One of the most exciting parts about living out here in the middle atlas is knowing that soon this area will inevitably be discovered by tourists, like the rest of Morocco. Granted it will take a different type of tourist than the tour bus crowd to explore these mountains, it will one day no longer be undiscovered. Being here when almost everything is new, uncrossed, undocumented, and most importantly for me, unskied, is invaluable.
The week of my birthday was dedicated to firsts. My first time snowboarding in Africa in Oukaimeden near Marrakech, and my first experience with unskied terrain here in the middle atlas.
Skiing and snowboarding in the middle atlas region has understandably been limited in the past to three centers; Mischliffen, the ski randonee (cross-crountry or nordic) area of Jebel Hebri, and Bou Iblane. Mischilffen and Jebel Hebri both to this day have operational ski lifts with limited capacity and even more limited usage. Nonethless, it is fun and the snow is good. It is also exceptionally cheap. The clientele can be described as primarily Moroccan day-trippers interested in riding the lift to the top without skis and returning the same way. A spattering of Moroccans skiers from cities (native Middle-Atlas skiers are very rare) and a few tourists interested in the simple novelty of skiing in Africa. There are a few events put on by FRMSM, or in English the Royal Moroccan Ski Federation, but those have died off in the past few years. To be fair to Mischiliffen, the terrain is beautiful, and can be likened to a small eastern United States ski resorts with the added bonus of skiing among massive cedar trees and monkeys. It is unique, cheap, fun, and can offer a serious skier a few very nice, solitary turns.
The east face of Bou Iblane Massif is home to the skeleton of an old French lift that has long since been disassembled and cannibalized for scrap by crafty locals. The French built the lift as a home comfort during colonial times and after Morocco’s independence had no incentive to maintain it. Nonetheless, early French ski pioneers were able to explore the majority of the 30km-long massif and claim most of the difficult lines. Still, ski exploration was limited to the route between Bou Iblane and Jebel Tazzeka near Taza, and the Massif itself. There are no locally or officially confirmed reports of the highest peak in the region, Bou Naceur, ever being attempted. Nonetheless in all of this there is the chance that a stray French soldier has at one time journeyed there with skis.
In the Marmoucha-Tamgilt-Ribat el-Khair sector, there are a number of large peaks that were simply too remote for ski pioneers up until the paving of the sector’s roads. Now, even after large snowfalls, local transportation is available between 3 and 5 days after the weather events. Being uniquely positioned (speaking the very specific local dialect, having all-access permission from local authorities, and holding many Nuqql owners (small buses) as my closest friends, and living within walking distance of all of it) I am now in a position to claim all of these peaks on my snowboard.
The first on my schedule was the high-point of a long ridge which can be located locally by using the name “Tissidel”. Tissidel is the bearing point for most nomadic herders in between Ait Hassan, Ouled Ali, Tazemourt, and the edge of Ouaoualzemt, where herders who are not from the valley should consider making way back towards their own land because of tribal tensions dating back thousands of years. This peak is the edge of Marmoucha, and an unofficial ethnic border. The peak itself rises to 2600 meters and is the southern-most of what can be considered the “rooftop” of the middle atlas.
The hike for me from my front door took six hours with the last 3 in snow to waist. Even the sun-exposed ridge forces hikers into deep snow because of unstable cornices on the ridge’s edge. The descent I estimated at 1100 meters with the fall line, with the option of descending another 300 with good snow and 500 on cross-country skies. The take off is impossible without significant recent snow, as a 30 meter drop faces afternoon sun with no collection point because of its steepness, but the rest is a very challenging, and very rewarding 38 degree slope with chest deep powder.
On Wednesday I will hopefully be completing a small first-timer called Ish Ayurzi in Ait Benhaissa in the Northern reach of Talzemt commune. This 2540 meter peak is home to some of the highest altitude cedars in the region and contains a due North-northeast chute. I will be completing this peak before 9am as the only hour for good light is sunrise with reflective light off of the opposite snowfields on Ish Nfadna. Later in the day attempting this peak would be too dangerous.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
To Be Fair
So after my last entry I felt I should clarify some things about life here. People sent me messages like; “Oh Peace Corps sounds so hard,” and “Do you hate it there?” I don’t know where people picked up this sentiment but I want to be clear; I have yet to hate anything about this place or my time here, and while Peace Corps can be tough sometimes it is mostly because of where I live; I got placed in a really difficult part of the country. I asked our programming staff for exactly this: put me in the highest, coldest, most remote place you have just don’t put me in the Sahara or somewhere there is a lack of work.
The fact is while life can be really challenging where I live, those who know me are aware that I love challenges. Having obstacles to getting things done everyday motivates me to go and do them. Little challenges turn everyday tasks into adventures.
Just yesterday I was looking for the local school superintendent, so naturally I went to his office in the school. Not there. Where is he I asked? Somewhere in Immouzer one teacher answered. I spent the rest of my morning tracking down this guy like a detective. Went to his house, his favorite coffee joint, the Youth Center, the Youth Center manager’s house, walked the main drag a few times, and talked to everyone I knew on the street asking them “wesh tshuft Mimoun, lmudir dial mdrasat n Talzemt? La? Safi shukran asidi.” All along this way I am getting invites for tea, late breakfast, offers to help, invites for the Prophet’s birthday, congratulations Obama speeches, everything.
Nobody is disrespectful or doesn’t want me around. People seem to love talking to me and asking me questions. On the street everybody waves and yells my name. I have never had more people know my name and know things about me concentrated in one place. I am not embarrassed to ask for help so everyone now is looking for Mimoun the superintendent. We end up finding him and the villagers rejoice. I meet with Mimoun for about 10 minutes about designing a new health curriculum for our schools. He agrees quickly and we conclude our business.
Even though Marmoucha is a small world, I learn tons of new things on these adventures.
“Hey Casey did you know your neighbor had a baby this morning?”That woman was pregnant?
“Hey Casey did you know that tomorrow a bunch of us are leaving with our families to live in tents and herd sheep until spring comes?Isn’t spring 4 months from now?
Sounds lame but my favorite thing to do is learn new and random things about people and places. The fun little tidbits that come out about my village and the people are what make the little everyday adventures memorable. In the states my everyday was usually fun and interesting, whether it be with work or school or going out in DC or surfing or whatever. Here it is incomparable. The things that I eat, do, hear, say, drink, ride, buy, look at, wonder about, and experience are so far from what I ever expected my life to include that sometimes I question whether I really lived in the states a year ago or whether I really live here now.
The fact is while life can be really challenging where I live, those who know me are aware that I love challenges. Having obstacles to getting things done everyday motivates me to go and do them. Little challenges turn everyday tasks into adventures.
Just yesterday I was looking for the local school superintendent, so naturally I went to his office in the school. Not there. Where is he I asked? Somewhere in Immouzer one teacher answered. I spent the rest of my morning tracking down this guy like a detective. Went to his house, his favorite coffee joint, the Youth Center, the Youth Center manager’s house, walked the main drag a few times, and talked to everyone I knew on the street asking them “wesh tshuft Mimoun, lmudir dial mdrasat n Talzemt? La? Safi shukran asidi.” All along this way I am getting invites for tea, late breakfast, offers to help, invites for the Prophet’s birthday, congratulations Obama speeches, everything.
Nobody is disrespectful or doesn’t want me around. People seem to love talking to me and asking me questions. On the street everybody waves and yells my name. I have never had more people know my name and know things about me concentrated in one place. I am not embarrassed to ask for help so everyone now is looking for Mimoun the superintendent. We end up finding him and the villagers rejoice. I meet with Mimoun for about 10 minutes about designing a new health curriculum for our schools. He agrees quickly and we conclude our business.
Even though Marmoucha is a small world, I learn tons of new things on these adventures.
“Hey Casey did you know your neighbor had a baby this morning?”That woman was pregnant?
“Hey Casey did you know that tomorrow a bunch of us are leaving with our families to live in tents and herd sheep until spring comes?Isn’t spring 4 months from now?
Sounds lame but my favorite thing to do is learn new and random things about people and places. The fun little tidbits that come out about my village and the people are what make the little everyday adventures memorable. In the states my everyday was usually fun and interesting, whether it be with work or school or going out in DC or surfing or whatever. Here it is incomparable. The things that I eat, do, hear, say, drink, ride, buy, look at, wonder about, and experience are so far from what I ever expected my life to include that sometimes I question whether I really lived in the states a year ago or whether I really live here now.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
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
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
Saturday, September 6, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
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.
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.
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