were willing. After a stop at the shady liquor store where they know Mo buy name and brand, he starts driving. As we reach the edge of the city, he reaches down into the bag and hands both Socorra and I a beer. Ok. We creep out of the city on a back road towards the Algerian border. It is raining and we talk about everything from Algerian smugglers to life in America.

9:00 PM
After we drive back into the city we stop for pizza at a place near the church. Horrible pizza and canned atmosphere. Typical Moroccan café.

10:00 PM
Its still raining when we get back to the house, so we retreat to the stairwell to finish up the beers. It’s a strange feeling, like being a freshman in college, trying to be as quite and secretive in our shameful doings. Mo’s wife is a strict Muslim, and would be beyond unhappy if she found us with beer in the house. It feels wrong and invigoratingly rebellious at the same time.

11:30 PM
I fall asleep on the couch to the quite sound of rain outside. It is more quite here in the middle of the city than it is in Tafoghalt.

SUNDAY

8:15 AM
Socorra and I sneak out of the still sleeping house this morning in hopes that we may somehow catch the Sunday church service that was posted on an old sign nailed to the church door. When we ask the taxi driver to take us to the church, he tells us there are actually two. We tell him to take us to the one that “works.” We make do with the limited language that we have. When we get there the church is as empty.

9:15 AM
If no church, than at least we will get a good breakfast. We walk to a little stand that we know has good Hrsha (a cornbreadish thing) and sit down at the neighboring café for a cup of strong coffee. There is a seemingly lost white couple (pretty unusually for this part of Morocco) and we have fun watching them for a while. When we finally decide that they might need some help, they hop in a car and drive away.

11:00 AM
After breakfast, we walk the few blocks to the bus stop and cram onto the overcrowded bus that will take us out of town to the Marjane. It seems that every time we are in Oujda, we have to make a trip to this department store. In honor of our capitalist roots I suppose. We can’t afford much. We just like to be surrounded by what makes us feel more at home.

12:00 PM
Mo picks us up and we drive to the University where he works. Unlike any university I have seen, there seems to be no university culture surrounding the area. No sports, no unique shops, or restaurants. Just a neighborhood that looks the same as any other in the city. Except that there are respectable looking sub-Saharan African students walking around. A rare departure from the lack of diversity we normally see.

12:45 PM
To avoid any trouble with Mo’s wife we have lunch at one of the countless rotisserie chicken joints in the city. Mo seems antsy to get going so we hurry through the meal.

3:30 PM
Back at the house, Socorra, taking advantage of the internet, downloads some things onto her computer while I watch Courage Under Fire on the Saudi channel. When she is finished we leave quickly feeling like our welcome has expired.

4:15 PM
Back in the taxi to BouHria

5:30 PM
After checking in with my Tafoghalt gendarmes, I head back up to my apartment.

6:00 PM
Dinner of leftover chicken that I hauled back from Oujda.

6:30 PM
I couldn’t go to church this morning, so instead, I listen to a podcast (of course) about religion, and at the same time work on some art projects.

6:45 PM
One of the art projects I was working on was a picture frame, and as I go through the pictures trying to decide which one to put in there, I can’t help but reminisce. Maybe I dwell on the past too much here, but it often really helps me get through the realities of the present.

8:30 PM
I settle down to watch a little Star Trek. The kittens are snoring in the crook of my arm, the rain is pouring down outside (and inside), and I am ready for another week.

10:00 PM
Bed

There are no ups without downs

There is a house on the road between my apartment and Ramdan’s (my host father’s) café. Like many of the houses here it is in the process of being built; a process that for poor Moroccan’s who don’t have the means to take out large loans can take months and years. Rebar sticking out everywhere, rickety stick scaffold, piles of cement and dirt outside. A house in process.

The other day I was walking by this particular house as I so almost every day on my way home from the café. The same old rebar and unpainted cement as everyday, but a familiarity inside caught my eye through the window. She was new or, at least, I had never noticed her gaze before. Hanging on the inside wall of this unfinished cement box in maybe a somewhat less grand gallery than she is used to was the Mona Lisa.

I stopped and caught her gaze. I know, not hard to do since she is always staring. I caught her gaze, and, oddly, instead of thinking how strangely out of place this is or isn’t this funny, they hung a portrait of the Mona Lisa in this bland, unfinished cement box that will one day look exactly the same as all of the rest of them, I thought, “that is exactly how I feel.”

Ok, so who knows what she is thinking in her portrait. I’m sure art majors have been writing papers debating it for years. Is she sad? Does her slight smile convey some sort of irony about her life? Is she just having one of those days? Maybe she is happy, but trying hard to hide it. Maybe she’s practicing some subtle emotion for acting school. Who knows besides the artist and the subject. This is exactly why I instantly felt like this picture in this house was a reflection.

I know, I know! No one wants to hear about the gloomier side of life. First, I have to say that if this blog is to even remotely explain my life, thoughts, and ideas while I’m here in Morocco, it will have to include some questioning, and, well, negativeness. Secondly, you are reading this by choice. At least I assume you are. Finally, as I precursed, we are talking Mona Lisa. I’m not necessarily feeling bad emotions, just kind of mystifying ones.

At the beginning of our service we were given a nice organized sheet of paper illustrating how we would feel from month to month. Gloomy, happy, nervous, happy, gloomy, depressed. This whole array of emotions so pleasantly contained in little Excel boxes and labeled with when we would feel them. I kind of blew it off when I got it. Yes, it’s going to be a “roller coaster” of emotions. Thank you. I know! I’m finding out now both our little guide and I underestimated the extent of emotional flux. This is no “roller coaster.” It’s a power tower.

There is a slow trend of ups and downs, but what I am finding, at least at the moment, is that the way I feel sometimes changes by the hour. Something so small as talking to a friend about a project and getting positive feedback can make me feel so good, and the next moment I’m getting rocks thrown at me by a gang of 13 year olds and being told that I’m going to hell, and I feel like shit. Everyday.

If you are thinking, “that sounds exhausting,” it absolutely is! It’s exhausting and frustrating and scary and sad and happy. Its like this soup we used to make in Boyscouts where each person brought some can of soup and we just threw it all together into the same pot. It was a rule not to bring a cream soup, but inevitably someone always did and it got thrown in with the rest. This is how my emotional world here in Morocco is. All of the flavors that I like and dislike, and always a little something unexpected on top of it all.
Salam,
Colin