First Week of CBT

We are now in the south of the Middle Atlas Mountains. The landscape is bleak but with a desert quality beauty and a climate not unlike that of Montana in September. Our group of small business developers left the beach town on a bus, again escorted by the gendarmes, and traveled to Azrou where we were split into groups of six to go to our communities. Hours later, we arrived here, seeing a lot of the countryside on the way. After being dropped at the taxi stand, we stood in the rain while drawing a crowd of onlookers until we could catch a local taxi to the training center. We then went to our host family homes where we will live for the next 10 weeks. My “mother” is about 20 years younger than me and is a leader in her community. We have three delightful siblings, all older than 16. I can’t say much about them to protect their privacy but they are a kind, welcoming family who are trying to make us feel at home. That said, there is nothing more awkward than moving in with people you don’t know and can’t communicate with. Dinner was mostly a silent affair as we exhausted our Darija words after “pleased to meet you”. Each day gets a little easier.

I awake at 4:30 am to the sound of the call to prayer which is immediately followed by a chorus of howls and barks from the countless stray dogs. After a breakfast of bread, oil, and honey, we walk to the training center along a rutted road that passes by flocks of turkeys and chickens and sheep. The adults stare and the kids follow us, often calling out “bon jour” as foreigners are assumed to be French.

Much of the time outside the training center, we don’t have a clue what’s going on. We are studying language and culture which includes meeting people in the town and going to the souk. Everything takes at least twice as long as expected even when allowing for Moroccan time. Our registry with the police took most of the afternoon with the closest scrutiny of my passport I’d ever received. Yesterday we spent nearly 2 hours just buying a few groceries, vegetables, and chicken.

Buying chicken at the souk was especially colorful. The shop had a large selection of live chickens. The process is to say how many you want, the chickens are grabbed, tagged, weighed and literally tossed in a basket. From there they squawk their last before being grabbed by a man with a knife. I studiously watched a soccer match on the TV while this was taking place. They are then dunked, plucked, cut up, washed, bagged, and weighed and are ready to take home. It’s chicken at its freshest.
Friday we get together with another group of six PCT’s in a neighboring community. It will be fun comparing experiences.