Holiday Hardship

Winter is not a joke in this part of Africa. These past few weeks have been a wake-up for me in that I have realized how much the weather shapes life here. I experienced the fall floods and the massive toll it took on the region; taking out people, roads, houses, livestock, bridges and roads. We still have not fully recovered from the damage and are now starting to see the effect lost crops had on incomes.

Starting around the 5th of December the weather turned mean with wind and freezing rain. After that the rain turned to snow and ice and didn’t stop for two days. When it cleared people rushed out to shovel off their roofs to prevent collapse. Every family kept their sheep in the barns, huddled together for warmth. Entire families sleep in the kitchens of their houses to keep warm and don’t peek out until 10am.

Early December means l’Eid al-Adha, the largest Muslim holiday. Marmoucha celebrated the way everyone does; they get the fam together and host guests and grill up large animals on kebabs. The only difference between Marmoucha and everyone else was that Marmoucha celebrated l’Eid for a week stuck inside their houses. After the holiday no transportation came for 5 days. If someone needed out of Marmoucha they had to walk. So they did. Some had to walk 5 kilometers, some 20, some 25. Some more.

That week marked the first of four weekly souks (markets) that didn’t happen due to snow and damaged roads. No vegetables. No meat. No butane gas to keep warm or cook. No firewood. If you could get to town centre, you didn’t find much there. It was like living under Stalin, and I bet the weather wasn’t much different.

General Update, Labas.

Fall in Marmoucha. Summer ended. In-Service Training came and went. The leaves changed colors and fell, just like in New England. The cold creeps in more and more everyday. Less and less vegetables at souk. Going to bed earlier and earlier as the night gets longer and threatens to freeze people. Snow has come and gone twice now. It sits pretty thick up on the mountains.

6 months now since I left Ouarzazate for my current home and work is finally starting in earnest. Did a very complete survey of everything community health-related and turned it in to Rabat and the Ministry of Health, now I get to design projects around the things that we have identified as priorities. For most of Marmoucha flood relief is the name of the game. The projects are huge and run the gamut from vital infrastructure rebuilding to water source protection and erosion control to restarting income generation projects. Everyone is on board. The associations are ready to organize, the guys are ready to work, and the Ministries and NGOs are tripping over themselves to spend their foreign relief cash.

I am in the middle of all of this wearing many different hats. The motivator. The expectation lower-er. The erosion expert. The hydro-engineer. The cartographer. The accountant. The botanist. The microbiologist. All laughable.

Everyday I field requests and end up just directing one person to another. I am so surprised how little impetus it takes to get people moving. I just connect people with other people. Little people who need big people to get their needs met and big people who need little people to work, but neither know where to find the other.

It also surprises me how willing people were going to be to just sit their and feel sorry for themselves. I feel like if I wasn’t their to get them going and help them analyze their needs, they would just endure it and mope. The meetings that I have assembled were not going to happen without my impetus, yet when they got together people treated the projects like they needed to happen right now. I really wonder how long it would have taken for people to get the ball rolling to solve their own problems. Maybe a year, two, or never.

Nonetheless I am not going to have the problem that some PCVs have; not enough work. Along with the big ticket projects that need grant proposals and large-scale coordination are the little projects. Monday is a Ministry of Education meeting about staffing issues. Wednesday is my youth soccer tournament and trash clean-up. The week after half of Talzemt will begin their first health education lessons in primary schools with me teaching. Two weeks after that the other half begins. In a month I will be running a constant circle of six schools with 25-40 students each with health lessons that will probably take me all the way through May 2010 with only Summer 2009 and Ramadan as a break. Huh

The Beginning of Ramadan and the End of New Time

Many years ago, daylight savings time was introduced to economize agriculture in the United States. The simple “spring forward” and “fall back” concept has accounted for an incalculable increase in productivity without extra strain on resources. Centuries later we recognize daylight savings time is useful to cut down on energy use. All around, most people in the world agree that daylight savings time is a useful tool to trick ourselves into improving our situations.

Morocco also uses daylight savings time. Next year Morocco will be celebrating the 2nd year they have used it! To be clear, it is a country’s own decision what time to use. Morocco sits geographically on the Greenwich Mean, and could synchronize life with London, but whatever, we’ll just use Reykyavik time, thanks.

So after centuries of holding out, Morocco finally broke down and embraced the “new trend” of daylight savings. They chalked up the change to a “soaring energy bill.”

Daylight, savings, and time are all things hated by Moroccans. Daylight is shunned and people prefer to sleep inside and wait out the dark to make their rounds. Savings is senseless and anytime someone comes across money in my part of the country, it is quickly spent on practical things like fireworks, electronics, fake Diesel jeans, and hair gel. Time, finally is hated in terms of its specificity. If you set up a meeting with a Moroccan and ask them “what time?“, often the answer will be, “well, you know, afternoon or whatever.” And then when the specific time is asked they get offended, like, “what do you think I cant keep an appointment?!” So Rabat decides Morocco has daylight savings time this year to save some money. Most people in the world have no problem agreeing on a single time for events, here nothing can be that simple. With the institution of daylight savings time, there has been created two races, two classes, two castes, if you will; those who follow “new time”, and those who don’t. There is no “old time,” just “not new time.”

The people who don’t follow new time are farmers, workers, housewives, rural people, etc. For these people, what the fuck is time? The New Time Followers run transportation, own time-sensitive business, and have a stake in what time it is. Unfortunately these groups of people have to do business together, meet, talk, trade, cooperate.

In a country of fantastic pre-existing uncertainty about time and its meaning, the institution of daylight savings time has brought an extra uncertainty. Now a time can mean anything. 2 PM can mean 2PM New Time or not new. Furthermore some people are in disagreement on which way the time changed when the time changed. Did we add or subtract an hour? If we added an hour, than is 2PM now 3PM? So are we going to meet at 4PM? If we run on old time for our last meeting, do we have to run on new time for the next one? What time is it?

So we go through most of the summer in this way, and people get used to what time you’re on. It ends up working, I guess.

Ramadan comes this month and New Time ends. We go from time not being certain to truly not existing in any meaningful way at all. Breakfast? 2 hours before sunrise. Work day? Whenever you aren’t sleeping in the day, and aren’t too pissed off from your lack of nutrition. Dinner? Anywhere from sunset to breakfast, but sometimes breakfast and dinner are the same thing.
The only thing worth keeping track of is how close Ramadan to being finished. As it stands now, 21 days.

Lmashakil Amkran

As I have been saying, Ait Benhaissa is among the most beautiful places I have ever seen. The aesthetics of everyday life here can appeal to anyone. An amazing balance of man and nature exists here, its as if nature has ceded ground to some of mans comforts while maintaining her identity, and vice-versa. People are wonderful in everyday interactions, and I feel welcome to relax and explore here.

To be a new Peace Corps Volunteer sent way out here in the Bled to start from scratch, be these people’s first contact with the west, and be in development work is amazing. It is an unique and irreplaceable situation. There has been what can only be called a honeymoon period, where everything seems so new and different and exciting that you deny that anything bad could exist here.

I started discovering these problems when I began my business here in earnest. Task one: find a safe, secure, and independent home which Peace Corps Washington would approve. Negotiate, and live in said house.

I will start by saying that the concept of a single male coming and wanting to rent a house is completely alien to people here. Think about it, single men live in their parents houses until they are married, and no one rents their house. They all built their houses from mud bricks and materials you can find within 20 kilometers of the site. It goes without saying that in Ait Benhaissa’s housing market, there are no “Real Estate Agents”. If someone needs somewhere to stay, they aren’t going to have to find their house on their own, they will have family. Why would you be here if you didn’t have family, right? Finally, anyone moving here would theoretically speak fluent Marmouchan Tamazight. I am not going to put myself down in any way concerning language--I am really good--but dealing with such a complex and foreign idea within my happy group of Berbers is a crazy challenge.

So, in my search for houses, I have had people tell me everything from “move in tomorrow” to “you will never find an empty house in Morocco”. I have had people set up meetings only to break them, bang on my door to show me a vacant dirt-floored sheep room without windows or electricity, sign a contract and break it after I moved in, and jerk me around for weeks only to tell me, unequivocally, “no”.

Within each of these encounters is a fair amount of community PR scheming. I am the first of what may be a long line of PCV’s in my town, so I need to endure all of this bullshit with a smile, or risk endangering the Peace Corps mission, and my own ability to conduct my projects.
Dealing with this stuff has been horrible. I have found so many sketchy people in my town that it makes it difficult to trust anyone. Aside from that, the people I spent 3 months asking for nothing but their friendship didn’t warn me about the criminals and sketch balls I was talking with about business. It was really frustrating.

I didn’t give up though. I kept asking people, telling them about the requirements, my situation, everything. Soon people in a neighboring town that is part of my commune started hearing about my dilemma. Offers of houses started trickling in from a place called Ait Youb, the center of the commune. I checked a few that had limited promise. After a while I got word that the top guy in the High Commission of Water and Forests wanted to show me a house. I thought it was strange that he hadn’t been the first to offer since he was one of my first contacts in the region.

So one day I set up a meeting with him, Lahcen, at souk. After souk he took me to the house. It was in the middle of a beautiful apple plantation with views of what I call “El Capitan”, a close cousin of the famous Yosemite landmark, but in Morocco, and named Shay‘at. It was an amazing place with plentiful water, access to transport, fruit trees everywhere, and people who had heard only good things about the American living 10km down the road. Perfect.

Lahcen was cool about all of the requirements concerning the house, and agreed to bring it up to Washington standards quickly. I told him I would be calling Peace Corps to send someone to inspect it soon. We left after a big lunch and some requisite kisses that follow any business deal here. I walked out thinking about how my landlord is a top dog in a government department in which I need contacts, and his repeated invitations to break Ramadan fast would provide me with many. The house was not perfect but the situation was as good as it could get.

A week went by and Peace Corps was on the way to check out my new house. I planned on moving in shortly thereafter. The day before Peace Corps intended to come to Ait Benhaissa I found out that people were really sad/offended/whatever that I was going to just leave Ait Benhaissa, like I was too good to live there. Obviously this idea was ridiculous. I had tried to the ends of my wits to live in Ait Benhaissa, I loved it there, despite its, ahem, quirks.

Hurting, I called off Peace Corps visit to Ait Youb to check my house. I decided to look again in Ait Benhaissa. I was met with the same problems, oppositions, questions, confusions. The search has been fruitless and frustrating, and has left me questioning everything people tell me, questions that extend way past work and Health problems and housing.

I occupied what can only be called Moroccan housing limbo for awhile and decided to go ahead with the house in the neighboring douar, Ait Youb. I called and set up a meeting with Lahcen and got Peace Corps to send someone to negotiate their end. Everything worked out great during the negotiation and I got everything I wanted and more. We all walked away happy.

Obviously the news of the contract traveled faster than I could back to my Ait Benhaissa. The kids are pissed, the Nurse in my clinic is convinced I am going back to America, and people cannot seem to get over that simple question about me leaving; “but, why?”

My house is in a place called Ait Oualagh. Not a pretty name but equally as naturally beautiful as Ait Benhaissa, and more so in a number of ways. It is a full 10km closer to the souk town, internet, the other Volunteer, and the major clinic in the Commune, along with the rest of the government buildings. It is a massive improvement as far as wintertime goes, as well. I will not have to hike 5km in the snow to pick up transportation, it will come to my door.

Also, I get to start over. I don’t like the way I went about meeting people in my community, and any image problems stemming from my inadvertent dealings with criminals during the housing search will be ameliorated. People are very much impressed by my language because they get to see me after living here for a few months, not as a green volunteer who still uses all the southern Tamazight he learned in Pre-Service Training. Also I get to live in a place where people will not see me going to the clinic, and I can develop my image as a Health Educator instead of a hospital worker who hangs out with the wife-beating, dog-killing Nurse.

My Tiny Life

Ait Benhaissa is becoming more and more my home everyday. I don’t feel as new here anymore, and people get used to see me walking along the paths that snake through my village. None of the kids try to speak French to me anymore and everyone knows I live here. People are talking to me normally (as normal as Tamazight can be) and asking me questions about everyday stuff.
My conversations have developed into more sophisticated enterprises. My vocabulary is wide, includes both Arabic, Tamazight and Southern Tamazight and my pronunciation works. The subject matter has evolved from “Me Merican like weather nature here I work company but not company America” to speaking confidently about topics like education and government plans for our village.

Still every once and awhile I say something and everything stops for 5 minutes while the community discusses what the fuck Casey is trying to say.

Things are beginning to seem normal, and the things that were bothering me before no longer do. Before I thought the bus to the market was really uncomfortable and sweaty, now I enjoy it. The everyday things like no running water, spotty electricity, squat toilets, dirtiness, etc are not only no longer problems, I look back at my life in the states and wonder how I lived with myself and proclaimed to care at all about the environment. There is nothing you can do with running water you cant do with buckets except pressurize a hose. The lack of consistent electricity does two things to me and my western inclination to modcons; made me realize how little I actually need it (especially in summertime it is possible to use virtually none comfortably), and makes me appreciate nighttime and the amount of light that comes from the moon. For about a week before and after a full moon, an area with low light pollution is completely lit up, and in Morocco the lack of moisture in the atmosphere means unfiltered, pure, bright moonlight.

I am not going to go so far as to say squat toilets are better, but once accustomed to the ritual, one realizes its virtues. I have been told a few times in my life that squat toilets are better for you, and I am not going to go into details, but it really does feel like a more healthy operation when squatting. I will not give up TP though.

The requisite daily shower I became so dependent upon for so long has been tough to let go, but made me realize how egregiously wasteful the process really is. Not only are people like me back home using gallons upon gallons of hot, hot water and large amounts of soap filled with pollutants, but they are showering for virtually no reason. In a land of subsistence agriculture, consistent 100 degree and up heat, mountain pass crossings for everyday chores, hauling water from the spring, and dust storms among other impure realities, I can assure the American reader that they did not get dirty at the office today. Beyond that, they didn’t even get dirty at the gym, if they went.

I use a tea pot, a 4 liter bucket, soap, and a scrubber to shower. I heat the tea pot to almost boiling and mix to create a desirable temperature. I shower less than twice a week on average. I supplement this cleaning ritual with periodic visits to the hammam, or public baths here in Morocco.

If one plans on going to Morocco for any reason, and fails to visit a hammam, they have failed to participate in one of the most unique national pastimes and also failed to remove pounds of dead things from their skin. You have no idea how much dead skin is on you until you get scrubbed to near death by a burly Moroccan man in his scivvys.

Also if you fail to visit a hammam, you have failed to observe what I believe is a key to Moroccan approaches to personal space and interaction. If you trust that everyone is being faithful about their hammam usage, getting scrubbed with proper intensity and returning the scrubbing favor, then this makes other parts of life here much more bearable.

For the country-raised New Hampshire guy, the homophobic feelings involved with early hammam visits were real, and questioning the scrubbers motivations and enthusiasm seemed prudent. After a few goes at it, the barriers get knocked down and the scrubbee realizes the scrubber is only scrubbing because of his need to get the dead skin scrubbed off his back. He wants to get clean. Don’t worry about his attraction to you. He thinks you’re terribly strange looking, probably retarded, and definitely a pussy after watching you fumble with your buckets, burn yourself and suck air in through your teeth when he scrubbed the point of your shoulder.
With these interpersonal obstacles cleared, some of the perceived unpleasantries of Moroccan daily life lose their offensive edge. For example; transportation. To get to a major city like Fes, I have to come in very intimate contact with at least 5 people. If I know this dude I am spooning with in the taxi has been in the hammam, then I know that not only is he clean to a very specific level, but he is over the childish homoerotic hurdles that westerners would have trouble with because you’re touching a mostly naked stranger. With these ideas fully digested, I am able to come to terms with the placement of Homeboy’s hand here on my neck. Homeboy’s hand is not there because he wants to fondle my Adam’s apple or trace my chin-line with his pinky, but because he has to go to Fes, too. Just like Moroccan hammam-goer Mohammed is about as interested in an close moment with the retarded white guy as he is with being covered in dead skin.

All these goods things being said, there are things that truly bother me here.
Last month my good friend from New Hampshire, Adam Hermans stopped by Morocco for a month during his year-long Watson Fellowship in which he was filming monkeys on three continents. Our conversations, always excellent, were fueled by our recent experiences with cultures and adventure. We weeded a lot of things out concerning the way we feel when we are traveling, and we spent time discussing the ups and downs of experiencing new places and cultures.

Adam and I are both well traveled by American standards, and we both have spent the majority of our time abroad in the developing world; no parentally-funded Eurotrips. Both Adam and I have our favorite countries that we’ve visited, and neither of our favorites are attractive at first glance. We both placed desperately poor and war-torn countries at the tops of our list. While we love the feel of the developing world, there are things we hate, and say we hate, about places.
Both of us were annoyed at the all-accepting approach that some people take to other cultures. The “oh its not bad, its just different” attitude is wrong. There are things about cultures that are just bad. Sometimes there is food that is bad, sometimes there are bad people, sometimes there are religious beliefs people follow that are bad. Less often, a place has bad food, bad people, and a bad religion. Maybe the transportation network is bad, too, shit where are you?
My favorite country is the Philippines. It is a wonderful place for me. Unfortunately the Philippines is home to Asia’s worst food. It is terrible. So much ketchup. Just awfulness on your plate. I call it bad because it is.

There is nothing wrong with making value judgments, or any judgments at all when traveling. Yes, you are probably there to experience new things blah blah blah, but if something sucks, it just sucks. Some people will chalk things up to cultural differences, but there are shitty things that cultures include, like Chinese shark-fin soup. It tastes terrible and is terrible for the world, generally. America’s approach to petroleum consumption sucks. Cambodian music videos are so bad they are terrifying and no pleasantness can exist in a building in which one is playing. I don’t care if there are some people that like the practice, if it is garbage, call it garbage. The people that like it are lying to themselves. Don’t fall in the trap.

Morocco, like a lot of the developing world, is full of wicked, corrupt, immoral, depraved, debauched, unscrupulous, ruthless, merciless, cruel, base, and shameless things. Luckily, the things that are awesome overwhelm them, so it is a pretty nice place to be. To ensure that my blog does not get censored by the Government (I am an employee) I will not make specific references to HOW things suck, just mention their categories. This list contains the category of the crappiest thing at the top.
The approach to Females
Dudes
Doing any kind of financial transaction outside a bank
Going to a bar, or outside anywhere at night
The approach to solid waste
The French colonial legacy

There you have it, openness.

Final Site and Exciting Things

Last week, I learned where I would be working and living. I was assigned to a small town in the Middle Atlas mountains within Boulmane Province. Boulmane is located in the north of Morocco, near the Imperial Cities of Meknes and Fes. My village is approximately 70 kilometers from the Provincial Capital of Boulmane, and 20 kilometers from the nearest market town.

The topography of the Boulmane Province could be compared, in parts, to the Yosemite region of the States, and others, to Switzerland. Near the Provincial Capital is one of Morocco’s few ski resorts, Mischiliffen, in the wealthy city of Ifrane. The region is dotted with cedar forests, waterfalls, snow-capped peaks, rocky plains and mountain towns. Boulmane is considered one of Morocco’s most marginalized provinces, with a spotty flow of resources incoming. My region specifically has a marked lack of water infrastructure, transportation availability, health services, and environmental education.

My village is a respectable hike from Jbel Bou Iblane, a 3190 meter mountain which is covered in snow most of the year. Winters bring serious problems to the region, as roads become unusable and supply lines are shut off. Neighboring provinces make the news for freezing deaths and food shortages.

We took our final language proficiency exam last week and I was very sick. I still did well enough to be nominated to give the speech to the group at swearing in, so I and 2 other people scored as high. Very happy even though I still feel lost with the language.

Swearing in is on the 19th and we leave the 20th for good to final site. Fun things.

swunfugh g ourzazate bzzaf, d yadnin adgar

BLOG ENTRY 2
I just got back from another week in Azrou, my community-based training location. This past week was especially stressful because of the different competencies, tests and interviews that will be conducted during the week of the 13th. The first of these is the Language Proficiency Interview (LPI). I will be sat in a room with a native speaker who is the tester, and he will ask me questions. I will be expected to answer accurately, and then elaborate on these subjects:
Myself, my education, work history, family, age, marital status (why I’m not married yet), purpose for being in Morocco, what I’ve done since I have been here (day by day), what my plans and hopes for the future are, and generally everything about Morocco.
I love the language. It is absolute insanity. The most amazing thing about it for me is the complete lack of vowels. Vowel-less words dominate sentences and many things sound the same. It is incredibly difficult and a lot is expected of me as far as competencies go, but all of that is overshadowed when I see the look on people’s faces when they hear me speaking their native language. People are amazed and ecstatic that an American is trying so hard to speak to them. Recently I was speaking to a group of men sitting at a bar near the Compound and one of them who overheard the conversation pulled me aside, embraced me, and then took my hand and looked right into my eyes and said in perfect English; “I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to hear you speaking my language, thank you.” It was a really special moment for me because I had thought those men didn’t trust me and were suspicious of my presence there. One of my biggest sources of motivation to speak the language is to find out more about these incredibly proud, happy, and friendly people.
Though I have only been here for 6 or 7 weeks, I have been out of the States now for the better part of 4 months. I’m finally starting to gain some perspective on what I left. Its not that I’m homesick, but leaving my life back home happened without me thinking about it. I find myself thinking about all kinds of fun things I did in my last year and all the people I did them with. Now I have a life full of brand new stuff; friends, work, country, schedule, etc. I guess I am just realizing how many big changes happened so quickly. None of it is bad, but I kind of wish I had spent more of the last months in the States taking my leaving more seriously. Eh.
Note* I scored Intermdiate-Low on my Language Proficiency interview, which is great because it is above the level I am expected to be at by May, dadg igi adsawlg Tamazight am Imazhgen! (Now I speak like a Berber!)

Ouarzazate, Training, Notes.

Training thus far has been unlike any process I have previously been a part of. Every minute of the day has been planned and regimented, freedom is limited, language sessions are intense, and opportunities for recreation are scarce. Long sessions focusing on security and external threats can begin to develop a sense within you that every minute of life on assignment will be a risk. We sleep in the same complex that we train in, and venture out into the town—which is essentially a desert outpost—only for limited activities like playing soccer with Moroccan kids. The complex itself is a hotel, but it is guarded by a 30-ft wall and 24-hour gendarmes, or guards.
That all being said it really is exhilarating. There is so much ground and material to cover that something new and practical is always being drilled into us. Though there is a lot of repetition, there exists a sense that the more something is said, the more important it is to keep in mind. Living, eating, training and sleeping in the fortress with a 930 curfew isn’t bad, it is actually an ideal learning environment. It provides the ability to focus solely on the most important part of training; Derija (Moroccan Arabic) and Tamazight (a Berber dialect used in the High Atlas). And while free time is limited, to be honest, there isn’t that much to do in town anyways. Daily trips to the souk and the main square to listen to drums, eat weird snacks, practice language, and play frisbee, soccer, and mill around is enough, and getting to bed is a big priority.
Some notes on Morocco.
Morocco is stunningly beautiful. The northern cities are orderly yet still exotic. The plains of the north rise unabashedly into the Middle, High and Anti-Atlas mountains, which soar up to 13,000 feet. Old villages with kasbahs and minarets dot the countryside and only increase in quaintness and beauty as the mountains rise to the snow. Dry brown canyons are carved by waters that allow trees and flowers and grass to grow at the bottom.
Moroccans are generally friendly, but apprehensive. It is pretty difficult for them to understand that you aren’t simply a tourist, that you live and work here. Trying to explain your status in Morocco leads to curiosity and suspicion about your motivations. Are you CIA? You work for the American government, but you aren’t implementing policy, so what exactly do you do? These questions are hard to answer but after awhile, and avoidance of certain topics (hot political issues, Islamic extremism), Moroccans are happy to welcome you here.
Nights are freezing cold now since it is early spring, but mid-day sun can be very hot and always dry. The difference in temperature between sun and shade is huge, as the air doesn’t hold the heat. Clouds rarely appear in the sky, and the sky is a deep, deep blue.
I spent the week of the 15th to the 22nd in a small town called Azrou to begin studying Tamazight. About 100km from Ouarzazate, Azrou is en route to some of the higher peaks of the central High Atlas. It is a lot of the things I like about Morocco, it has quirky village politics, it doesn’t have much going on, and it is totally foreign and seems backwards to me. Nothing makes sense and nothing happens the way you think it will. Its full of devoted Muslims with old, strange customs. I notice there are tons of contradictions in Azrou. Women would never think of touching a male arm who wasn’t their husband but they have no problem breastfeeding in front of foreigners. Uncleanliness is generally untolerated but simple personal sanitation is intentionally ignored. Locals pride themselves on huge meals and full bellies but malnutrition is widespread due to a sugar and bread diet. As a health worker, it really is fascinating.
The last weeks of February were full of field visits and technical education. The nuts and bolts of the Moroccan Ministry of Health, and our place therein, became an educational priority. Meeting with moudirs, jmae leaders, and other players key to Moroccan business began to open my eyes to what I was being prepared for--culture.
Moroccans drive on the right, eat three meals a day, put their pants on one leg at a time, etc. Moroccans are cool, sensible, very intelligent, enjoy oddities, know how to have fun , etc
Everyday life in Morocco is conducted in such a manner that bears no similarity to what I am used to.
Everything I want to say is misplaced, I am always doing things at the wrong time, and I apologize a lot.
Everything is foreign, and you have to re-learn life. Its awesome.

MarhbaBikum en LMgrib

Whoa.

First ten days in Maroc have been crazy. Flew in from NYC to Casa to Rabat where training began immediately-from security briefings, language, money, and schedule to rules, culture, terrorism, and shopping.

From Rabat we bussed the 8 hours over the snowy Atlas mountains to our training base. Language training in Derija (Moroccan Arabic) began in short order. Sessions start at about 8am and last til 6ish; with a 930 curfew. After next week the cycle between this training site and a remote site will begin, and will continue for 10 weeks. After that, enshallah, I will be sworn in and move somewhere permanently.

For now, the stress of training is easily offset by the physical beauty of Morocco and the fun-loving kindness of its people.

barakhlahifuk.

Packing for a 27-Month Trip Packing is usually quite easy for me. I get alot of practice at it and I have learned a couple tricks to streamline the process (like packing everything, taking half of it out, and doubling the number of socks). Unfortunately those tricks don't work when you're not really packing, but moving.

The last time I had to pack for a long-term thing was for my semester in Hong Kong. I remember standing with my best friend over my pile of luggage trying to figure out if I had forgotten anything. I hadn't. I cursed the amount of crap I brought and learned a valuable lesson about possessions; they are totally replaceable and available wherever you're going. Also I learned that any sort of "sentimental" stuff which is packed will inevitably be regretted. The tendency you have is to think "I can't go for long without my massive wool sweater" and you end up packing it. If you were to simply throw the sweater into the closet, you would forget about it until you return from the trip and rediscover it and love it again. If you bring it, you realize its inefficiencies and flaws and desire it out of your life. Thus the approach must be focused on limits; pack half what you're allowed, give yourself some draft, and bring extra socks.

I got everything for Africa to fit into one large bag, my trekking backpack, and my Marine bag. Clothing went in the big bag, necessities like books, duct tape, flashlights, etc went in the trekking bag, and electronics went in my carry-on. Easy. I plan on buying a few things in Morocco, including just about everything having to do with home life.

This last week has been uneventful, mostly just a long stretch of strange feelings about leaving, none of which were sheer excitement, nor fear, nor apprehension. I don't know how to quantify it, but it seems to fit somewhere between a sense of foreboding and general peace with the understanding that much of the next few months is going to be packed with patently fascinating difficulty.

Next?

I am completing my Costa Rica-Nicaragua-Costa Rica loop, finishing it off with a visit to Puerto Viejo de Talamanca, CR. I have an unsure feeling about the end of this trip, I have had unforgettable experiences one after the other, mostly set in Nicaragua. My trip started off crappy, with a disillusioning set of experiences with Ticos in northern CR, and continued with the robbery on my birthday in San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua. Now I´m back in touristed-out Costa Rica and can´t help but feel that the best is definitely over. Costa Rica is full of lame spring-break like travelers looking to book tours and overpay for mediocre experiences like canopy tours, sub-par beaches, and tame volcanoes.
So I am begining to realize that Costa Rica was certainly the wrong place to start and end this trip, but it was so much cheaper to fly in here compared to any other Central American city. One thing CR does remedy is that feeling that you don´t want your trip to be over, since I am somewhat looking forward to leaving the 51st State of behind.
Another good thing about Costa Rica being lame is that now I´m looking to the future as I hadn´t during the rest of my trip. I haven´t thought too much about Morocco, or the next two years. Now, looking forward, I am STOKED about all of the change and adventure I have ahead. The action-packed nature of the next few weeks really excites me.
I am working on getting my photos online, it seems like the only option is to wait for the States to get them on, bandwidth here is proving to be a problem.

Change of Pace

The last few months of my life have been relatively fast-moving. Alot of things have changed and changed quickly, from graduating to moving away from Washington, to starting a new chapter in life, it has all been very sudden. This all changed when I got to Nicaragua.
Many times I find myself rushing through countries, trying to see as much of it as I can and stretching myself thin. On this trip I planned on going to El Salvador and maybe Honduras for awhile, but instead I have just been slowly drifting around Nicaragua. It has been quite pleasant.
I find that this trip has been different than my two previous visits to Latin America, chiefly because of two things:
One, I speak alot more Spanish than I did the first two times I came, and
two, I have been staying for a long time in every place I go. Language and time has opened up so many doors.
I thought I had essentially done it all in Latin America, I felt like a veteran. Now I am realizing how much I missed out on the first two times. Everyday I am getting invited into houses and for meals, getting a tour from a local guy who is eager to show me his country, or finding little barrios and pueblos around the city which I would previously avoid.
I spent 6 days in Esteli, Nicaragua and the day that I left, on my way to the bus station I was waved to, smiled at, invited for coffee, food, etc, countless times. Time and language has let me begin to know Nicaragua and Nica people, rather than just visit. I cannot believe how much I learn everyday about life, history, culture, food, attitude, politics, and all the rest with the help of just a few friendly local people.
I have always believed that travel is the best way to spend your time and money, and everyday I spend in Nicaragua gives me more reasons to think that way.
It is simply wonderful.

For the Love of Gallo Pinto

Nicaragua is fascinating in as many ways as you wish. I credit myself with describing Nica land as the Wonderfully Destinationless Destination. It is desperately poor and inconvenient and dirty and dangerous. At the same time it hides the last of CA`s treasures.

As the cheapest place in the hemisphere, Nicaragua had a jumpstart on the race for my heart. But just being cheap and dirty doesnt make you cool. Nicaragua knows that.

Costa Rica tries to keep it real, but Nicaragua will always be more real. Costa Rica is as expensive as the States, with only the advantage of cheap accomodation and short distance in between medicocre destinations. Nica doesn´t care about the tourist. And that´s whats cool.

The biggest and best waves in CA, the most undistrubed cloud forests, the best food, the most refined accomodation for below 7USD, the smallest distances with the biggest differences, etc.

Gallo Pinto belongs in Nicaragua, and so does my heart.

How to Apprehend a Mugger in Latin America

I wouldn´t say that I´m a DIY kind of guy, but when you´re traveling in the developing world (or the 2nd poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere in this case), you have to be prepared to make some lifestyle sacrifices. These include everyday things like relying on nutrition to warm you in cold showers, ensuring food safety, helping human waste get where it needs to, assembling a large enough constituency to lobby for the bus to leave today and not tomorrow, etc.. I accept these responsibilities and sacrifices happily, as I know the tremendous inconveniences and sacrifices involved in third-world travel always pay off in big ways.

I have been taking Spanish classes in a little town called San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua before I set off to travel the rest of the country until the end of February. San Juan del Sur is a booming town that is beginning to feel the perks of foreign investment and tourism. It´s a wonderful place blessed with spectacular beauty, surfing, and some of the kindest people in Latin America. Nonetheless, SJDS is poor. Nicaragua´s economy has never recovered from the decades of civil war that left infrastructure and the hallmarks of a developed society bankrupted and in ruins. Recently, Nicaragua´s economy has slipped off after a period of modest growth, and most economic indicators put Nicaragua as the second-poorest in the Hemisphere, and slipping closer to Haiti.

Desperate poverty+vulnerable tourists=crime. Usually petty theft, it happens all over the world. A few days ago, one of the predictions I had written in my journal about this trip came true. I wrote on one of the first pages;

"My string of unbelievably good luck will end on this trip."

I was right.

On the 15th of January (the day after my birthday) I got out of Spanish class at 1230pm. I had some things to study so I went to the beach to do so. After awhile I decided to take a walk to the point on the north side of the beach, about a 2km trek. The beach ends about 1.5km into the walk and it turns to rock, which you have to navigate with care.

I rounded a smaller point and saw a local guy walking towards me quickly. I immediately had a bad feeling about him. He greeted me loudly and approached me, exptending his hand. I tried to keep my distance but it was too late. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife. That didn´t surprise me. What surprised me was that he actually knew the English word for money. I didn´t have much so I cooperated, as it is never intelligent to fight off muggers. He took my 250 cordobas (about 21 bucks) and my 40USD watch. When he realized that was all he was going to get he reached for my bag and ripped it off me holding the knife against my chest so I didn´t resist. That didn´t bother me. Its just stuff, and I can replace it. Totally not worth risking my life for replaceable objects.

It all happened pretty fast, and I was very cooperative, but about 30 seconds after he ran away from me with my Spanish books, back pack, some money, and my watch, I was totally filled to the eyeballs with a desire for revenge. The complacent robbery victim that I had been in front of the knife was replaced by a pissed-off vigilante when the weapon disappeared. Therefore I did what any logical person who just got robbed at knifepoint would do. I gave chase.

The assailant scrambled up a path of jagged rock that makes up the 200m tall point, and was met by a group of municipal workers who saw a nervous and sprinting Nicaraguan with a fistful of money and a nice backpack and put 2 and 2 together. They were able to rip the bag from the guy but not apprehend him. My bag was splayed out and emptied on the ground about 100m away from me, and I saw the robber run from the municipal workers. I trusted the workers so I left my bag with them and continued to chase the robber. He scrambled impressively down a part the steep shale face and made his way around the point, he was much faster running on the rocks than I. Watching all this were two Americans--Greg and Samantha--who got their shirt and book stolen from them. We decided it was time to let it go and started walking back south to get to town and safety.

During the walk we recounted our stories to each other, all agreeing that it was totally unreasonable to try to chase this guy, and not worth it to re-enter into close proximity with him. I believed this too, and we made it about halfway down the beach when Greg turned and saw someone coming around the point, about .75km away. The good sense and reason I had in me 10 seconds earlier was again replaced by a thirst for justice and revenge. I started back up the beack to meet the assailant.

When I started to get close to him he figured out who I was and started running. I picked up some rocks and ran after him, gaining quickly. I got slose enough to launch one of the rocks and it just missed. the next two connected solidly on his upper and lower back. He ran off the beach and into the sketchy neighboorhoods on the north side of SJDS. He obviously knew this area better than I and was able to evade me again.

Dejected, I turned from physically chasing him to assembling a neighborhood coalition. Like I said before, Nicaraguans are f-ing cool and very warm. They genuinely dislike crime done to foreigners who come to contribute to the local economy and hang out with them. The people in the neighborhood react in an amazing way to my efforts. For some reason the adrenaline running through me assisted me in retreiving words from my mental Spanish bank that made the coalition-building process run quickly. At one point I told a crew of construction workers about a robber loose in the neighborhood. One of the men had a trowel in his hand, and upon hearing LADRON (robber) he dropped the tool into the concrete he was smoothing over and sprung into an aggresive vigilante position, ready to take action in my cause. It was quite possibly the coolest exchange I have ever had with another human being.

My coalition of local children, construction workers, and a group of men in a beat-up yellow four-door Toyota was swarming the area, and I returned, shank of metal in-hand, to secure the beach perimeter.

After about a half-hour of patrol, I was starting to give up. My breathing slowed, and I began to resign myself to the reality that the asshole got away. Just at that moment, I heard a roar from behind me. When I turned I saw the Yellow Toyota bombing through the river that flows through the beach from SJDS and coming right towards me at, what I would say, was about 50MPH. I was frightened but curious. When the car slid to a stop next to me, the door was flung open and the men inside were screaming unintelligibly. I jumped in, metal shank in hand, no shoes, no shirt, and we sped off with one of my legs still out the door. We hydroplaned over the river and I was desperately trying to get information about what the F was going on. I didn´t know whether these guys were with me or against me, and they were so charged up I couldn´t understand their Spanish.

We came to a screaching stop in the middle of an indescript neighborhood and piled out of the car, all toting various weapons.

There, standing in a pile of acrid waste and metal, was my assailant. Sweaty, head down, in handcuffs.

(Internet is expensive and I have to go meet some friends so I will finish this story, which gets better when we start dealing with the Nicaraguan police, at a later time.) Check back later and watch your stuff.