tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15602543105365195952024-03-19T04:52:08.198-07:00Karen: To Know a VeilKaren Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-10126209707326006532012-10-11T12:13:00.001-07:002012-10-11T12:13:21.225-07:00Last Days in Peace Corps MoroccoThis will be my last Peace Corps blog. More than two years have flown by and now our time here is coming to an end. The last two weeks have been a flurry of tying up loose ends with the co-op, sorting and tossing, giving away and shipping, final meetings and goodbye parties and lunches. We will travel to Rabat for final medical exams, paperwork, and signing out. Then it’s on to the Casablanca airport and homeward. Leaving will be bittersweet. Our friends here have been wonderfully kind and generous and I've grown rather attached to our small apartment, but I’m also excited about moving on and returning to our home and family in the US. There are many things I will miss. These are some of them:<br />
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The wonderful women of Cooperative Adwal<br />
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The wonderful women of Cooperative El Juwda<br />
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Hind and Fatima<br />
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Our vegetable seller and favorite hanut owners<br />
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The daily aroma of baking bread<br />
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Tagines<br />
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Incredible sunsets<br />
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The best clementine oranges on the planet<br />
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The laid-back way of life<br />
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Donkeys<br />
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Farm animals roaming around town<br />
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The Fes medina<br />
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Watching street life from the rooftop<br />
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The stunning views of the Middle Atlas Mountains<br />
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Bslama Adwal, Ribat El Kheir, and Peace Corps Morocco.Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-35578049362701689192012-10-09T11:12:00.000-07:002012-10-09T11:12:40.229-07:00What's in a Name?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvMOw0fwz-b_yPisfvkgC7DR4qehGzcXhxS8m1HWG9SXH85_ONcNo_wyPH1iWA0_8BT2NfYKQmqdn5s3DL4qnGLVMjYOoxwnrvTFRQuI_ucq1yhS7r__BQJXkWIV6tE2J_vaYlI-yHyo/s1600/Last+days+018+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="213" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvMOw0fwz-b_yPisfvkgC7DR4qehGzcXhxS8m1HWG9SXH85_ONcNo_wyPH1iWA0_8BT2NfYKQmqdn5s3DL4qnGLVMjYOoxwnrvTFRQuI_ucq1yhS7r__BQJXkWIV6tE2J_vaYlI-yHyo/s320/Last+days+018+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div>According to a popular guide book, Morocco is the knockoff capital of the world. I can’t vouch for this, but I do know that a lot of young unemployed men and high school boys in our rural village are wearing Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana, and Armani jackets and jeans. Nike is also popular and appears on shoes, hats and jackets with a wide variety of swooshes and the occasional backwards “N”. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG4iy829Mv71tjmV7t1dEPFK7eecPDpR296ZbItrwM_fl7PDwUsDOdhtNh8F8Pt3NvVFf-A6rSoONhT35w3_929LKji7x1hDsB0XdWqLXEoO_KaVuVtg9NoHeGm65jbf0y1Ql8RMD65fg/s1600/Last+days+019+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="213" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG4iy829Mv71tjmV7t1dEPFK7eecPDpR296ZbItrwM_fl7PDwUsDOdhtNh8F8Pt3NvVFf-A6rSoONhT35w3_929LKji7x1hDsB0XdWqLXEoO_KaVuVtg9NoHeGm65jbf0y1Ql8RMD65fg/s320/Last+days+019+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Then there are the brands which are not copies, but suggest a brand connection; for example “Spederman” backpacks, “Belere Hotel”, “Oncle Ben” rice, “Tentation” candy and “General” appliances (appropriately dubbed “Generally Electric by a friend ). We actually purchased a hot water heater with the confidence inspiring name of “Junker” (really a reliable German brand). Some other Moroccan products have brand names that no marketing department in the US would approve such as, the “Rehab Hotel”, “Darky” and “Snowy” chocolate bars, “Studhorse” jeans, and “Bonky” chocolate drink mix.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNqCImRBZn_VfUuvqKUE_QS17lRuD8pTGMnpIkDnnvkZgn2OZ9f9Y2FgLQGvaCHOc-Hrhcrvg3K7PulnIgSDPXpQ95AAPJSigKq87o6UMUrMVum25Waz5UbzSKId2q8GU0zuq09L2_Ibo/s1600/Tanger%252C+Nick+%2526+Kayje+visit+112+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNqCImRBZn_VfUuvqKUE_QS17lRuD8pTGMnpIkDnnvkZgn2OZ9f9Y2FgLQGvaCHOc-Hrhcrvg3K7PulnIgSDPXpQ95AAPJSigKq87o6UMUrMVum25Waz5UbzSKId2q8GU0zuq09L2_Ibo/s320/Tanger%252C+Nick+%2526+Kayje+visit+112+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Many eating establishments have no names but display signs giving a general idea of what to expect. Some of these are simply “Café Bar”, “Snack”, “Fast Food”, “Fish Snack”, “Self Service” (a sandwich shop which isn’t), and my personal favorite “Snak Exlaz”. The hanuts in our town don’t have even these descriptive names so we came up with identifying names of our own such as the “step-up”, the “glass door”, “turkey guy”, and “cousin’s” (of the glass door). <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_IxP_zF3Rb9YhEEOlSL3iGdmQmVgCJ3uYHfhk0aedbhniDc-iGvkh8UyOW2kiji6rxSN147F7kEg62ws9B2jEcwWnw-ysTVC89FPtHUdsoXTfcTPk7WPIq1wSwFEwFZjmLe27ZK_BYU/s1600/Last+days+020+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_IxP_zF3Rb9YhEEOlSL3iGdmQmVgCJ3uYHfhk0aedbhniDc-iGvkh8UyOW2kiji6rxSN147F7kEg62ws9B2jEcwWnw-ysTVC89FPtHUdsoXTfcTPk7WPIq1wSwFEwFZjmLe27ZK_BYU/s320/Last+days+020+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Clothes often have English words on them like “peace” and “love”, but more often the phrases make little sense, such as the pair of little girl’s pink socks which were stenciled with “shark patrol rescue team”. I had to smile when the co-op president wore a shirt with the words “It came upon a midnight clear”. I’m quite sure she didn’t know they were lyrics to a Christmas carol. <br />
Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-62835256493614623442012-09-26T04:12:00.000-07:002012-09-26T04:12:16.565-07:00Riding in (not so) Grand Taxis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIHrVi-R0FTxJervNON5aK0I2x3odwQeWVxnSs3qW8aDhIBM9ijUcgRVcUg9YXe7-HrrXPiSfK6p7vQD2yIVeoGc-v45Qrbq52NmUs4YP8L_AUHsGki2gSmQLQ1S5pHGGp3tu3AyUTO-k/s1600/Doug%2527sLlahuli+pics+203.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="219" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIHrVi-R0FTxJervNON5aK0I2x3odwQeWVxnSs3qW8aDhIBM9ijUcgRVcUg9YXe7-HrrXPiSfK6p7vQD2yIVeoGc-v45Qrbq52NmUs4YP8L_AUHsGki2gSmQLQ1S5pHGGp3tu3AyUTO-k/s320/Doug%2527sLlahuli+pics+203.JPG" /></a></div>Have you ever wondered where old Mercedes go to die? Me too and now I know—they go to Morocco, but not to die. They have a second life as grand taxis, the main method of transportation between towns. Since few Moroccans own cars, most rely on public transportation, mainly buses that only run once or twice a day, vans often carrying twice their capacity, and grand taxis. The grand taxis carry six passengers plus the driver, and will wait to go until they are full. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibraAhpnIIE0FLSWVPrXx9biHAUMkwclPRM13bUu5KvuoVwSvan3pejmIBh6TqzdMV6RzDr4RKv5nFsXsxcTGtuzjlibSZw-s_quY7Yb1qTHKvfWQMOy7A1j_rBWsYrV6raCcAsFP8jJU/s1600/Adurj+006+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:right;margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="229" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibraAhpnIIE0FLSWVPrXx9biHAUMkwclPRM13bUu5KvuoVwSvan3pejmIBh6TqzdMV6RzDr4RKv5nFsXsxcTGtuzjlibSZw-s_quY7Yb1qTHKvfWQMOy7A1j_rBWsYrV6raCcAsFP8jJU/s320/Adurj+006+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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When we want to go somewhere, we go to the parking lot that serves as the taxi stand, find the one going to where we want to go, and wait. Sometimes we’re lucky and only wait for a few minutes, and sometimes we just buy an extra seat so we can get going. A seat from here to Fez costs the equivalent of $3 so it won’t break the bank, but we don’t want to act like rich foreigners. Moroccans rarely buy an extra seat, no matter how big they are. Four adult passengers in the back seat make close quarters, especially on a hot sweaty summer day. Moroccans also seem to have a proclivity for motion sickness so there’s that to attend to on occasion. The drivers have more hand signals than a baseball manager, and they can mean anything from a friendly greeting to “what the *&$%!” They are generally good drivers and also some of the most helpful and reliable people we have met.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgydAvGlKzmxq9ygsI50R3cbbiQHpVlCKOJVueZEQdZN3paO8kF1jLwo_BJOdeYKSzmOpnLMC760Tiat0cp37N9OO5iKsAiQewPv3v5O8qa8iGlVE42W_aNXqrpAOdfxKrCm8LZQ0an6X0/s1600/taxi+lot4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgydAvGlKzmxq9ygsI50R3cbbiQHpVlCKOJVueZEQdZN3paO8kF1jLwo_BJOdeYKSzmOpnLMC760Tiat0cp37N9OO5iKsAiQewPv3v5O8qa8iGlVE42W_aNXqrpAOdfxKrCm8LZQ0an6X0/s320/taxi+lot4.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The grand taxi lot in Fes is a chaotic mess of drivers shouting out the names of their destination or at each other, milling passengers carrying all sorts of baggage, children selling gum, Kleenex or chocolate bars, vendor carts selling oranges and bananas, bread, and sweets, and makeshift cafes. Taxis are parked every which way with vehicles regularly arriving and exiting, always accompanied with honking. Occasionally fights break out. There’s a small shelter where passengers huddle in the rain or try to avoid the harsh sun, but generally everyone is at the mercy of the elements. Our first stop here on the way to REK was wondrous and terrifying. There is an unseen order to this chaos though in the form of men who direct the flow of passengers and vehicles. They know us now, and as soon as we arrive at the lot, the head multaxi starts shouting “Ahermoumou” (the Berber name of REK), hands are shaken, money changes hands, and we are directed to a vehicle within minutes. And then we wait of course to continue our journey home.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibO8ikdp9CIjXXIPAfmj_5XTErLNuTw23KKY5DC9PFtm2YNETxFcWLAunnlfrBq_Q3gjZ46JfOuVAmHKVTZ4XE5se9QNk_8DGa-RMlsuq6LYjlxIVR6ykBPJNyRXpVCPp-JfPNpdf1QNk/s1600/Adurj+012+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="164" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibO8ikdp9CIjXXIPAfmj_5XTErLNuTw23KKY5DC9PFtm2YNETxFcWLAunnlfrBq_Q3gjZ46JfOuVAmHKVTZ4XE5se9QNk_8DGa-RMlsuq6LYjlxIVR6ykBPJNyRXpVCPp-JfPNpdf1QNk/s320/Adurj+012+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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The main roads are generally paved and in good condition, but the road to our village is of a lower standard. It’s paved, but there is really only one wide lane of traffic—but not wide enough for two vehicles. I used to think the pavement had eroded at the edges, but it seems more likely that the road was only paved down the middle in the first place. So driving between our village and the main road is basically a half hour of playing chicken with the oncoming traffic. This is especially fun when meeting a truck overloaded with butagaz cans. I always hope OUR driver will be the first to veer off the pavement and swerve through the gravel or mud until we can bounce back on the road. Taxi drivers will usually yield, but once, passing through El Menzel, we came to a head-to-head standstill with a large truck while the drivers shouted at each other. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF8kgWYMxcza6smOhj7NFOnQpXYkFwfQq11mnAKbaKXORpx9R4NzfntRdqoH4mXNzobPgXkMn0uJlFo4ib7RYbRK_J14p6BKOdYlRMpjS2nNAhyphenhyphen-IZXI6t3S6tfny8ebS5dws92SY_l1Q/s1600/Doug+Christmas+etc+215.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="287" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF8kgWYMxcza6smOhj7NFOnQpXYkFwfQq11mnAKbaKXORpx9R4NzfntRdqoH4mXNzobPgXkMn0uJlFo4ib7RYbRK_J14p6BKOdYlRMpjS2nNAhyphenhyphen-IZXI6t3S6tfny8ebS5dws92SY_l1Q/s320/Doug+Christmas+etc+215.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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In a recent taxi ride, we stopped along the road for no apparent reason. A nicely dressed young man got out, climbed on a waiting donkey tied to a tree and road off over the hill—probably to one of the olive farms which stretch for miles. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0pfKg6PdZJa_ip9Yv4R-02QGjd-ggGC9TNuoZVKgxhn3oqr3oFqR6uAtgdboN2VLH74gmf_bFu-5IRCMA_h2rGHRYyFbaxgMjvrsy9FdyKJlzbWhYLtplkvyVTjf1NV5Vkfpi7QyUkD4/s1600/IST+062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0pfKg6PdZJa_ip9Yv4R-02QGjd-ggGC9TNuoZVKgxhn3oqr3oFqR6uAtgdboN2VLH74gmf_bFu-5IRCMA_h2rGHRYyFbaxgMjvrsy9FdyKJlzbWhYLtplkvyVTjf1NV5Vkfpi7QyUkD4/s320/IST+062.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Although we manage to get around the country in taxis, I look forward to the fast-approaching day when I can get in a car and drive where I want to go when I want to go.<br />
Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-89201062856991849282012-09-11T06:07:00.000-07:002012-09-11T06:07:16.312-07:00The End of Many Things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgZsbJjfB7evk8s5MJLxZc77xmGDHN3mH3oi_V2ugsN-Y_nH121RexetXDwxae7cwCCyu9yenl5COw-f_NJ-r77pO3p-O7eH_QP75YzcX8AemJsLyqDrlfCRLCDD-7EKhlyACezudLEes/s1600/Safari+006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgZsbJjfB7evk8s5MJLxZc77xmGDHN3mH3oi_V2ugsN-Y_nH121RexetXDwxae7cwCCyu9yenl5COw-f_NJ-r77pO3p-O7eH_QP75YzcX8AemJsLyqDrlfCRLCDD-7EKhlyACezudLEes/s320/Safari+006.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Summer is winding down and not a minute too soon. It was soooo hot the last two months that everyone, including me, moved at a glacial pace. And then Ramadan started and we all virtually ground to a halt. After the first few days, everyone just closed up shop and slept all day. Our village was like something out of a day-after-the-bomb movie with deserted streets and trash blowing in the hot dust-laden wind. It was 108 for days in a row. It hasn't rained since last May. The nights, however, come alive. The whole town goes out into the streets and men crowd the coffee shops and stream into the mosque when the call to prayer goes out. Kids run wild and shout and cry and fight. They seem to congregate on the street outside our building and make noise far into the early morning. For several nights they were beating on drums. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTWMQJBIHxx0hFW-lBSlN6Upk46pAxPyMrAho01zMtPBp43LXqfQ4Lll8Y_T-cwk8iSpZAatl_Ly_mxGMnTNvlZTtlmE0UwFQAePsoqKxdQZE9QcYH-bUvZxtbak3Y-RsCdoBX0AOxy-w/s1600/Zebra+in+Bots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTWMQJBIHxx0hFW-lBSlN6Upk46pAxPyMrAho01zMtPBp43LXqfQ4Lll8Y_T-cwk8iSpZAatl_Ly_mxGMnTNvlZTtlmE0UwFQAePsoqKxdQZE9QcYH-bUvZxtbak3Y-RsCdoBX0AOxy-w/s200/Zebra+in+Bots.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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This seemed like a good time to take a vacation so we left Morocco for two weeks. We traveled across the North African continent through Dubai to Johannesburg to Livingston, Zambia—8000 air miles---to Victoria Falls and just beyond to Botswana, our safari destination. We couldn’t come to Africa without seeing something of the real Africa. And we did. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_aFjBeg0i0dsIgO20HG0xOp3KdfvmIYQq9Fo7UTo-iR8nET9eCZ1GMCeHL8FediPbLHM2K3YgOetYMSFgWM6ae_zD_lFQ1Hw46wrgUbMesoiPb0SYVDl5eF5Bqt1GiCRU7YbdeOTWdxY/s1600/Mom+and+baby+elephant-Bots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_aFjBeg0i0dsIgO20HG0xOp3KdfvmIYQq9Fo7UTo-iR8nET9eCZ1GMCeHL8FediPbLHM2K3YgOetYMSFgWM6ae_zD_lFQ1Hw46wrgUbMesoiPb0SYVDl5eF5Bqt1GiCRU7YbdeOTWdxY/s200/Mom+and+baby+elephant-Bots.jpg" /></a></div><br />
We saw an abundance of majestic wild animals, camped in the wilderness, traveled by river boat, safari vehicle, dugout canoes, and tiny prop airplanes. Twice we went walking with an armed guard. One of the highlights was hearing an elephant eating leaves off a tree above our tent while I was inside. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_11A0apModhPWtWmKK7fd6LbN_OZSsQaNOmTmq6TU3GzMcJuM_DR55lsUbWiScO1UYzr3y10Zb32cfew1AbaU_w1GzUVgv13MJSbokaEfWPFjRAJ4Rx22I5jDBMjk0yGikPjTCn3IR8/s1600/Leopard-Bots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_11A0apModhPWtWmKK7fd6LbN_OZSsQaNOmTmq6TU3GzMcJuM_DR55lsUbWiScO1UYzr3y10Zb32cfew1AbaU_w1GzUVgv13MJSbokaEfWPFjRAJ4Rx22I5jDBMjk0yGikPjTCn3IR8/s200/Leopard-Bots.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Another was camping by a hippo pool and listening to the hippos call to each other in the evening. Their four-note bassoon-like snorts sounded like an orchestra section tuning up. It was all a unique and memorable experience. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4XolzNvnzKe517T297WKUzdOBZXacSwWt20Z4Ayl993lCVTJXkBxg4s_mlI6KL_11jhbH4rToCK6hkEhoePinnqSZ9KH3d9p33PtNYCOdTlX2ohumVVYMKj96HLONVVFqEXYcCM3gCUQ/s1600/Safari+095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="98" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4XolzNvnzKe517T297WKUzdOBZXacSwWt20Z4Ayl993lCVTJXkBxg4s_mlI6KL_11jhbH4rToCK6hkEhoePinnqSZ9KH3d9p33PtNYCOdTlX2ohumVVYMKj96HLONVVFqEXYcCM3gCUQ/s200/Safari+095.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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But now, Ramadan is finished, the evenings are cool enough to need a light blanket, and the hanuts are filled with school supplies. Fall is in the air even though it’s still in the 90s during the day.<br />
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The last week of August was spent at our Close of Service conference in Rabat. It was great fun to see everyone we started out with who made it through the two years. The week was filled with medical and dental tests and sessions on how to adjust to life back in the US. Thankfully, we won’t be looking for jobs or applying to graduate school like most of the young volunteers. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuIPQ1bCCJ5Xvv1K6CwIlZZvNhGBHEs2sgZ087cT3V_Q8T44QeJKwLnISh0-pwJXBeqZ7ja_fKGz2CymzSUWQDTRBdVGMG2DAbRr0TGmOGy0b4jYQiGXOyJLHdXxxKe6o1ZfXsVoR_jaE/s1600/COS+SBD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="189" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuIPQ1bCCJ5Xvv1K6CwIlZZvNhGBHEs2sgZ087cT3V_Q8T44QeJKwLnISh0-pwJXBeqZ7ja_fKGz2CymzSUWQDTRBdVGMG2DAbRr0TGmOGy0b4jYQiGXOyJLHdXxxKe6o1ZfXsVoR_jaE/s200/COS+SBD.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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We followed COS conference with a weekend in Asilah, a small art town on the coast near Tangier. It was lovely and whitewashed with murals painted on several walls. The seafood was delicious and we could even have a glass of wine at a sidewalk cafe in this Spanish influenced area.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1uYc40bsjA9IsnV5El3Q6usszQCIxW6vkjXCzTMA0R3wtqkEhxhfMG533U3RvNgsGG6ewo9rkK1osYGk4teNELOcsKTW2A1Bg5sEhbUfxptlYvsZhkKrQkxOKME1ec_wjgnQpPuz0Ghw/s1600/Tarifa+286.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1uYc40bsjA9IsnV5El3Q6usszQCIxW6vkjXCzTMA0R3wtqkEhxhfMG533U3RvNgsGG6ewo9rkK1osYGk4teNELOcsKTW2A1Bg5sEhbUfxptlYvsZhkKrQkxOKME1ec_wjgnQpPuz0Ghw/s200/Tarifa+286.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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We are now back at site tying up projects and thinking about packing up. It’s hard to believe we only have six weeks left. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRD0G2L8bnx09wTgKukx8c9PvlNPceyGNzYjnrpILvjnzYiBlX_Ee8T7oIbuE2jc0suhhbNuJI6QzqDpKOAIvuX_k4WyMyAID0BvX_bHfemNiEkuzx0Ot9Hbu97hj3lHHOmP0QtLgxukY/s1600/Tarifa+257.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRD0G2L8bnx09wTgKukx8c9PvlNPceyGNzYjnrpILvjnzYiBlX_Ee8T7oIbuE2jc0suhhbNuJI6QzqDpKOAIvuX_k4WyMyAID0BvX_bHfemNiEkuzx0Ot9Hbu97hj3lHHOmP0QtLgxukY/s200/Tarifa+257.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-61386306357129913222012-08-08T05:24:00.001-07:002012-08-08T05:25:38.629-07:00Success in Santa Fe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiwcwOg61vwgzAcepfxs-s2HxW8XE5Nd1fSQArIGJjZgAE0kB6z8YuputW6fRzv-Dr7pgtGwRaUxnsGafAv4uInOqdhm9BSCauANiC7HiKtUF2USb28DCl_dlbFgZT6BrbTZpSLjRhbjI/s1600/599538_10151037200039604_847746273_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="213" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiwcwOg61vwgzAcepfxs-s2HxW8XE5Nd1fSQArIGJjZgAE0kB6z8YuputW6fRzv-Dr7pgtGwRaUxnsGafAv4uInOqdhm9BSCauANiC7HiKtUF2USb28DCl_dlbFgZT6BrbTZpSLjRhbjI/s320/599538_10151037200039604_847746273_n.jpg" /></a></div>The project we have been working on for the last ten months is finished. The Santa Fe International Folkart Market is over and Fatima and Hind have returned home. <br />
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All the industrious carpet weaving, forms sending, picture taking, budgeting, fundraising, document gathering, marketing, label sewing, packing, shipping, and planning were worth it as <br />
Adwal had a successful market experience. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz3axYfXK1lIeSut0gul9J_qKwAuNM2P11-07vf9uH0u7NMs_NmxmO0G9zGu3m5j0v3xeTEgWoDO6czGeNqzf_y3sVh8uyFAGygsS7dm-zlUqEY7V_pM49CIDyp2yEDUBavm1lw1KvoCU/s1600/399527_10151037195719604_1179036068_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="140" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz3axYfXK1lIeSut0gul9J_qKwAuNM2P11-07vf9uH0u7NMs_NmxmO0G9zGu3m5j0v3xeTEgWoDO6czGeNqzf_y3sVh8uyFAGygsS7dm-zlUqEY7V_pM49CIDyp2yEDUBavm1lw1KvoCU/s200/399527_10151037195719604_1179036068_n.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMYH9WzkOn9vlDvtvDXWXE3DrOl9ckHYGoBlityGpgG66nuLGZSkHfhCewfI2r2hAIeFazfRe24OCw5bLoY_V-PjpWPfEIDbfjdWKyBpjcgKSefalQFMnO9IQ_mowJNvOT3VOEHs0ic0/s1600/318758_10151037197049604_436081539_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="133" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMYH9WzkOn9vlDvtvDXWXE3DrOl9ckHYGoBlityGpgG66nuLGZSkHfhCewfI2r2hAIeFazfRe24OCw5bLoY_V-PjpWPfEIDbfjdWKyBpjcgKSefalQFMnO9IQ_mowJNvOT3VOEHs0ic0/s200/318758_10151037197049604_436081539_n.jpg" /></a></div><br />
They sold nearly everything they took either at the Market or later as they toured California, attended the Convergence Conference of the Handweavers’ Guild of America, spoke to the Textile Museum Associates, and attended several house parties in their honor. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQuE1_orQ3hxQYNxdhFAdwwN9HNrZmK9694DJCgRQIJpR8nSGaPZfbMOPo2zMXzGwDOFIdJSntoblqHkqEJcGfw91E3I50qQ8FrxNAM4cDcsblTGoTpnbSVNzuLcyvTwlopD4_hrr1Wz0/s1600/599820_10151037197914604_1950385009_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQuE1_orQ3hxQYNxdhFAdwwN9HNrZmK9694DJCgRQIJpR8nSGaPZfbMOPo2zMXzGwDOFIdJSntoblqHkqEJcGfw91E3I50qQ8FrxNAM4cDcsblTGoTpnbSVNzuLcyvTwlopD4_hrr1Wz0/s200/599820_10151037197914604_1950385009_n.jpg" /></a></div>Exhausted but elated, they returned to Morocco with new business, weaving, and natural dyeing skills which will be shared with the other Adwal members. The contacts they made, along with their western market experience and newly acquired skills will hopefully lead to future sales. Adwal has entered the international marketplace! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtLQM6nREX4bZ0UlH_O6J8B52v1GyXODOwbZB7vFvpLJV-I_it_-vS377BSdDDaBpwz90RYuJOgWGtzDQuuhyphenhyphene3uuoOFD9VIYL-MG9sBTwdc4HPltraH7EaibGwzg7sC0z6KFYG_8FNSY/s1600/IMG_1000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtLQM6nREX4bZ0UlH_O6J8B52v1GyXODOwbZB7vFvpLJV-I_it_-vS377BSdDDaBpwz90RYuJOgWGtzDQuuhyphenhyphene3uuoOFD9VIYL-MG9sBTwdc4HPltraH7EaibGwzg7sC0z6KFYG_8FNSY/s200/IMG_1000.jpg" /></a></div>Since I did not accompany them to Santa Fe, all the photos shown here were taken by Lynn Dines, RPCV, who generously offered her time and expertise to attend the Market with Fatima and Hind and host them on the California leg of their US journey.<br />
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For everyone who assisted them in this endeavor, Fatima and Hind would like to say:<br />
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“We want to thank all people that make our trip easy and and help us to have the opportunity to have this very good experience in USA thank you so much and god bless your hearts .thank you. “<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVmhKZ_YCB01pQQ8k_Sy1oVpubHQQ2nWPsgdWNTLVxZUGmCc7Whkte7U7i347oHhlJC7zBWsyoBGPR3GrtIvM4YmVI9o2mqn7dnAEfRP9Cc27u48OmZJ4bz2ERJRBCQFTHybzefY_WZqE/s1600/376285_10151037197479604_798269216_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="133" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVmhKZ_YCB01pQQ8k_Sy1oVpubHQQ2nWPsgdWNTLVxZUGmCc7Whkte7U7i347oHhlJC7zBWsyoBGPR3GrtIvM4YmVI9o2mqn7dnAEfRP9Cc27u48OmZJ4bz2ERJRBCQFTHybzefY_WZqE/s200/376285_10151037197479604_798269216_n.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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<br />Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-11881174416881063032012-07-08T20:47:00.000-07:002012-09-26T04:18:00.597-07:004th of July Berber Wedding<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQCgTwTiSdukJUPuGJQdIFhgYEj9Kxpdjj3iGiGKqwTZgiFbJephdPxNU2LFlWIpD6_hgLv_SJtcCdWKeJWqFCCVQmUvF704Q6gyWwQfOvbGbjotE8yks2sapq8MGt1UyOOG6cHfuKloQ/s1600/P1070882+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQCgTwTiSdukJUPuGJQdIFhgYEj9Kxpdjj3iGiGKqwTZgiFbJephdPxNU2LFlWIpD6_hgLv_SJtcCdWKeJWqFCCVQmUvF704Q6gyWwQfOvbGbjotE8yks2sapq8MGt1UyOOG6cHfuKloQ/s320/P1070882+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div>What do you do on the 4th of July in Morocco where there are no barbequed ribs, or beer, or fireworks? You go to a Berber wedding. This wedding was different from others we have attended and observed on neighboring rooftops. It was a traditional Berber wedding starting with the bride’s henna party and continuing the next day and throughout the night until early morning. We weren’t sure who was getting married, except that it was a relative of the couscous co-op women who are nearly all related. Part of what made it fun was that we knew so many people there. The henna party is usually for women and girls with the men hanging around outside and drinking tea. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP_-HQQGlgxfNBaoNgtPNvALjQXF9vf1GfBduf96b7-Qg8qOS5sju5_zY4QfUibuuQCqV5wscYQGEYNnYEL5_cMDEQYpL263wtQqiipNsy05JqRgrApvcAIGAIeP5uFstUbwJQXvgIRD8/s1600/P1070909.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP_-HQQGlgxfNBaoNgtPNvALjQXF9vf1GfBduf96b7-Qg8qOS5sju5_zY4QfUibuuQCqV5wscYQGEYNnYEL5_cMDEQYpL263wtQqiipNsy05JqRgrApvcAIGAIeP5uFstUbwJQXvgIRD8/s320/P1070909.JPG" /></a></div>The bride was dressed in a beautiful gauzy green dress with masses of gold trim, but the other guests were dressed in their day pajamas with many wearing aprons as they were cooking for about a hundred people at the same time. A lunch was served the next day and for this occasion, the bride wore a traditional wedding handira which is a sort of two-sided carpet with large sequins that ties around the shoulders. It must have been incredibly hot but the bride gamely danced away.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHRNipA8rhrHEvtF_lm3cgYh5RCiqtD2x2yXP4znRy8W3ri_EbmWtDt6laOSeP8EdUex3rtyD3t2BNTdRDsOtSbX25dRpdZRofmLuyBlBbcpCRxuhBhz4e6EyTG3Z_FNI8JAXP-QD_DbA/s1600/P1070911+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHRNipA8rhrHEvtF_lm3cgYh5RCiqtD2x2yXP4znRy8W3ri_EbmWtDt6laOSeP8EdUex3rtyD3t2BNTdRDsOtSbX25dRpdZRofmLuyBlBbcpCRxuhBhz4e6EyTG3Z_FNI8JAXP-QD_DbA/s200/P1070911+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div>The evening celebration was held outside. The night was cool and quite enjoyable. The women were now dressed in their sparkling, lacy, shiny wedding finery. One of the women took me into a bedroom and dressed me up in a tkshita, a wedding caftan with a wide belt. Throughout the second day and night there was much ululating, chanting, singing and dancing the hadous in which everyone joins hands with crossed arms and moves in a circle to the beat of the drum. Fortunately this was a dancing style I could manage.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OkppUzfPR9NRKBIZV5ewhMHv7XazvfjqbvlL20rhuF9WFYkiEnBqOAraoCvzGem7BikxMUW1GCHhu2xDlFbqCGxnr39pSr9T_kgJN05-RH5Z3q9RQHjDaIg4FzQL8OjwlrBWMVrYZY4/s1600/DSC02224.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="140" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OkppUzfPR9NRKBIZV5ewhMHv7XazvfjqbvlL20rhuF9WFYkiEnBqOAraoCvzGem7BikxMUW1GCHhu2xDlFbqCGxnr39pSr9T_kgJN05-RH5Z3q9RQHjDaIg4FzQL8OjwlrBWMVrYZY4/s200/DSC02224.JPG" /></a></div>The singing was a musical style known as ahwash, in which two large choruses engage in call-and-response vocals, accompanied by hand drums. At times it was just the women calling back and forth, at times just the men, and at times everyone. It had a very tribal sound. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5wVZnKCaEDk0JuGVdjo4ji7p9FNx4TGa90ArGCFiGsJA23rep2irkCei7etPnagKeDwxuhteDOPh03iV7rs5HnCe4Stnx2ll6zdQN6Cyd6-bu0AsGDjJxnBdnvliKh5hGNHYbQC6SMCQ/s1600/DSC02211.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="136" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5wVZnKCaEDk0JuGVdjo4ji7p9FNx4TGa90ArGCFiGsJA23rep2irkCei7etPnagKeDwxuhteDOPh03iV7rs5HnCe4Stnx2ll6zdQN6Cyd6-bu0AsGDjJxnBdnvliKh5hGNHYbQC6SMCQ/s200/DSC02211.JPG" /></a></div>The bride didn’t make her evening appearance until after midnight. This time she was dressed in a white sparkly wedding dress. One thing I didn’t understand was about the groom. He wasn’t there. Apparently he would come the day after and take the bride back to his home in Taza. I have no idea how they make it official without the groom. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvJYvIicAhqkyqYSeisDRVS4nNC0Xc1SEp6w7V6H2Iztom72CSyte4iSzLLzQq6LDEq0iAuayIMzHr6rKsYeEKViQDVW87f0Llp8ek_uNBIHJhVkOI4rTH64Spkn9LMwqFP-Q6wuj3f0w/s1600/DSC02196.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvJYvIicAhqkyqYSeisDRVS4nNC0Xc1SEp6w7V6H2Iztom72CSyte4iSzLLzQq6LDEq0iAuayIMzHr6rKsYeEKViQDVW87f0Llp8ek_uNBIHJhVkOI4rTH64Spkn9LMwqFP-Q6wuj3f0w/s200/DSC02196.JPG" /></a></div>We didn’t make it to the 4:30 am end but stayed long enough to eat twice—chicken tagine, goat tagine, and sweet couscous—hand rolled of course by the couscous ladies.<br />
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So we spent the most American of holidays at the most Moroccan of celebrations. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbBD0TI0PJPqSN3pwwsvHC-hoos8gM1UT_729dXbfHX4_s4oEw11WeRCib-zC3L8es6qecoazsCIrKHeD-fejo4GUGpbFxVllaCeZretoRnvJJdv4jFCKlf4XwC45wzTTl1_0_osrmcP4/s1600/DSC02227.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbBD0TI0PJPqSN3pwwsvHC-hoos8gM1UT_729dXbfHX4_s4oEw11WeRCib-zC3L8es6qecoazsCIrKHeD-fejo4GUGpbFxVllaCeZretoRnvJJdv4jFCKlf4XwC45wzTTl1_0_osrmcP4/s320/DSC02227.JPG" /></a></div>Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-88240178772216162642012-07-03T06:18:00.000-07:002012-09-26T04:15:28.951-07:00Typical Summer Morning at the Co-op<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbDmTS7V7X8EcktBa6Z-GGtNnpBXTjFWsh-Uvo-Wqd7N0AWtMbiAj5p40UXPb9Nhgw0CpWJ0yDBUyjK6qSRv21YIGtUUUGwBqjcWNPapdTOjz4k3CRvyU9A2FyNBtMbAqxPvB-94u1h9A/s1600/Goats+at+Co-op+Adwal.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbDmTS7V7X8EcktBa6Z-GGtNnpBXTjFWsh-Uvo-Wqd7N0AWtMbiAj5p40UXPb9Nhgw0CpWJ0yDBUyjK6qSRv21YIGtUUUGwBqjcWNPapdTOjz4k3CRvyU9A2FyNBtMbAqxPvB-94u1h9A/s320/Goats+at+Co-op+Adwal.JPG" /></a></div>This morning at Cooperative Adwal, I sat with the women on a large red and white shaggy wool carpet placed near the door to catch any little breeze. I helped thread muzuns (large sequins) on short lengths of string to be incorporated into a carpet just started on the loom. The work was tedious yet peaceful. We listened to Moroccan music on Z's mobile phone and the shouts of boys playing soccer in the street. The basha's driver came by and greeted everyone, then roared off on his little motorbike. A herd of goats ambled by the doorway. These are things I will miss.Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-42745135644552370062012-06-20T07:50:00.000-07:002012-07-05T02:15:48.000-07:00Summertime, and the Living's Not Easy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5D__VU_LTJLv5NzC3aIkrPiJueGQ8bHglVKuRwNY0i0_nrHKrQcRt31mgQlD0Mi7a7rCaFsKyNi5-3JCtNGcKdksEXo98_69f50n9_CoxhsPAugkoykhASffLajeuy-XMgRdEhTFSQjg/s1600/Getting+ready+for+Santa+Fe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="190" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5D__VU_LTJLv5NzC3aIkrPiJueGQ8bHglVKuRwNY0i0_nrHKrQcRt31mgQlD0Mi7a7rCaFsKyNi5-3JCtNGcKdksEXo98_69f50n9_CoxhsPAugkoykhASffLajeuy-XMgRdEhTFSQjg/s320/Getting+ready+for+Santa+Fe.JPG" /></a>
L-hamdullah! The carpets have been shipped to Santa Fe for the July International Folk Art Market. But like most things, it did not go smoothly. It turns out that the special artisan price that we had originally been quoted by DHL was only available with the submission of a form that had to be filled out with a typewriter—not a pen, not online, only a typewriter. Now you would think that in a third world country, typewriters would be readily available, but not even Fatima knew where to find one, nor did DHL. (I later heard that the police station fills out their reports on a typewriter—should have guessed). The form also had to be signed and stamped by the Ministry of Commerce, so good luck getting that done in the two days we had before the shipping deadline. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjjsyO3ly1_LWLMv_cW1XOC1U6v-oElGq6oQ6AhVntHM5-ZJtDCXAkd_NohFdkD1Ojcbz9augv-o3Q9ubE_yTSpYfAImDFqZgmujcIoJzx41jcLz_DONwxTexcqiG83jYm-uwpit5nXAc/s1600/Getting+ready+for+Santa+Fe+012+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="154" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjjsyO3ly1_LWLMv_cW1XOC1U6v-oElGq6oQ6AhVntHM5-ZJtDCXAkd_NohFdkD1Ojcbz9augv-o3Q9ubE_yTSpYfAImDFqZgmujcIoJzx41jcLz_DONwxTexcqiG83jYm-uwpit5nXAc/s200/Getting+ready+for+Santa+Fe+012+-+Copy.JPG" /></a>
So we gave up and paid a higher price. Then the next day we were notified that the shipment had been held up in Casablanca for “high value” requiring yet another piece of paper. Several phone calls and the intervention of Peace Corps finally got the shipment moving. Ten days later, our two-day delivery arrived at its destination. Close enough.
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFEZC3m3xeOMEPeSbaufZjOZJwB46VT35hOoB208wzctE8-o_eVkHU-uXqD40b1et1ZfWqn4qcBNrjqEkCwP3kmYD0aEHf1TB3alwiI8-2XorRUvgYzbaoYWmkal0O7gJZXNwKLQrZ5CM/s1600/ccaa5d19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFEZC3m3xeOMEPeSbaufZjOZJwB46VT35hOoB208wzctE8-o_eVkHU-uXqD40b1et1ZfWqn4qcBNrjqEkCwP3kmYD0aEHf1TB3alwiI8-2XorRUvgYzbaoYWmkal0O7gJZXNwKLQrZ5CM/s200/ccaa5d19.jpg" /></a>
In late May, the green fields surrounding the town turned to amber with ripening grain rippling in the breeze. The walk to the souk through barley fields was a surreal experience as only people’s heads appeared above the shoulder-high stalks. But it’s harvest time now so that the beautiful grain fields will be turned into brown stubble until they are plowed under in the fall and the winter rains come again. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW4Mu-lNvic1kULCUcMTs07MYcRkA3nsC5nwrLDBw5d2nlQVb4_o3sGLMeq-f_Ig1-UDzrbJI0frntEb0JFMUfZd-QIm411wVRHLNEC9CdDKDk7hL0LgIGU-tzV3qGaDwClP7hBEUH1y4/s1600/2375b673.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW4Mu-lNvic1kULCUcMTs07MYcRkA3nsC5nwrLDBw5d2nlQVb4_o3sGLMeq-f_Ig1-UDzrbJI0frntEb0JFMUfZd-QIm411wVRHLNEC9CdDKDk7hL0LgIGU-tzV3qGaDwClP7hBEUH1y4/s200/2375b673.jpg" /></a>
Harvesting on the family owned farms is done by hand the old-fashioned way. The grain is cut with a scythe, tied in bundles which are loaded on a donkey then transported to a stack where they await the mill. Most of the wheat in the surrounding fields will be milled and consumed locally. From field to loaf of bread is a visible process here. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhznkyGWcvXYugT9b-tvlB0T-96SEMSaPQaxelzy0NGaAORup4iL-8hW50WbJeN1Kvw6R35HGfkpJ2i0WPUrNQgaJ9inqQeSNAITfSRIGaGhPouPShKNXxIUydwA048EZgPwdiyT28h2PY/s1600/1c1a5748.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhznkyGWcvXYugT9b-tvlB0T-96SEMSaPQaxelzy0NGaAORup4iL-8hW50WbJeN1Kvw6R35HGfkpJ2i0WPUrNQgaJ9inqQeSNAITfSRIGaGhPouPShKNXxIUydwA048EZgPwdiyT28h2PY/s320/1c1a5748.jpg" /></a>Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-35135657355587061272012-06-06T15:14:00.000-07:002012-06-06T15:14:39.917-07:00Spring Getaway<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCpHYIeY8K69PV1_jLr_e4JB7w7tRkqviwRVMGoasNQsY8om0MAey_SdO0adXHW3bs2pWTuYDJVf75f28zmc8y2IxUu1iD0xzOo4d_cf0L233-0JiwZkxnd0pMDM08PbfZ1vf3h5W7fQQ/s1600/Venice+%2526+Croatia+035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCpHYIeY8K69PV1_jLr_e4JB7w7tRkqviwRVMGoasNQsY8om0MAey_SdO0adXHW3bs2pWTuYDJVf75f28zmc8y2IxUu1iD0xzOo4d_cf0L233-0JiwZkxnd0pMDM08PbfZ1vf3h5W7fQQ/s320/Venice+%2526+Croatia+035.JPG" /></a>
Now and then I feel the introvert’s need to regain my feeling of anonymity in the world, and what better place than among the tourist hordes in Piazza San Marco in Venice?
Venice reminds me of an aging movie star—still beautiful but faded with her best days clearly behind her. She badly needs a makeover, but it won’t disguise the fact that she’s slowly slipping away. That said, we had a wonderful time there strolling the back streets where there were no crowds at all, marveling at the beautiful architecture,<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia0m31DhVFxt7M5QKsjF3I4ZguZKGCoHd6dFoEcLLWE_lcjkWMh1uEUiUWhsu5siQ6l6vzgheMf2Uln4F3Ydtge1air4ME7lDukBkeWGyoSaqY4Sm7BcUQXcGSQv5T5alChyfjec4yrJs/s1600/Venice+%2526+Croatia+026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia0m31DhVFxt7M5QKsjF3I4ZguZKGCoHd6dFoEcLLWE_lcjkWMh1uEUiUWhsu5siQ6l6vzgheMf2Uln4F3Ydtge1air4ME7lDukBkeWGyoSaqY4Sm7BcUQXcGSQv5T5alChyfjec4yrJs/s200/Venice+%2526+Croatia+026.JPG" /></a>
seeing the sights, but mostly discovering great little places to eat and drink and while away a couple of hours in the beautiful spring weather. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2tFSkCrKNUs6iMes8D5mfdJ2X8pPJuttDYqm6vud2ca9cbvMImWDHmR5y3QTeT1d6a3vK__q1aap1P0unxgOFITDThbTw0Q0Yh5ikWfx4C3P4y1elh-1wtG63JX-E2GH1zrurqYveEGU/s1600/P1070121.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2tFSkCrKNUs6iMes8D5mfdJ2X8pPJuttDYqm6vud2ca9cbvMImWDHmR5y3QTeT1d6a3vK__q1aap1P0unxgOFITDThbTw0Q0Yh5ikWfx4C3P4y1elh-1wtG63JX-E2GH1zrurqYveEGU/s200/P1070121.jpg" /></a>
We did feel the first earthquake in northern Italy which shook us out of our sleep and rattled the closet doors in the room. I recognized it instantly as an earthquake and it was confirmed by the morning news. Fortunately there was no visible damage in Venice.
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh04j0T1qj0qs5wmlxIDW1ai_t_VFoesjvzyK6WCWj2yrD93FsyHku10qYd6mBnDRCXsbcoUyhWAHYTgR6s7hWzs-7M6ffyN9EZRXoFIf6GwKlLOf5dtTPYSfNHgu8wQBoQM1ZldbfIKcw/s1600/Venice+%2526+Croatia+079.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh04j0T1qj0qs5wmlxIDW1ai_t_VFoesjvzyK6WCWj2yrD93FsyHku10qYd6mBnDRCXsbcoUyhWAHYTgR6s7hWzs-7M6ffyN9EZRXoFIf6GwKlLOf5dtTPYSfNHgu8wQBoQM1ZldbfIKcw/s320/Venice+%2526+Croatia+079.JPG" /></a>
When we‘d had our fill of crowds, we took the ferry to Rovinj in the Istrian peninsula of Croatia. I loved Croatia. It felt like my vision of Italy of old. The cobblestone streets were swept and washed every morning, the Adriatic Sea sparkled with clear, clean water, boats bobbed in the harbor, and the food was a delicious blend of Italian, Mediterranean, and Hungarian, with fresh seafood featured in nearly every dish. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE5P7HmAYaB6Y-ok6spmzgt5g52QsrcmKBsYyEAPjorajao71f2hsv4Fk4ppL3F8Z7WeTxpa4E8lW6fFD-gx3rfwB1jufTFuIovmfe3gnNR4Y0GBDZ_6N_KT4naUYPsHkoF3ddosSw7R4/s1600/Venice+%2526+Croatia+042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="137" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE5P7HmAYaB6Y-ok6spmzgt5g52QsrcmKBsYyEAPjorajao71f2hsv4Fk4ppL3F8Z7WeTxpa4E8lW6fFD-gx3rfwB1jufTFuIovmfe3gnNR4Y0GBDZ_6N_KT4naUYPsHkoF3ddosSw7R4/s200/Venice+%2526+Croatia+042.JPG" /></a> When we tired of fish, we could eat goulash or roast pork loin washed down with an Ozujsko, the local beer. The locals in that part of the country regularly speak Croatian, Italian, German, and English. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYN85L1N0-TQHhtHj_VlsFAiMcdyNC_3uzne4JX1I4e7W285lr9mtIgtIy5h9GJB_wNWmmVEpbrrbP7gm-WexMGKet5vUtYIi4XHPUx8mmA5VvJKn4o9Mohspv6X1RUBzpYN_HDZGhFFM/s1600/P1070399.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYN85L1N0-TQHhtHj_VlsFAiMcdyNC_3uzne4JX1I4e7W285lr9mtIgtIy5h9GJB_wNWmmVEpbrrbP7gm-WexMGKet5vUtYIi4XHPUx8mmA5VvJKn4o9Mohspv6X1RUBzpYN_HDZGhFFM/s200/P1070399.jpg" /></a>
We visited churches, a castle over a deep ravine that inspired Jules Verne, traveled through the beautiful green countryside, took a boat up a fiord and visited an island with Roman ruins where Tito had his summer home for 30 years. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCerRYVtLHdKHxRzUyR5zORcR_aXCfeDukAtcAIRLAUWyAPqUUJUCDBW3cv-czQmpXsViERMM2Pc_qPYhw8MSXFv6F5REPUZgDkKYa4zawrWB9xTHm-pexvqJCCC1OCb2Kd8q_oHLXA0M/s1600/P1070456.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCerRYVtLHdKHxRzUyR5zORcR_aXCfeDukAtcAIRLAUWyAPqUUJUCDBW3cv-czQmpXsViERMM2Pc_qPYhw8MSXFv6F5REPUZgDkKYa4zawrWB9xTHm-pexvqJCCC1OCb2Kd8q_oHLXA0M/s200/P1070456.jpg" /></a>
It was fascinating to see all the exotic animals still living there (gifts to Tito from heads of state) and his 1953 custom made Cadillac convertible in which he reportedly tried to seduce Gina Lollobrigida. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkT6D4tg-9Ea3ZLyP5vLL7xve6J80yUF17Ntt0MZVvpd7YABP61MX2TcXDkGl8cLgF6DftR30cGNUBkqrH9uVfGw2m-dvZUoccp2BODfjtYnHtyl-0eIbu5lzVbf9qHbrp-hCMopgFHFk/s1600/Venice+%2526+Croatia+132.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkT6D4tg-9Ea3ZLyP5vLL7xve6J80yUF17Ntt0MZVvpd7YABP61MX2TcXDkGl8cLgF6DftR30cGNUBkqrH9uVfGw2m-dvZUoccp2BODfjtYnHtyl-0eIbu5lzVbf9qHbrp-hCMopgFHFk/s200/Venice+%2526+Croatia+132.JPG" /></a>
Okay so this wasn’t a highbrow trip, but it was fun and relaxing. Best of all was just being by the sea, hanging out in a fishing village, and watching the sunset.
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMJ_hW3WwlSJmYokoxM_WE6VH8D6kcyL3G0EjyGosmo4jx2_uV8LDoHP_YqjQupzmezYRN65DA0L4NmEtt2gvZQjw3j3bzMncuX6RRxE8WypD798Fi-nm4TNYXpO_oRsSNVsctwbSkMU/s1600/Venice+%2526+Croatia+139.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMJ_hW3WwlSJmYokoxM_WE6VH8D6kcyL3G0EjyGosmo4jx2_uV8LDoHP_YqjQupzmezYRN65DA0L4NmEtt2gvZQjw3j3bzMncuX6RRxE8WypD798Fi-nm4TNYXpO_oRsSNVsctwbSkMU/s320/Venice+%2526+Croatia+139.JPG" /></a>Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-75910772286120253572012-05-07T09:22:00.000-07:002012-05-07T09:22:59.468-07:00Marche Maroc Fes, 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Tka3lPsOCMIkRoYC2sQtbMMauEuTg6lGmynNZzBzBghvRY9DkmaYFXKP3luEyphU0SvlomhdkBeO4HtJIXHBzquC5m0vbkkDAkaHGapmUEDp3OqnQpsYkkB3PsEptI0G9KBc8TYGT2M/s1600/Marche+Maroc+Fez+2012+027.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Tka3lPsOCMIkRoYC2sQtbMMauEuTg6lGmynNZzBzBghvRY9DkmaYFXKP3luEyphU0SvlomhdkBeO4HtJIXHBzquC5m0vbkkDAkaHGapmUEDp3OqnQpsYkkB3PsEptI0G9KBc8TYGT2M/s320/Marche+Maroc+Fez+2012+027.JPG" /></a></div>
Last week was the last public Marche Maroc. These craft fairs were started by the Small Business Development PCVs in Morocco and are ending now that our sector is being phased out to concentrate on youth development. There will be another craft fair in Rabat mid-May but it’s a private fair for the American community and Embassy staff.
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The good news is that the artisans have formed an Association of Artisans with the idea of continuing the markets. Zahara Amchech of Cooperative Adwal was chosen as 1st vice President of the board of directors. Given her will and fiery spirit, I have reason to think they will make a good effort.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRhEZjQLgdLkLjLMHqtiY70JLTuNlGGwv8DNE2zt_LgLD3matfe9UaVKO0ozGQW7ecGbySgQkd3MH-7hgj4aFSRtrqb5nEJthCuM28MTjv5LloFTzzkn4cCizgkpNrm0KPBtiC49LCyU/s1600/Marche+Maroc+Fez+2012+016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRhEZjQLgdLkLjLMHqtiY70JLTuNlGGwv8DNE2zt_LgLD3matfe9UaVKO0ozGQW7ecGbySgQkd3MH-7hgj4aFSRtrqb5nEJthCuM28MTjv5LloFTzzkn4cCizgkpNrm0KPBtiC49LCyU/s200/Marche+Maroc+Fez+2012+016.JPG" /></a></div>
One of our favorite spots in the medina, Cafe Clock, generously offered us an unused room for a showroom with the idea of showcasing some of the products available at the market. Unfortunately, the room was accessed down a dodgy looking alley between two chicken butchers and wasn't much visited. If only tourists had discovered it, they could have had a hassle-free, fixed price, authentic artisan shopping experience.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsb5EFIy4uhPoXtij5J5yUECR09QEBmmwjOYPa8ydJ-6cLhS8xJesZ__8cixPMzwZ5n0qgFGTG2lygf5S9u7aSq4CY3z_khjDcQLItaSNLwhWUd6hAd2nk4gxwsFZbTmvqxrNqdM-LDpo/s1600/Marche+Maroc+Fez+2012+007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsb5EFIy4uhPoXtij5J5yUECR09QEBmmwjOYPa8ydJ-6cLhS8xJesZ__8cixPMzwZ5n0qgFGTG2lygf5S9u7aSq4CY3z_khjDcQLItaSNLwhWUd6hAd2nk4gxwsFZbTmvqxrNqdM-LDpo/s200/Marche+Maroc+Fez+2012+007.JPG" /></a></div>
On leaving Fes, we discovered the grand taxis were on strike. All this meant though was that we had to walk down the hill to the disgusting end of the taxi lot normally used as a latrine where the taxis were parked around the corner. From there they appeared to be doing business as usual. It was an exceptionally long wait though for the taxi to fill up.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEsMwIu64MUbeKtIY3YMZsSs9Z-RomEYfjCHybGQjNMMBWFBz0sQeBUpyKQ6lrBjqZp7mq6fvp40Y2hiAMBWktY2oH60dNYP-CXB_jIv0pDm_MGol2WlEIswd8SD_8N_GjZwzMKDfZAxU/s1600/Marche+Maroc+Fez+2012+006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEsMwIu64MUbeKtIY3YMZsSs9Z-RomEYfjCHybGQjNMMBWFBz0sQeBUpyKQ6lrBjqZp7mq6fvp40Y2hiAMBWktY2oH60dNYP-CXB_jIv0pDm_MGol2WlEIswd8SD_8N_GjZwzMKDfZAxU/s200/Marche+Maroc+Fez+2012+006.JPG" /></a></div>
A young vendor brought out a plastic chair for me to sit on and gave me a tiny stuffed bear from his cart. It’s moments like those which make the other not-so-nice times bearable.
Back in REK it was still cold although the predictions for this week are in the 90’s. So it seems we will go from the freezer to the frying pan. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcLSh1m2BITcKTiXr9hxXqNLGK42AvlKDGm85AvvhzGivzvMhw9H5W69H6lk4WPZZ9I5rsrj45l2i61Y2mnaYtCtELu0KUML_tooD69ZJWS8h_jj57gu1J5mQDiwtX5bjukYnWVJiExIM/s1600/Marche+Maroc+Fez+2012+032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcLSh1m2BITcKTiXr9hxXqNLGK42AvlKDGm85AvvhzGivzvMhw9H5W69H6lk4WPZZ9I5rsrj45l2i61Y2mnaYtCtELu0KUML_tooD69ZJWS8h_jj57gu1J5mQDiwtX5bjukYnWVJiExIM/s320/Marche+Maroc+Fez+2012+032.JPG" /></a></div>Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-86729745253544516212012-04-08T15:16:00.000-07:002012-04-08T15:16:24.891-07:00NOW winter is over (Maybe)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPKgIzGfywp3tha72h4H8T8fnNCw8JqdovylE02iDoa8YNpwKAU-5L9Oxix9HA14rbK1k3IeaEaFTtvvgrlI_VqHNt5bWg7jQAdg1RWyxWO-MmaKSpSeiJjMCi8M4CPCKj8a4zc28iXlI/s1600/Sprng+2012+110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPKgIzGfywp3tha72h4H8T8fnNCw8JqdovylE02iDoa8YNpwKAU-5L9Oxix9HA14rbK1k3IeaEaFTtvvgrlI_VqHNt5bWg7jQAdg1RWyxWO-MmaKSpSeiJjMCi8M4CPCKj8a4zc28iXlI/s320/Sprng+2012+110.JPG" /></a></div>I have not been motivated to write anything for the last month. This has been a trying time for me both psychologically and physically, so I was following the adage “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Winter was NOT over as last I wrote. BUT, today was finally a beautiful glorious day. The sun shown, it was warm, the wind wasn’t blowing, and it didn’t rain. It was a perfect day for a walk on the well-worn path along the ridge which connects the main part of town to the original settlement. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaGSPEa2hBiIGilt8wopvZj2EdFqPwDQzqbm9JalGBrZ9U6ShU8WD9UBIyijtWjlBLa7XJ_9aI7oCwR0FkVchIRLra-Z2ONi919Wpa4AHTB7SOeYqiPrbJsAhaYiAkwCCBZiIPr0ivz34/s1600/Sprng+2012+114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaGSPEa2hBiIGilt8wopvZj2EdFqPwDQzqbm9JalGBrZ9U6ShU8WD9UBIyijtWjlBLa7XJ_9aI7oCwR0FkVchIRLra-Z2ONi919Wpa4AHTB7SOeYqiPrbJsAhaYiAkwCCBZiIPr0ivz34/s200/Sprng+2012+114.JPG" /></a></div> The old part feels like a rural village with its mellow sound of animals rather than the usual cacophony of engines, saws, mills, and loud voices all talking at once. There is new snow on the mountains and wildflowers in the fields. Goats, sheep, and donkeys graze happily on the green grass. Apple and cherry trees are blooming.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjToa7mp6YSpaFCAVqTivg07E7YcKWNHnfylo9GheMDmxF4PWsvp2MtCDsDdBN4Yumo_CmatE3jizMqH3qa5-BDG3_n09QIk4kv7kwErKhZhNRovmmgiJF7VIAIi8agxZbMbsTxKr_XOhc/s1600/Sprng+2012+116.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjToa7mp6YSpaFCAVqTivg07E7YcKWNHnfylo9GheMDmxF4PWsvp2MtCDsDdBN4Yumo_CmatE3jizMqH3qa5-BDG3_n09QIk4kv7kwErKhZhNRovmmgiJF7VIAIi8agxZbMbsTxKr_XOhc/s200/Sprng+2012+116.JPG" /></a></div>We met two Berber women on the walk, one with the traditional tattooed face, in the old town. They consented to having their pictures taken, then invited us to their house for tea. This is customary of Moroccans—the most generous and welcoming people I have ever met. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkdGXrOfgUXshwz_VfIlybzwy1QHMSH2GG7yOVx5Sx6FK2gVasaQoAO5WCZPFzrlbUqMguDxSrM23I99xrkCckqkFjfHRQeMdF29W-zQ71RQIM5GKsNMzNGbLuvY96ZT-mXOxPVAGdErM/s1600/dougs+pic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkdGXrOfgUXshwz_VfIlybzwy1QHMSH2GG7yOVx5Sx6FK2gVasaQoAO5WCZPFzrlbUqMguDxSrM23I99xrkCckqkFjfHRQeMdF29W-zQ71RQIM5GKsNMzNGbLuvY96ZT-mXOxPVAGdErM/s200/dougs+pic.JPG" /></a></div>We passed by a large group of boys who started in with the usual “bonjours”, but when I said we were Americans, one of the boys ran alongside me saying in English, “Hello, my name is Ali.” Our lovely walk ended at a café for coffees. There, I was excited to see two young girls sitting at an outside table with their fathers. Things are definitely looking up!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEfns8hlA7sKxZN4anDBmgwViC97qgP_CiU8KGjadM4xxRcVug8CSp2_XAKYJxEUAy_EhJ9Gvvb_gXoUaQ5d4WRj-F5YT8O4dRubNK63RQW0NHO_hN6HZvLRK2LXnkdysrXWvGHK1_GAw/s1600/Sprng+2012+128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEfns8hlA7sKxZN4anDBmgwViC97qgP_CiU8KGjadM4xxRcVug8CSp2_XAKYJxEUAy_EhJ9Gvvb_gXoUaQ5d4WRj-F5YT8O4dRubNK63RQW0NHO_hN6HZvLRK2LXnkdysrXWvGHK1_GAw/s200/Sprng+2012+128.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Happy Easter everyone. Enjoy your ham!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcplsBgveHcqFYr4qiQxUgiienLSVG3UnqKr12ieIUGsqeXyzuYW-XtlrmV2dVZ38xD8yZGldoNbWOiMAfBfb0Yi7PaVi_CIGPiLOq5dky26G68x2-MXaQi9DEn0zEq7cMZFKeV5sKKzM/s1600/Sprng+2012+124+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="280" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcplsBgveHcqFYr4qiQxUgiienLSVG3UnqKr12ieIUGsqeXyzuYW-XtlrmV2dVZ38xD8yZGldoNbWOiMAfBfb0Yi7PaVi_CIGPiLOq5dky26G68x2-MXaQi9DEn0zEq7cMZFKeV5sKKzM/s320/Sprng+2012+124+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6z5D8NOKiJB1cNC24tZpAr1au7viej8AmHUfjKILdWTzBM4D0oKlpkYoXHJBu9GBbZT24Bt5ff9OcZ0bP1g_TwklVKFRMqPvMuGGur5b2HHvKNtVeSc-I_ekw_dimM0OTIHdysOFPNTE/s1600/Spring+042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6z5D8NOKiJB1cNC24tZpAr1au7viej8AmHUfjKILdWTzBM4D0oKlpkYoXHJBu9GBbZT24Bt5ff9OcZ0bP1g_TwklVKFRMqPvMuGGur5b2HHvKNtVeSc-I_ekw_dimM0OTIHdysOFPNTE/s320/Spring+042.JPG" /></a></div>Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-57451530637592897312012-03-15T11:59:00.000-07:002012-03-15T11:59:56.573-07:00Winter is Over<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjid4g4LNhj6sEWpudX1dvOKvO01cXI-7NP_BTk5IudGxL4iYgWY8-XzYCf-wzQCwTqYMAaGeHQvK-goUdjR4baaBkGqgm2LJ3Zbqy7i7biPJQhbBxn4-fhtNNQOo_RWOmKKLNF-imT7PQ/s1600/P1060441.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="263" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjid4g4LNhj6sEWpudX1dvOKvO01cXI-7NP_BTk5IudGxL4iYgWY8-XzYCf-wzQCwTqYMAaGeHQvK-goUdjR4baaBkGqgm2LJ3Zbqy7i7biPJQhbBxn4-fhtNNQOo_RWOmKKLNF-imT7PQ/s320/P1060441.JPG" /></a></div>Today after work we drank coffee at the café under a willow tree exploding in thin bight green leaves. Later we sat in the late afternoon sunshine on the balcony shelling new peas. The streets rang with the shouts of children running, playing ball, and chasing each other. Just like that, winter is over.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHnlJRIeDX1pduBu18w8g62jXAlWj5_QtYJ-717aYbviQculFwLfTWK1vCrTlFavxNduhhUxct4V7ErznUukR9_TUVCXsOTZmk-h9PQwcZo7-vA1b9Ze2vMdj5MnQ2pJTWG3r7mG2groU/s1600/P1060496.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHnlJRIeDX1pduBu18w8g62jXAlWj5_QtYJ-717aYbviQculFwLfTWK1vCrTlFavxNduhhUxct4V7ErznUukR9_TUVCXsOTZmk-h9PQwcZo7-vA1b9Ze2vMdj5MnQ2pJTWG3r7mG2groU/s200/P1060496.JPG" /></a></div>Cooperative Adwal is busy preparing for the Santa Fe International Folk Art Market. Both the women going to Santa Fe successfully applied for and received their visas to the US. I sat with Hind at the cyber as she filled out the State Department applications online, in English, with only a few questions. She is my tutor and friend and I have to say she has learned a lot more English than I have learned Arabic. Visiting the US is a long- time dream of hers and I‘m so glad it’s finally going to happen. Her sister, Adwal’s President, went last year to the 50th celebration of Peace Corps in Washington DC so it’s not a new experience for her, but she’ll be seeing an entirely different part of the US. With luck, my grant application will be funded so that they can also attend the Handweavers’ Guild of America conference in California and get to see LA and the Pacific Ocean.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT12bQvav5XV8gikh_QwpGXjxHc8D1qJB16hye5JBmWW4yg0awNRIOU9LrROZW7MFIIpq6ae-8ivCSm-xwRh6FG5jICCb3ZndwKSllfVeeCBQaGgxpwsrADalmdFQ6f9PR2b7scAATY3M/s1600/Jess%2527s+workshops+074.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT12bQvav5XV8gikh_QwpGXjxHc8D1qJB16hye5JBmWW4yg0awNRIOU9LrROZW7MFIIpq6ae-8ivCSm-xwRh6FG5jICCb3ZndwKSllfVeeCBQaGgxpwsrADalmdFQ6f9PR2b7scAATY3M/s200/Jess%2527s+workshops+074.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Last weekend, a British artist friend came to REK and put on a workshop for both my and Doug’s co-ops. One was on creativity and the other was on choosing a logo. They were both brilliant as she would say. The women were engaged and enthusiastic. Now we are looking into funding so that she can travel around Morocco and present similar workshops to other women’s co-ops. Since Peace Corps discontinued the small business development program in Morocco, I’d love to see something ongoing like this to add a little inspiration and motivation.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKS2-74cRdbydpioF1h-ElC5YP7PD2vHCAvjAxagxMm3F2wQdUEg4OSGoHTgjs9HnMtxSexcDBscKTtjYnvGEYN9Z62VHw14x_kUmJa8WUQutLp1V828kmbSEgIol2tbZFxefgMybPf0o/s1600/Rabat+%2526+Hillary+068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="173" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKS2-74cRdbydpioF1h-ElC5YP7PD2vHCAvjAxagxMm3F2wQdUEg4OSGoHTgjs9HnMtxSexcDBscKTtjYnvGEYN9Z62VHw14x_kUmJa8WUQutLp1V828kmbSEgIol2tbZFxefgMybPf0o/s200/Rabat+%2526+Hillary+068.JPG" /></a></div>Speaking of inspiration, we were fortunate to be invited to a “meet and greet” with Hillary Clinton at the American Embassy in Rabat. Several PCVs were there as well as the embassy staff and the press. We were as close as we’ll ever be to a US Cabinet Secretary. I didn’t get to shake her hand as some did, but I was impressed with her very personable yet commanding presence. I am a fan. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQtBqwQmvrz8xbVEpTPzuTfC03MemZjiUG1dsp47bHnvlZC-9Gner1GI41L1Dq1_MlEgwdr0qC42nc4zuhlFniEa8hQ3WQlzbk_2c4X8afoGeIzHwOXfPsSV44akxO6uHTEa23O10L8WQ/s1600/Rabat+%2526+Hillary+071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQtBqwQmvrz8xbVEpTPzuTfC03MemZjiUG1dsp47bHnvlZC-9Gner1GI41L1Dq1_MlEgwdr0qC42nc4zuhlFniEa8hQ3WQlzbk_2c4X8afoGeIzHwOXfPsSV44akxO6uHTEa23O10L8WQ/s320/Rabat+%2526+Hillary+071.JPG" /></a></div>Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-51000063751219944552012-02-10T14:02:00.000-08:002012-02-10T14:02:37.667-08:00Midnight Bus to Marrakesh<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhJ1oNHQBWjzAQdefWGFQIN7rRZrOzTdJC_EbfBEOxWBcaSBbXZ8jnsHdhV_Kn8BfsI-xgRyqR6zMIGwPn5z94VnJmPyIjPfPFcCcMWB_MoYGgRrdaPKhWCRyreE20uH2nd4DHG3jv14/s1600/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+062+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="308" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhJ1oNHQBWjzAQdefWGFQIN7rRZrOzTdJC_EbfBEOxWBcaSBbXZ8jnsHdhV_Kn8BfsI-xgRyqR6zMIGwPn5z94VnJmPyIjPfPFcCcMWB_MoYGgRrdaPKhWCRyreE20uH2nd4DHG3jv14/s320/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+062+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div>If any Peace Corps staff read this they will know that I violated the rule against traveling after dark. But honestly, if you have to commit 12 hours to a souk bus ride, wouldn’t you rather give up the night?—when there is at least a tiny chance of sleeping through part of it? The rule is for safety purposes, and young women or women traveling alone should definitely obey it, but my Moroccan traveling companion and I are both “mature” women who are relatively safe from harassment when traveling together. Since we were hauling several bags of carpets to Marche Maroc craft fair, it only made sense to take the only bus going all the way from REK to Marrakesh.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiI-TB1XxKU-blNkbfBTEYLwkjm2KWr-57VC5SO-NvSDdzcdG2lB4HBrxiwwdiNeHonGeKWNQowy2MZM0J7rFyRpB9frHdj5Xsug0xjy7D1saQ-mZxm9idtquIXwkVViA_Am_wM7WOwqc/s1600/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiI-TB1XxKU-blNkbfBTEYLwkjm2KWr-57VC5SO-NvSDdzcdG2lB4HBrxiwwdiNeHonGeKWNQowy2MZM0J7rFyRpB9frHdj5Xsug0xjy7D1saQ-mZxm9idtquIXwkVViA_Am_wM7WOwqc/s200/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+043.JPG" /></a></div><br />
The bus ride itself was bearable except for the constant coughing and sneezing from the person behind me without any attempt to cover nose or mouth. I rode most of the way with my face buried in my coat. The nearly unbearable part was the four hours spent in a cold bus station, which, like bus stations the world over, was populated with the homeless and mentally ill. At 4 am we were treated to a song and dance routine from a man who appeared to be unnaturally animated. Later, when my traveling companion went to pray, I was approached twice by toothless men whom I couldn’t understand. A third stopped and spat at my feet. When he reached out as if to grab my arm, I jumped up and yelled “go away from me!”. Three young men kindly grabbed him and steered him away. In only 10 minutes alone, I became a firm believer in the no–travel-after-dark rule. Never again.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxvnAzmfpIXxMdmmRMpWwIBploVY3f_nREShgUzx636JkBYhgZiA424dTFapVPDHm8i7qGi_JBX-o1AujCZYD1nkbedhiNy4A_pbZ3xMqUb4L3EzWZ2mZrd2DTxqMwd7Pf7TXj9OsP-xo/s1600/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="124" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxvnAzmfpIXxMdmmRMpWwIBploVY3f_nREShgUzx636JkBYhgZiA424dTFapVPDHm8i7qGi_JBX-o1AujCZYD1nkbedhiNy4A_pbZ3xMqUb4L3EzWZ2mZrd2DTxqMwd7Pf7TXj9OsP-xo/s200/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+069.JPG" /></a></div><br />
In Marrakesh, it was colder than I had hoped, but after the first day, the sun came out and warmed our bones. The craft tents were set up in what at first seemed an ideal location next to the main square where all the snake charmers and other tourist entertainers congregate. Plus, it was the weekend of the Marrakesh Marathon which brought an international crowd.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Uym59N18OB5en9bUoOsbnCTsDa4N_0sQltM1qjAm1m1-BR9am_8iAU9jwr4ShiMNgdqzheyVtFad4AIpJGSzfBzIIkxnBslqDBlYGrQxHBpuppteppkXodMCIosMxtu-_gb2PlN8pC4/s1600/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+047+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Uym59N18OB5en9bUoOsbnCTsDa4N_0sQltM1qjAm1m1-BR9am_8iAU9jwr4ShiMNgdqzheyVtFad4AIpJGSzfBzIIkxnBslqDBlYGrQxHBpuppteppkXodMCIosMxtu-_gb2PlN8pC4/s200/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+047+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div>Although well located, the park (dubbed “pee park” by a PCV) was ringed by horse drawn carriages which cut the tents off from view of the tourists passing in the street beyond and created unpleasant odors. Even though we didn’t get the hoped-for tourist crowds, there was a steady stream of locals who did buy things. My counterpart made travel expenses plus some so it was not a bust. We are all awaiting final sales figures to compare to previous markets. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIT-qH9A6uHO0Za5evhOIWKL7KP-tF2OUrMg2T1xb37KcgHZdr-uP0VbE7-5dDd4fjIqZppblbeHAy7W_EOnPC2dk8ykNiRxRLBTr9q7nDTFFdNfBYuSYlQz9wb_d3nKz4WNvF3rvCEvY/s1600/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIT-qH9A6uHO0Za5evhOIWKL7KP-tF2OUrMg2T1xb37KcgHZdr-uP0VbE7-5dDd4fjIqZppblbeHAy7W_EOnPC2dk8ykNiRxRLBTr9q7nDTFFdNfBYuSYlQz9wb_d3nKz4WNvF3rvCEvY/s200/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+057.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Since Morocco is discontinuing Peace Corps Small Business Development after our group leaves this fall, it’s not clear whether the artisans will continue these fairs without us. We will have at least two more this year and thankfully they are much closer to home.Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-13023320281793519292012-02-04T05:30:00.000-08:002012-02-04T05:30:43.813-08:00The Food Network Comes to Town<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZIkGRzwMFlFZ2YShCiM2R6067ThBlv8CZ0zUUtDlULFRblqaa7BEs6-WopkqnI8EcwwSpwXd6_BXRUvvSKi4ddNprHReXRYAHtRGdJyU8E86Mo08EDTWeTjchZxHQzSG0P5LrJm92p4/s1600/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+014+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="241" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZIkGRzwMFlFZ2YShCiM2R6067ThBlv8CZ0zUUtDlULFRblqaa7BEs6-WopkqnI8EcwwSpwXd6_BXRUvvSKi4ddNprHReXRYAHtRGdJyU8E86Mo08EDTWeTjchZxHQzSG0P5LrJm92p4/s320/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+014+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div>In my considerable daydreaming, I never imagined that an English television network would come to our little town. But they did. Jenny Morris <a href="http://www.jennymorris.co.za/"></a>, the “Giggling Gourmet” celebrity chef from South Africa is starring in several segments on Moroccan food for the Food Network EMEA (Europe, Middle East and Africa). One of the segments is on the making and cooking of couscous, a staple Moroccan food. Thanks to our connection with Gail of Fes Food, Cooperative Eljawda , a couscous and bread cooperative in Ribat El Kheir, was chosen for the filming. I think I was more excited than the women, possibly because they have never seen the show and don’t realize how widely distributed it is.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNkI3QG5wtoBBirk0Uhu1gtSIDVVnNOZc1MvmHRhOGH2dIZFzU7Ryk4MMWU51W4aiDRUtda-M-Duy0gca6ehA2lMEonfTU2bEfSUxKGnrBYYpOxeqxbaOtTHs0l6G9tnJf0a52ma4kdek/s1600/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+013+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="137" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNkI3QG5wtoBBirk0Uhu1gtSIDVVnNOZc1MvmHRhOGH2dIZFzU7Ryk4MMWU51W4aiDRUtda-M-Duy0gca6ehA2lMEonfTU2bEfSUxKGnrBYYpOxeqxbaOtTHs0l6G9tnJf0a52ma4kdek/s200/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+013+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div><br />
First, the co-op women were filmed making couscous from scratch—rolling, rubbing, and sieving, through three different sized baskets to produce progressively smaller uniform grains. This is an arduous process that is rarely done today outside of rural North Africa. Most couscous is now made by machine. Since it takes days to dry, the following cooking segment was filmed with couscous already dried. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2QXwabUt_Mo3svpPxuIYgn1ChiYumP9vZbIHoo7Dc2Os7V7oSZVZ07AU4VvBssYeA31_Pzs66y4BItvsotJ_7gHacPkuA2paIGWWUwdwbLcEoOR8Xr5LZ0jT09ytZQB50OpAAQUmH370/s1600/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+001+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2QXwabUt_Mo3svpPxuIYgn1ChiYumP9vZbIHoo7Dc2Os7V7oSZVZ07AU4VvBssYeA31_Pzs66y4BItvsotJ_7gHacPkuA2paIGWWUwdwbLcEoOR8Xr5LZ0jT09ytZQB50OpAAQUmH370/s200/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+001+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div>Jenny then set up on the ridge trail overlooking the valley to do her cooking segment where she made a sweet couscous dish (using my cloves!). We were extremely lucky to have a bright sunny day for the filming, and the snowcapped mountains made a dramatic backdrop. The co-op women were then brought in to taste the finished product. I missed this part since it had already gone dark and the final filming was done inside a house, so I will have to wait to see their reaction on (someone’s) TV.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtRD3slqmmABaA5HQlm2chcmiYkRxlZ-pk2fgb20kEIUKtFgR1hcRCmHFLZs1scR_qRKdLheOeXL1udQVg6cVK6NZFQ2K7Mt2YWd6ox8EN8QovDRUndlSn6zSVFwuEY7IGKrjOTh93tk/s1600/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+036+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtRD3slqmmABaA5HQlm2chcmiYkRxlZ-pk2fgb20kEIUKtFgR1hcRCmHFLZs1scR_qRKdLheOeXL1udQVg6cVK6NZFQ2K7Mt2YWd6ox8EN8QovDRUndlSn6zSVFwuEY7IGKrjOTh93tk/s200/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+036+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div><br />
A week later the film crew was back to do a segment on traditional olive oil pressing with the large stone horse-driven grinder. Jenny then made a salad with the olive oil in a dressing which Habib, the mill owner, and Doug were filmed tasting. I had to be away at a craft fair so I also missed this segment and will have to wait to see it. Who knows what will make it through the editing process and actually appear on the Food Network, but the film crew has promised us a DVD of the show.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUyeMRY1BFjKv9A9LeVd2gZ_WdFARub5_kea29vyqGIhus8_Ki4g5cWhMwlXddjCa4oGfyBstZEvI8UL5OSGrr2U0YNylI_uOD3IPUptRWdiuSP1-IOzhBMyvQ-YdrQfWBGryn1nl4DSQ/s1600/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+024+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUyeMRY1BFjKv9A9LeVd2gZ_WdFARub5_kea29vyqGIhus8_Ki4g5cWhMwlXddjCa4oGfyBstZEvI8UL5OSGrr2U0YNylI_uOD3IPUptRWdiuSP1-IOzhBMyvQ-YdrQfWBGryn1nl4DSQ/s200/BBC+filming+%2526+MM+Marrakesh+2012+024+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div>The actual filming was a rather tedious process with many stops and starts and redos. Mostly we had to sit and wait and watch since our work of dealing with the logistics and with the local bureaucracy had already been done.Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-34020276522618676192012-01-22T14:12:00.000-08:002012-09-26T04:20:10.985-07:00Snow!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ir_u3XJPYFQ3lgOSd4CrBfyBdWzdDHQrghaAIIYZXCYILvffFFBn5fWGDHKG-fzNvJjFZCVlKeyuJ3beSHc-79L5uplXeNb6qWaGtJosHK5CxROyWjOwLpxHHd51pttCNXcKEPOOevg/s1600/Snow+004+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ir_u3XJPYFQ3lgOSd4CrBfyBdWzdDHQrghaAIIYZXCYILvffFFBn5fWGDHKG-fzNvJjFZCVlKeyuJ3beSHc-79L5uplXeNb6qWaGtJosHK5CxROyWjOwLpxHHd51pttCNXcKEPOOevg/s320/Snow+004+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div>When you think about Morocco do you imagine sand dunes? Well it’s not like that here. The Sahara is many miles south, and we are in the Atlas Mountains where it just snowed. We have been lucky for the past two weeks with sunny days, although the nights and inside the house are really cold. I’ll admit I’ve taken to wearing the same clothes around the clock for days on end. Who can bear to bare when you can see your breath? Practicality has trumped aesthetics as we stuff the cracks and drafty leaks with plastic bags.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDNF5ochVqDJngGT-ZZJQQgeSep7P-z0GT3jB7-6qEogibcv9D186Zw4-8FfCpqS3HtKZA4zV0ykWAltvDfilRAgKwBwCWMVNr1E8bvJhyn3KRZWGFBedKwJrgjqQoesi4o4CEwfAw9o/s1600/Snow+002+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDNF5ochVqDJngGT-ZZJQQgeSep7P-z0GT3jB7-6qEogibcv9D186Zw4-8FfCpqS3HtKZA4zV0ykWAltvDfilRAgKwBwCWMVNr1E8bvJhyn3KRZWGFBedKwJrgjqQoesi4o4CEwfAw9o/s200/Snow+002+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div><br />
We had to go to Fes to conduct some business, so we took the opportunity to go to a warmer place and stay the night in a heated hotel. It was total luxury—a hands-free shower, TV with English movies, washing hands in hot water, and sleeping without hats, turtlenecks and wool socks. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR9jejz424sDG4ZW55g4p7vWX4tTzd1Oe4Bg0CPQ1U5m6nHcCdeL0NnFhJDONRBboRYaZhfKt0hwhl7j1vIyGLeUudLQ05yQEPFJ-7IBXwCrdj-jtHm4mswLe_9u2VELnPSZSGD5s2854/s1600/Doug%2527s+pics+of+N%2526K+visit+037+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="156" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR9jejz424sDG4ZW55g4p7vWX4tTzd1Oe4Bg0CPQ1U5m6nHcCdeL0NnFhJDONRBboRYaZhfKt0hwhl7j1vIyGLeUudLQ05yQEPFJ-7IBXwCrdj-jtHm4mswLe_9u2VELnPSZSGD5s2854/s200/Doug%2527s+pics+of+N%2526K+visit+037+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div><br />
For lunch in Fes, we ate at a local favorite “Chicken Mac” where I had a large plate of rotisserie chicken, rice, fries, beans, olives and bread for about $3. It was warm enough with a coat on to eat outside, thus avoiding most of the cigarette smoke, but it did require putting up with a bevy of begging cats and rejecting offers of belts, quartz clocks, and a shoeshine. Some peddlers scored, however, as I saw a table of men buying underwear.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4NJr5e909Qq53BltlwbrWty3ccr3N6S_l1Ckcr7BTanQr6AWvcnIuwFjckJssqDzzJeflpRos_wRSnpB2nHttb5Cv27othDEs8tVNd0cCS7okaZV5eU8YKjHRl2cnTqT90mi2Xlm3Hws/s1600/New+Adwal+009+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4NJr5e909Qq53BltlwbrWty3ccr3N6S_l1Ckcr7BTanQr6AWvcnIuwFjckJssqDzzJeflpRos_wRSnpB2nHttb5Cv27othDEs8tVNd0cCS7okaZV5eU8YKjHRl2cnTqT90mi2Xlm3Hws/s200/New+Adwal+009+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div><br />
I have received more great news concerning Cooperative Adwal—they were awarded a financial assistance grant for both the President and her sister as an interpreter to travel to the Santa Fe International Folk Art Market. This made it financially possible for them to go, and we are all so excited. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsPYEZ4MCqoss8oC1tY7Dy31WQ-9QGtyST55cG54VOlQg664l0WxdkHVFVOYeY0U9Ee857oB8bhMs_ydRmYO7rUWI4s9YleEoiSpTOWvq_mW36bEn1dEnXQ3bQH9qdcMKIFzWcYwub4Q8/s1600/New+Adwal+002+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsPYEZ4MCqoss8oC1tY7Dy31WQ-9QGtyST55cG54VOlQg664l0WxdkHVFVOYeY0U9Ee857oB8bhMs_ydRmYO7rUWI4s9YleEoiSpTOWvq_mW36bEn1dEnXQ3bQH9qdcMKIFzWcYwub4Q8/s320/New+Adwal+002+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Next week I’ll be heading to Marrakesh for another Marche Maroc. It should be a lot warmer there so I’m eager for the break. Doug will be tied up with TV filming of the olive oil press so I’ll be riding the souk bus with one of co-op women. I have learned my lesson on bus riding--I will bring my iPod and not drink water.Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-51166628745850891522012-01-08T05:41:00.000-08:002012-01-08T09:19:04.246-08:00And Now It's 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnUlx3NXV8MAzECl5LgIacYPZMjUphyXaa5oe-IjYk21ummHMvFsk_YtjnWpKClQth9MZPRt_Ak3JNl3vYDEtLRwdNSwGqoRU8kv5dNlbiSrnTtxvOsQqHSVqKP3so6bj1Qz47Lbq_0XY/s1600/Carpet-beni+ourain+1+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnUlx3NXV8MAzECl5LgIacYPZMjUphyXaa5oe-IjYk21ummHMvFsk_YtjnWpKClQth9MZPRt_Ak3JNl3vYDEtLRwdNSwGqoRU8kv5dNlbiSrnTtxvOsQqHSVqKP3so6bj1Qz47Lbq_0XY/s400/Carpet-beni+ourain+1+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div>2011 ended on a high note. Cooperative Adwal, my counterpart, received word that they had been selected as one of 367 applicants from 70 countries to attend the International Folk Art Market in Santa Fe next July. They are very excited and are now waiting to see if they will receive a financial assistance grant. <br />
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For anyone traveling to the Santa Fe area July 13-15, the International Folk Art Market will be a great opportunity to buy quality crafts directly from the international artisans who made them. Other cooperatives making jewelry and daggers were also selected from Morocco.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUzDfJM24HEiMk6Os0V2sZCtqaTS-Hkpnaj8S7RnoN_z9VCRxAFXwF93FrX64J4ucA5ESC5myXMXscfzzQCUC5A0VCNewU6zTmLN27wLA-zd9pPmS0jkeN3s9wjAZsuMFrRFxWGAUlf5E/s1600/Home+decor-bed+cover+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUzDfJM24HEiMk6Os0V2sZCtqaTS-Hkpnaj8S7RnoN_z9VCRxAFXwF93FrX64J4ucA5ESC5myXMXscfzzQCUC5A0VCNewU6zTmLN27wLA-zd9pPmS0jkeN3s9wjAZsuMFrRFxWGAUlf5E/s200/Home+decor-bed+cover+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div><br />
The same week, I received word that a grant I had applied for to purchase a new loom for Adwal’s weavers had been funded. It was approved primarily because the loom will be used to train apprentices every year to help sustain the traditional weaving and design skills which have been passed down through generations of Berber weavers. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgunu2HiGTL1FA7RnwTJVNffiI-MtsA_wT6Gx9ust_pGk9Gp4-gyPqisPVymCQySEFDQttTYBgOE4tXu8UTC3dP8tropq5_7zvcdzjHOfBZUhQnDUfGAzpWTuJiEY5BARjNz2zwb6_O_ok/s1600/Doug%2527s+pics+200+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgunu2HiGTL1FA7RnwTJVNffiI-MtsA_wT6Gx9ust_pGk9Gp4-gyPqisPVymCQySEFDQttTYBgOE4tXu8UTC3dP8tropq5_7zvcdzjHOfBZUhQnDUfGAzpWTuJiEY5BARjNz2zwb6_O_ok/s200/Doug%2527s+pics+200+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div><br />
And more good news—a woman from a TV cooking show in the UK is coming to look at Doug’s co-op for a possible show on couscous making. If they decide to film here, the segment will be shown to a wide audience. <br />
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I spent Christmas in the US with family and had a wonderful time enjoying the comfort, cleanliness and conveniences of my former life. My reintroduction to Moroccan life began at the Casablanca airport where the bathroom had no paper products and only one working faucet. In the chaotic taxi lot in Fes, one of our fellow passengers had several bags of wool to add to the already loaded trunk. The solution of course was to leave the trunk open but secure it with a bungi cord conveniently carried for just such a purpose. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiaLGipAAIsZySFnzt10xOZ3zIpwqK_HofbMmqegNAO-aLDFHTz9I1RkorK4uD0knmbatzi4igFO1LFqghicAhwZYzB4I5nHmdyy3fxa-D0oq1mM7TRe7PGvGJaJZv-PeEw8AumXcRJUY/s1600/Too+much+luggage.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiaLGipAAIsZySFnzt10xOZ3zIpwqK_HofbMmqegNAO-aLDFHTz9I1RkorK4uD0knmbatzi4igFO1LFqghicAhwZYzB4I5nHmdyy3fxa-D0oq1mM7TRe7PGvGJaJZv-PeEw8AumXcRJUY/s200/Too+much+luggage.JPG" /></a></div><br />
On the taxi ride from Fes back to REK, I marveled at the spectacular green of the countryside brought on by the winter rains. New crops were popping up and a few wild flowers were blooming. Baby animals ran about in the fields. Along the road the now familiar sights appeared—herds of sheep grazing in the barrow pit, families sitting on their bags waiting for transport, men riding donkeys, boys riding bicycle, wild dogs waiting for scraps in their usual place atop the hill. The taxi driver was engaged with the other passengers in the loud, animated style of conversation that I used to think was arguing. When the magnificent snow-topped Mount Buiblane appeared, I knew I was close to my Moroccan home. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifbgabQU_XJrQ0gYp_8tAJgb2y2SkD6EH2BiHzSrsOqPNOpON-fmcHl6WhnyY_HyZ5MT1F3f5v9KJUosH-e5vr6wyDM51u-YlGEM1NnqQlZ6TyZyO286-mDaoT4LNHzpzMTxpf0Ck5Y2Q/s1600/Spring+061+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifbgabQU_XJrQ0gYp_8tAJgb2y2SkD6EH2BiHzSrsOqPNOpON-fmcHl6WhnyY_HyZ5MT1F3f5v9KJUosH-e5vr6wyDM51u-YlGEM1NnqQlZ6TyZyO286-mDaoT4LNHzpzMTxpf0Ck5Y2Q/s400/Spring+061+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div>Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-66890691154037752712011-11-26T06:08:00.000-08:002011-11-26T06:08:36.210-08:00Giving Thanks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoG0WgE47If9guIkOG8CoMOKw4nlCZkno0EX1Exs8XttxA8ohJnH4HV2Of9DTEhPIPY2ywL1w6MrZ9ziCle5XNVI3xMV7i3E5jl1uBqRSRl0SLXwIBJf6mifmbOo4KDzH9KwB9Wxypx6k/s1600/Election+005+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="292" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoG0WgE47If9guIkOG8CoMOKw4nlCZkno0EX1Exs8XttxA8ohJnH4HV2Of9DTEhPIPY2ywL1w6MrZ9ziCle5XNVI3xMV7i3E5jl1uBqRSRl0SLXwIBJf6mifmbOo4KDzH9KwB9Wxypx6k/s320/Election+005+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div>November 24 and 25 had much significance this year—Thanksgiving, Moroccan national elections, and the day that marks one year left in our Peace Corps service.<br />
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Thanksgiving day dawned sunny and crisp with fresh snow on the mountains promising a festive feeling. Things kind of went downhill from there. We had invited three other volunteers for dinner which I was going to cook. Cooking here is time consuming since everything has to be made from scratch. First, the bird has to be killed, gutted, and defeathered. Pumpkin pie starts with cooking and pureeing the pumpkin. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilsmwxLXJQi0lH3zrpZBxC_8oeGa9KM-Egl0-QefCxiDiDTZVMcTmLw1JGvMkJ2nRQH225m3Ih5wXn68D6k0cWV0FlcZSMNzlDIZO4ZbH82F6GG9WKSJI_IsJr_NiVqcZBd-UEeTUSMdw/s1600/Election+007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilsmwxLXJQi0lH3zrpZBxC_8oeGa9KM-Egl0-QefCxiDiDTZVMcTmLw1JGvMkJ2nRQH225m3Ih5wXn68D6k0cWV0FlcZSMNzlDIZO4ZbH82F6GG9WKSJI_IsJr_NiVqcZBd-UEeTUSMdw/s200/Election+007.JPG" /></a></div>It was a two day process. Five minutes after the pie went into the new electric oven, the electricity went off. An hour later, the water shut off. Fortunately these both came back on again and then the buta gas tank ran out. Normally, we could run down and get a new one, but the truck hadn’t come in yet so we had to wait until two in the afternoon to replace the buta. It all had me wondering if the powers that be were intentionally sabotaging my effort, but eventually it all came together, and even with a meskina burned pie, the dinner turned out to be a success.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV9EQdRwKyhZ2bt32QsD_pFngJxw2JQ968b1hnNmme0-Xiwd6H4RY08piE_vGalh9iLdPqL_b2LDceqzKqcFejpVbaPBNp0pz-RDD0uxORNAwJmS4TfVJKpUervs7dGX8yla1sBSaDSzw/s1600/Election+026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV9EQdRwKyhZ2bt32QsD_pFngJxw2JQ968b1hnNmme0-Xiwd6H4RY08piE_vGalh9iLdPqL_b2LDceqzKqcFejpVbaPBNp0pz-RDD0uxORNAwJmS4TfVJKpUervs7dGX8yla1sBSaDSzw/s200/Election+026.JPG" /></a></div>The next day we took a walk along the ridge trail in the bright sunshine. We saw some cute baby goats frolicking near the fence of the old military school compound. Of course we took out the camera and snapped a few photos of their antics before we looked up and saw five guards running toward us. They were pleasant but firm. You do not take photos of government property. I’d post a picture of the cute baby goats, but they were hastily deleted while the guards looked on.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgogQnWFInE2NxEtx236KU02QW0GQAARmhU7NTJoF0XLdajmRbDa55l7O8II4_LnX1FZsVBBKasfcB8XXskk6z7ai-XRhp5RIPAXJHevqYKNfRHghDCtfiw2K0424TPqXHhMgULONGsqrI/s1600/Election+024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgogQnWFInE2NxEtx236KU02QW0GQAARmhU7NTJoF0XLdajmRbDa55l7O8II4_LnX1FZsVBBKasfcB8XXskk6z7ai-XRhp5RIPAXJHevqYKNfRHghDCtfiw2K0424TPqXHhMgULONGsqrI/s200/Election+024.JPG" /></a></div>Today the results of the first national election under the new constitution in Morocco were posted, and a celebration began. REK now has a representative in Parliament, one of three in the region! Each candidate has a symbol to represent them for voters who can’t read. (Wouldn’t this be fun for US candidates?) The winner for REK was the tractor. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilqQuhLqqcpH7t0EUUwWjeToStogyhTH_dLU1SIvtvnOUeny035rjKzPWr038QPY30gOPG_Fa_G_L3dxOHUinS7HYYfHWSyob6eQYblcSthVzC3mLVpZEEi6Bbe4RSGdKAYh6gBthQ1PY/s1600/Election+028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="138" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilqQuhLqqcpH7t0EUUwWjeToStogyhTH_dLU1SIvtvnOUeny035rjKzPWr038QPY30gOPG_Fa_G_L3dxOHUinS7HYYfHWSyob6eQYblcSthVzC3mLVpZEEi6Bbe4RSGdKAYh6gBthQ1PY/s200/Election+028.JPG" /></a></div> Both of our co-op presidents worked hard for the tractor candidate. Latifa even campaigned for him on Facebook, and Fatima was the only woman on the victory truck. Time will tell if the election results satisfy the protesters. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgttr-WOUlfB3rKn7c_n_koNYXgszpi8i9nbB4zOfnoXN4qg2iz4qOU1DLosF09CNAO8yMKMwEiEj-_qx96LfaDTMTCGotfoUJTVmsOArurBFLDhzYA5KLVbAsJYdY5j4OE_w9JwTwCf1U/s1600/Election+018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgttr-WOUlfB3rKn7c_n_koNYXgszpi8i9nbB4zOfnoXN4qg2iz4qOU1DLosF09CNAO8yMKMwEiEj-_qx96LfaDTMTCGotfoUJTVmsOArurBFLDhzYA5KLVbAsJYdY5j4OE_w9JwTwCf1U/s320/Election+018.JPG" /></a></div>Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-49642521760537021482011-11-19T10:02:00.000-08:002011-11-19T10:10:37.146-08:00Goodbyes and Hellos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsDHlYcYVWNqLRWtVJrxWrb9ejJY4t1NyOEVzr6HMzNQc2FON2s6ZzYViau_Ba0Xe7G5t5zzWiLYeEQV7-D_eQDYLQAS3HMRmeuY9pKgUN1sT7LJ9yFpUhvvOxjXtPvm9eG2ZkXvdEWWM/s1600/P1050456.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsDHlYcYVWNqLRWtVJrxWrb9ejJY4t1NyOEVzr6HMzNQc2FON2s6ZzYViau_Ba0Xe7G5t5zzWiLYeEQV7-D_eQDYLQAS3HMRmeuY9pKgUN1sT7LJ9yFpUhvvOxjXtPvm9eG2ZkXvdEWWM/s320/P1050456.JPG" /></a></div>The times, they are a-changing. We recently said goodbye to Pete, our Peace Corps site mate, as he finished his service. He was a big help and good friend to us and we will miss him. The community had a going away party for him at the town hall with traditional horn blowing, drumming, and dancing. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpGUpsXcihbaX57znssafJjgJVOYcmFX2JHC5fdhTAVcx-jBAUpH8p6s03yrI3DtuwBkNh-Vom6-WGDCII_IyPCzs-k8bitZZ2j_dUe8NLCY8YPxCAEbMaxzVQ_zFPd3T0UvmIsK1mFnI/s1600/P1050473.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpGUpsXcihbaX57znssafJjgJVOYcmFX2JHC5fdhTAVcx-jBAUpH8p6s03yrI3DtuwBkNh-Vom6-WGDCII_IyPCzs-k8bitZZ2j_dUe8NLCY8YPxCAEbMaxzVQ_zFPd3T0UvmIsK1mFnI/s200/P1050473.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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He's a youth development volunteer so all the high school kids came as well and put on an amazing show of skits, rap music and American music. I was impressed with the way they got up in front of an audience and performed so confidently. I fear for their futures though as there isn't much for them to do after high school--especially the girls. <br />
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On his last taxi ride out of REK, the taxi wouldn’t start and had to be pushed down the street until the driver popped the clutch and got it going. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiPCMdGXjNs8l3Pe9Fxfay2q1bGzomz5rGgPZlbMAnetFXpfaNWeXuKXsRKz9wBaTXLo1J6ti-DfvQvNNIqrTzSiVyOO6SaGFpFRWnxyPg0fYLtMoNvjTAi9IGzcmXkzcUpeGZZkSIu2o/s1600/P1050458.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiPCMdGXjNs8l3Pe9Fxfay2q1bGzomz5rGgPZlbMAnetFXpfaNWeXuKXsRKz9wBaTXLo1J6ti-DfvQvNNIqrTzSiVyOO6SaGFpFRWnxyPg0fYLtMoNvjTAi9IGzcmXkzcUpeGZZkSIu2o/s200/P1050458.JPG" /></a></div>If seemed like a fitting way to leave. Then we said hello to our new site mates, Gary and Kathy, who will replace Pete. They are retirees from Colorado so we have a lot in common. <br />
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Summer/fall is gone—almost overnight. It rained for about a week which brought a blanket of snow to the mountains and then it was winter/spring. Winter is a bit confusing here because it is cold, there is snow, it rains, but then there are sunny warm days, everything turns green, and little yellow wildflowers pop out. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzZEFwEdddkrL-8u3KEY2PZ3zxAy1o-rZHq1nraHEtxQr9mCnX0Szj80FsRlsDUht9SsVFwlio5bpBpXU4TBqcHchruEfESlcWpXuiyJAu-siaprW0hovs-ddlTuUzDy0lHoPHF_Qker4/s1600/Sunset+after+the+rain+005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzZEFwEdddkrL-8u3KEY2PZ3zxAy1o-rZHq1nraHEtxQr9mCnX0Szj80FsRlsDUht9SsVFwlio5bpBpXU4TBqcHchruEfESlcWpXuiyJAu-siaprW0hovs-ddlTuUzDy0lHoPHF_Qker4/s320/Sunset+after+the+rain+005.JPG" /></a></div>Then it returns to cold and rainy. I’m reminded of spring in Montana. We have put away the sandals and dug the winter layers out of the box. <br />
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Another L3id l-kbir, the sheep sacrificing holiday, has come and gone. Since our balcony and kitchen window overlook several rooftops where the slaughters often take place, we decided to get out of town for a few days. When we returned, the only evidence was a sheep skin hanging on the roof. I didn’t see a single charred sheep head, bloody street, or have to eat any intestines or barbequed liver wrapped in stomach lining. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzhQW-ehJmPjW37C2SnP-DXaVr7eCu69gIF2MVvpKVEnSd-Cw2HwpOvJF41ppxIJwud_738TLcrTosKbEXJvS-C9O8awiOsQGqKsA17zGfg-X5mF65v2i9PI8wTEcPnohttHLvpt64SIE/s1600/P1050454.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzhQW-ehJmPjW37C2SnP-DXaVr7eCu69gIF2MVvpKVEnSd-Cw2HwpOvJF41ppxIJwud_738TLcrTosKbEXJvS-C9O8awiOsQGqKsA17zGfg-X5mF65v2i9PI8wTEcPnohttHLvpt64SIE/s200/P1050454.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Apparently, the Moroccan Ministry of Education, along with USAID, has recently begun a new push to teach adult women to read and write. Illiteracy among adult women here is estimated at 65% and is higher than that in the rural areas--a reflection on one of the major gender differences. I was surprised to learn that, although most are literate, none of the women in Cooperative Adwal had finished high school. It’s surprising because there are several very bright and savvy women there. <br />
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One day, books and slates appeared at both of our co-ops along with a manual and a salary for a teacher to lead literacy classes. Co-op Adwal is having sessions every afternoon, and I am taking advantage by sitting in to learn Arabic script. I have mastered three letters so far and at this pace, may learn the whole alphabet by the time we leave.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzc-t6i-TYzSeDUTZ07l85hW5eyu5GTR-k5voNFQrSaY7w5BnMmOr5p8uRNJ1oZmf4plSizELAq7cCUpypgM_7CRv0YxuKvyrAattlYH50eL2axJXM-nqtTNFOQvV4P9MaqjhHGV2jWO0/s1600/Women+of+Adwal.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzc-t6i-TYzSeDUTZ07l85hW5eyu5GTR-k5voNFQrSaY7w5BnMmOr5p8uRNJ1oZmf4plSizELAq7cCUpypgM_7CRv0YxuKvyrAattlYH50eL2axJXM-nqtTNFOQvV4P9MaqjhHGV2jWO0/s320/Women+of+Adwal.JPG" /></a></div>Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-69320736545853365492011-10-21T10:45:00.000-07:002011-11-13T07:56:19.031-08:00Halfway There<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQCMmxU34cxjyjJbvNV8xUxy2Blo90SoNI0GSETVT3l6wl6XNEwy1yETUf8Rwa8iIFsiUShQmrIU2vuD-5vNv0IV_LszvQ4viwvsoCanV2QtGva6GnbGXAhIpnwLXX9lmsbcIA0GfIGsI/s1600/IMG_8555.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQCMmxU34cxjyjJbvNV8xUxy2Blo90SoNI0GSETVT3l6wl6XNEwy1yETUf8Rwa8iIFsiUShQmrIU2vuD-5vNv0IV_LszvQ4viwvsoCanV2QtGva6GnbGXAhIpnwLXX9lmsbcIA0GfIGsI/s320/IMG_8555.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Today marks the day when we are halfway through our Peace Corps service. We plan to have a mini celebration which is the only kind available, but have saved some taco shells brought back from Amsterdam for just such an occasion. Congratulations to all of us who have made it this far! <br />
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(young woman modeling traditional Berber wedding robe) <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKj8f_jTMlCNUsVIwf88VFxei41dAoLwBJ0FGQQq6iANiAPX6zTyc_1L_rtjNMV0BrKsul8kv59fKu9CfYz2M1wp8-iKHErQDKnoFIA_6jNI2D8UpxQNxU3jFPvM3psVXW9ss0FMfvvw/s1600/IMG_8772.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKj8f_jTMlCNUsVIwf88VFxei41dAoLwBJ0FGQQq6iANiAPX6zTyc_1L_rtjNMV0BrKsul8kv59fKu9CfYz2M1wp8-iKHErQDKnoFIA_6jNI2D8UpxQNxU3jFPvM3psVXW9ss0FMfvvw/s200/IMG_8772.JPG" /></a></div>Yesterday we went to Fes with Doug’s co-op president, a Moroccan friend, and a driver to purchase some equipment for the co-op. It was fun to ride in a big truck in fake fur covered, dangling bead splendor instead of being squashed in a taxi. On the way, we were motioned over at a gendarme checkpoint where our driver was fined for not wearing a seat belt. Really? I have yet to see anyone in Morocco wearing a seat belt, but it is the law. I tried to fasten mine, but there was nothing to hook it into so I draped the strap over my shoulder and held it in place for the next two checkpoints. Again we were motioned over where they opened the back doors of the truck only to find an American sitting on the wooden bench. The third time, we were waved on through. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh402IJD5VN43m21_cy1JQyIqUROn65bkz2qq-pSlsPyQwZlRU_tXn8l3nn6NzpN8v3CUztD0Zid7V0xVjzIsP9M9R1saD4HdWqtuI5JUKFzwSeeu276XyAFrzgdo4utumjKlo1XMz0qVY/s1600/Kayje%2527s+carpet+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh402IJD5VN43m21_cy1JQyIqUROn65bkz2qq-pSlsPyQwZlRU_tXn8l3nn6NzpN8v3CUztD0Zid7V0xVjzIsP9M9R1saD4HdWqtuI5JUKFzwSeeu276XyAFrzgdo4utumjKlo1XMz0qVY/s200/Kayje%2527s+carpet+003.JPG" /></a></div>In Fes, we went to a western style store with fixed prices, then to some Fes hanuts where Doug and I disappeared down the street so the Moroccans could negotiate a local price. On our way back, the three Moroccans kept up a continual conversation in the style of the country—everyone talking at once in escalating volume. This may be why their conversations are peppered with “Did you understand?” which might really mean “Did you hear me while you were talking over me?”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjywFtccFYJCTqAVahPAFCAdcHJMy-WXjLZAoHbalMEzUVR4xjpjSVEA9XSrsZofcLbHTs9rbXlTNK3lG4xbgmAf5_3nScxew4Tk8y-MbesdMBgjbbR1yUWLh_XG5gaPtZqDVYX4i5U0S0/s1600/Carpet-handira+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjywFtccFYJCTqAVahPAFCAdcHJMy-WXjLZAoHbalMEzUVR4xjpjSVEA9XSrsZofcLbHTs9rbXlTNK3lG4xbgmAf5_3nScxew4Tk8y-MbesdMBgjbbR1yUWLh_XG5gaPtZqDVYX4i5U0S0/s200/Carpet-handira+1.JPG" /></a></div><br />
A lot has happened in the last month. I helped Cooperative Adwal put together photos of their products and prepare an application to take part in the 2012 International Folk Art Festival in Santa Fe. If they are selected (we’ll hear in December) it will be a huge honor, but also the bar will be set high for the quality of products they bring. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixgZnuq3ObBgkdL7S4ahNymtAaml62HuSmkFn7dRKmWPaUSgKByoiiMx53_ZRHwlX6mlXunIQgee6K69gsUhWQ8UEbw7MNzfnn3fojBugMd0NBAzyU1WILi4QUUVerAoPu3O2bGa7ZElM/s1600/P1040598.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixgZnuq3ObBgkdL7S4ahNymtAaml62HuSmkFn7dRKmWPaUSgKByoiiMx53_ZRHwlX6mlXunIQgee6K69gsUhWQ8UEbw7MNzfnn3fojBugMd0NBAzyU1WILi4QUUVerAoPu3O2bGa7ZElM/s200/P1040598.JPG" /></a></div>We took a much needed vacation to go to Oktoberfest in Munich and to spend a few days in Amsterdam, with stops in Brussels and Paris on the way back. It was a wonderfully relaxing time where we enjoyed the overwhelming selection of food and drink, schweinbraten, the Bavarian Alps,<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-NxFd_fSzc0SzjXu28hPo8Ex6C9egdHv6QqO-Q486tGBFipwCVEhgqYnQOJUX0HPwP0GNYk7FZQZricRpnzLoiOZYgeCcIriykf7qfWzTuCcVuWAqRQy4Hd_uSsbEpRu6GZseEKnCHt0/s1600/Munich+%2526+Amsterdam+004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-NxFd_fSzc0SzjXu28hPo8Ex6C9egdHv6QqO-Q486tGBFipwCVEhgqYnQOJUX0HPwP0GNYk7FZQZricRpnzLoiOZYgeCcIriykf7qfWzTuCcVuWAqRQy4Hd_uSsbEpRu6GZseEKnCHt0/s200/Munich+%2526+Amsterdam+004.JPG" /></a></div>sidewalk cafes populated with women and children, high speed trains with wifi, hot showers, clean streets and landscapes, European art and architecture, canals and windmills. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIOxLRTldUgL8aBc8pInmLteLWIsIQp45-vG1TLgb4l94NRdgeVh41rezVX7dsV_HHOBmetQ8GkDo-LOeLGKonMe_kax7i8Vf7QQQlF2neflOaDU2AxJXElfVB8bwgJ4Ew6I8K96pblPY/s1600/P1040887.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIOxLRTldUgL8aBc8pInmLteLWIsIQp45-vG1TLgb4l94NRdgeVh41rezVX7dsV_HHOBmetQ8GkDo-LOeLGKonMe_kax7i8Vf7QQQlF2neflOaDU2AxJXElfVB8bwgJ4Ew6I8K96pblPY/s200/P1040887.JPG" /></a></div>Back in Morocco, we were visited by our friends, Jill and Ian, from England. Six years ago our paths crossed in a library in St Chinian, France, and we have kept in touch ever since. We delighted in introducing them to the Morocco that most visitors never see and experiencing the daily life and living conditions of most of the people, including a white knuckle ride in a taxi to Fes with Jill sitting in the inside back seat with a close-up view of the mere inches between us and oncoming vehicles. In the evenings, they entertained us with stories of their extensive travels and shared their Bordeaux wine and goodies brought from Europe. Their account of their visit to our town can be read at Maxted Travels <a href="http://modestine2011.blogspot.com/2011/10/ribat-el-kheir.html">http://modestine2011.blogspot.com/2011/10/ribat-el-kheir.html</a> Their many pictures, keen observations, and British wit make for good reading.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM1yV1adVZ6Ywr_Lw7Quap4xiXv2x4hqdCknnIKyIKw6xLDAllN0Ll0MrK1E2OjJMKnOfHTsLMf3UQM0951ahBa21IGikdoPCvBIsH8_Xqoy-r9bXiUkac1LgY0a9NkBlcO2sitoXWCtk/s1600/Munich+%2526+Amsterdam+094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="230" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM1yV1adVZ6Ywr_Lw7Quap4xiXv2x4hqdCknnIKyIKw6xLDAllN0Ll0MrK1E2OjJMKnOfHTsLMf3UQM0951ahBa21IGikdoPCvBIsH8_Xqoy-r9bXiUkac1LgY0a9NkBlcO2sitoXWCtk/s320/Munich+%2526+Amsterdam+094.JPG" /></a></div>Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-30099403784816047582011-09-13T09:45:00.000-07:002011-09-13T09:45:00.609-07:00Fantastic Fantasia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT9wpqv9yWa1Ar2Fql9KtRzCeUgvUwdf63BBogsX2ZPsXh3NpwH2bMZITcDp5W09vr1c7CZopSypABghZzT4sE936YKicxqjFxHcnaNrZecxfl8OYSimP5mmPaKFYLEG7b4FWn8c6wZZI/s1600/P1040443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="132" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT9wpqv9yWa1Ar2Fql9KtRzCeUgvUwdf63BBogsX2ZPsXh3NpwH2bMZITcDp5W09vr1c7CZopSypABghZzT4sE936YKicxqjFxHcnaNrZecxfl8OYSimP5mmPaKFYLEG7b4FWn8c6wZZI/s400/P1040443.JPG" /></a></div>This weekend there was a festival in our village. I don’t know what the occasion was but it seemed like the whole town was in attendance. As the only foreigners, we heard “bon jour” and “ca va” everywhere we went. They still think we’re French (a good thing sometimes). There was music, men in yellow robes doing a traditional dance, meat sizzling on charcoal burners, popcorn popping, and craft tents with things for sale. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN4fdBYoFnURewXGhE2y2m6N83OJYhuKiTP3nwTKUhdjjaf7Z1FxNFKYH7ic0Z5_LDlYnN8sEHDqsHx4Ng1xNS8__rIPPnWYmf7FXPMPxa2keUIVD2qDlzdPHqvpmVrvJxwCOxLr7Oi1E/s1600/Festival+and+Fantasia+REK+022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="172" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN4fdBYoFnURewXGhE2y2m6N83OJYhuKiTP3nwTKUhdjjaf7Z1FxNFKYH7ic0Z5_LDlYnN8sEHDqsHx4Ng1xNS8__rIPPnWYmf7FXPMPxa2keUIVD2qDlzdPHqvpmVrvJxwCOxLr7Oi1E/s320/Festival+and+Fantasia+REK+022.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Co-op Adwal had carpets on display, and the sisters’ co-op had a couscous table. But the highlight of the festival was the Fantasia—synchronized Berber horsemen. There they were all in a row—men in white robes and turbans on highly ornate saddles straddling magnificent horses, gunpowder rifles raised high.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPLHofHGnhFif5h1Vkz1rYych6wHTFIZVR7vuC9P_kQ_LhIY38ZzzHJyNaf-dIguQA3R_OfbuicuQrjnIEMC4UuJkIue42WWrDVLCV0PE9GEfVK50mnrdI4Z4SOyO5z7laP0_RfWeBZc0/s1600/Festival+and+Fantasia+REK+036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="145" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPLHofHGnhFif5h1Vkz1rYych6wHTFIZVR7vuC9P_kQ_LhIY38ZzzHJyNaf-dIguQA3R_OfbuicuQrjnIEMC4UuJkIue42WWrDVLCV0PE9GEfVK50mnrdI4Z4SOyO5z7laP0_RfWeBZc0/s200/Festival+and+Fantasia+REK+036.JPG" /></a></div><br />
They started at the far end of the field, gathering speed as they charged toward us. Closer and closer the thundering hooves came. Then, when it seemed like they would run right over us, they leveled their powder rifles right at the crowd, raised them in the air, and fired a deafening volley as they pulled to a halt right in front of us. Holy mother! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu2z2znKwvq_U8xicVlFyvyMPb_nkSdNn0nZrU52wmB-UcBjTq73bv-21txz4MnI7OLiIEpEzXzrpSNPq6qXsJdAjxZn-3xedfGwSAiRIv-EROm09uWuASahPGzQIT1Y94kTMSKqKtDIE/s1600/P1040477.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu2z2znKwvq_U8xicVlFyvyMPb_nkSdNn0nZrU52wmB-UcBjTq73bv-21txz4MnI7OLiIEpEzXzrpSNPq6qXsJdAjxZn-3xedfGwSAiRIv-EROm09uWuASahPGzQIT1Y94kTMSKqKtDIE/s320/P1040477.JPG" /></a></div><br />
The crowd of boys and I stumbled over each other leaping away from the fence as a shower of dirt, leaves and debris rained down, and powder smoke filled the air. We all looked around in astonishment. Then it was back to the fence as the horsemen turned and rode off, while another group of riders charged at us again--over and over with the same result. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjishipRGMuEkhYX1aqGBQJK-AEQvLeoQtjNW9ShH81QPTXeBHuaGZQwKWKpCJI6n8EXj3xQnwEq6GFhFFXEM68Do4iqJ_SISjwGK7uKdY-QAgM5lcV-sDZjB5zZDyjxH8LdmGglmD7deI/s1600/Festival+and+Fantasia+REK+026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="224" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjishipRGMuEkhYX1aqGBQJK-AEQvLeoQtjNW9ShH81QPTXeBHuaGZQwKWKpCJI6n8EXj3xQnwEq6GFhFFXEM68Do4iqJ_SISjwGK7uKdY-QAgM5lcV-sDZjB5zZDyjxH8LdmGglmD7deI/s320/Festival+and+Fantasia+REK+026.JPG" /></a></div> For a while, on a warm late summer evening, I was ten years old again. It was awesome. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisxcFnMXnn572cbgVzJS1tiFCJ7vkaS_ygpVVPj4axam6JdCxBgfmjI8WSwHR4QV6H_A_MJP48pVfg3FOuIjTgR66s8RIVjqArWJTBHGGAwWf32sppvgfHZydNudkQ7955ZQBhqmUd988/s1600/P1040484.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisxcFnMXnn572cbgVzJS1tiFCJ7vkaS_ygpVVPj4axam6JdCxBgfmjI8WSwHR4QV6H_A_MJP48pVfg3FOuIjTgR66s8RIVjqArWJTBHGGAwWf32sppvgfHZydNudkQ7955ZQBhqmUd988/s320/P1040484.JPG" /></a></div>Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-66844984094057903052011-08-31T15:37:00.000-07:002011-08-31T15:37:36.136-07:00The End of Ramadan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHKb_KYofhG-s9fZm7oJwbom6ev_M5wLV1G_btVuHf9yX6JNwYaksEggDPXHG4OKS7eaOqF3ezHkDZNOMX5MktQxa43A-zVL_3cpezolP6o49c6Bf_7fH_Y8R4LI3Nr-DhT7sjTSgI6Dw/s1600/End+of+Ramadan+005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHKb_KYofhG-s9fZm7oJwbom6ev_M5wLV1G_btVuHf9yX6JNwYaksEggDPXHG4OKS7eaOqF3ezHkDZNOMX5MktQxa43A-zVL_3cpezolP6o49c6Bf_7fH_Y8R4LI3Nr-DhT7sjTSgI6Dw/s320/End+of+Ramadan+005.JPG" /></a></div>Ramadan has ended. This morning the streets are full of families going house to house greeting each other, hugging and kissing, and no doubt offering congratulations for making it through a month of sacrifice. Many are dressed up in wedding finery, and children sport new clothes. All hanuts and markets are closed and no transports are running. The feasting will soon commence.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhopwNv9q03qstBK9qzeC0-tjSx8dbQtrT-pqgRR6KKaHY-2Bob4vwGHcI8ayPVICP79getxb3sPMaCRj9TP6UzzSsYPPfGuwe-IZyp4fpJh-cjiJzZ5NM37PsjXfYoAq2m-eodVrQVPcY/s1600/End+of+Ramadan+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="277" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhopwNv9q03qstBK9qzeC0-tjSx8dbQtrT-pqgRR6KKaHY-2Bob4vwGHcI8ayPVICP79getxb3sPMaCRj9TP6UzzSsYPPfGuwe-IZyp4fpJh-cjiJzZ5NM37PsjXfYoAq2m-eodVrQVPcY/s320/End+of+Ramadan+002.JPG" /></a></div><br />
The month of Ramadan was hot, dry and miserable. The relentless sun bleached all color out of the landscape. The horizon was barely visible with the brown of the land fading into the gray of the sky. Everything inside and out was covered with a film of dust.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCOuyluoMD8WiB7g_VRF0rxpd7JwAYxrLB5IWn7Ua3ztt0sBnSSbAB74PhokhImjMxt2m4EbjYZ8tiSTnFEPwHBzUeGOHLH6GVBtfDY1MN-y27L13FrKMdhXnbYCBUcCrfI1GC_mKKZnI/s1600/Latest-August+2011+009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="120" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCOuyluoMD8WiB7g_VRF0rxpd7JwAYxrLB5IWn7Ua3ztt0sBnSSbAB74PhokhImjMxt2m4EbjYZ8tiSTnFEPwHBzUeGOHLH6GVBtfDY1MN-y27L13FrKMdhXnbYCBUcCrfI1GC_mKKZnI/s200/Latest-August+2011+009.JPG" /></a></div>We endured our hottest day in Morocco yet on a day when we were coming back from blessedly cool Rabat through oven-like Fes. It was reportedly 114 degrees. It felt like it. The man who runs the big open dusty chaotic taxi lot had a wet towel on his head, and all the drivers were spraying each other with water. They couldn’t drink any though. It made me wonder about their ability to drive, especially after we came upon two accidents on the way home. Some of our friends witnessed fights in the streets, and I heard a woman screaming at her children with a voice out of “The Exorcist”. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1WwrkXx29_QIVE-SDwADIZAPEC6HX0gym28lTtEEWV__R0LYw8TmM-xOW66oY1F2i3duabbc1sVYB4JEGDWQygZ8G0yYTD34VDrVkHL9kMdX0HXQSdRp1_j3c8BQyOsHuWv9jPecjMlw/s1600/Doug%2527s+pics+168.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1WwrkXx29_QIVE-SDwADIZAPEC6HX0gym28lTtEEWV__R0LYw8TmM-xOW66oY1F2i3duabbc1sVYB4JEGDWQygZ8G0yYTD34VDrVkHL9kMdX0HXQSdRp1_j3c8BQyOsHuWv9jPecjMlw/s320/Doug%2527s+pics+168.JPG" /></a></div>Clearly, the heat, hunger, dehydration, and nicotine withdrawal, had people on edge, but it’s now over for another year. There is a lot to be said for collective suffering and celebration as the entire country experiences Ramadan together. <br />
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The weather has also obligingly changed with the end of Ramadan, and it changed in dramatic fashion with rumbling thunder, sheet lightening and a downpour of rain and hail. The temperature is down to the high 80’s and a blanket is needed at night. It’s interesting to see how I now consider 90 to be a comfortable temperature. I’m really looking forward to fall.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUpn3Rxf_bLkN6wPgRR7vjMmiYKqz_31F7-v4F61vnnQXmaqK9GI2_sDRzhpqMNluUw-U5IvyLEpCRJRiRLnmtQGnKx_efJ3dxjvf-dCgbPpHCfUPLPwVQKnV76zcOHe_aTpH0FE9qE5Y/s1600/Doug%2527s+pics+187.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUpn3Rxf_bLkN6wPgRR7vjMmiYKqz_31F7-v4F61vnnQXmaqK9GI2_sDRzhpqMNluUw-U5IvyLEpCRJRiRLnmtQGnKx_efJ3dxjvf-dCgbPpHCfUPLPwVQKnV76zcOHe_aTpH0FE9qE5Y/s320/Doug%2527s+pics+187.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-54115610204288098082011-08-22T03:16:00.000-07:002011-08-22T03:16:25.284-07:00Why Moroccans Always Walk in the Street.....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK1QiJnJciskN3S8i4TyDz2HtAF1zc47PP_Ib3JD5RHHJgvGHjKyLV_WicA1PNQ9xmbyW3Kb-smizxszgBL9uA_lzroWmjMDgKkKLvcFtyt8hmoJEo761_gKiqe_vSH9JBtvtxMkwsKfE/s1600/Street+scene+Midelt.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="270" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK1QiJnJciskN3S8i4TyDz2HtAF1zc47PP_Ib3JD5RHHJgvGHjKyLV_WicA1PNQ9xmbyW3Kb-smizxszgBL9uA_lzroWmjMDgKkKLvcFtyt8hmoJEo761_gKiqe_vSH9JBtvtxMkwsKfE/s400/Street+scene+Midelt.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<b>And not on the sidewalks:</b><br />
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Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-76702652910968492122011-08-03T13:00:00.000-07:002011-08-03T15:59:16.550-07:00The First Day of Ramadan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqMjDCNP6tuNthi2tyH-Het_u1lJU-bIVqd60v3SFuDnGuWwZStf9WovpBCKV0fDGTnDwqMUWirWJ2YRpx6-MqHrETErHEb_jeUQtgE_b2mE9BpNyxY-4P1ZFr2taWW3BpPf0fnVJc6JQ/s1600/REK+at+dawn.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqMjDCNP6tuNthi2tyH-Het_u1lJU-bIVqd60v3SFuDnGuWwZStf9WovpBCKV0fDGTnDwqMUWirWJ2YRpx6-MqHrETErHEb_jeUQtgE_b2mE9BpNyxY-4P1ZFr2taWW3BpPf0fnVJc6JQ/s320/REK+at+dawn.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636729942720645570" /></a><br />We had a good idea of what to expect during Ramadan, but as usual, the reality was not as imagined. I thought stores would be closed until evening and people would sleep most of the day, but when I went out in the morning of the first day, the town was bustling, all the hanuts were open, people were shopping at the vegetable and meat markets, and the carpenters' saws were buzzing. Smells of cooking wafted through the air most of the afternoon while the meal to break fast, called lftur, was being prepared. We are not fasting but are being culturally sensitive and respectful of those that are. We were invited to break fast with a Moroccan family which we consider an honor. We went to their home a little early to see the preparations. The women had been cooking all afternoon and the food was all put on the table a few minutes before the call to break fast so that when it came, we could dive right in. At about 7:30 we heard the call from the mosque and started in on the french bread, Moroccan bread, small round bread-like pancakes, large round pancakes, crepes, limsamn and fat bread, olives, honey, zmeta, dates, harira soup, kefta tajine, hard-boiled eggs, pastries with honey & sesame, caramel crunchy cookies, flan, tea, coffee and mango juice. Everything was delicious, but my favorite was the kefta tagine which I want to learn to make. After eating all this, we were surprised to be asked to stay for dinner at 11pm--something light they said--beef and onions. We declined (hopefully in a respectful way) saying that we couldn't eat any more and we were tired and had to go to bed early--all true. We would have used our age as an excuse but the 80+ father took a nap and was ready to eat again. When we left at around 10:30 they loaded us down with three kinds of bread, a big bag of olives, a large melon, sesame cookies and a liter of olive oil. They told us to come back any time and if we want something special to eat, just tell them and they will cook it for us. Although Ramadan is a time of giving as well as spirituality and fasting, their generosity was astonishing. How can we ever hope to reciprocate?Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-68328572994174024712011-07-31T16:20:00.001-07:002011-07-31T17:07:05.015-07:00The Rest of July<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNC5b_ycxIIp8ca62smiQZH0uum1yssRKlDmKiFYQGx1aH9U6f_hnSShEdXcLavaMQabIcecdaY0SVprbcAl_qrD0vphnbwobhooHfDGf-f5_3JECfJTXheaAHx5yGDU4utzI3a0yLjIA/s1600/Fatima+at+her+loom.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNC5b_ycxIIp8ca62smiQZH0uum1yssRKlDmKiFYQGx1aH9U6f_hnSShEdXcLavaMQabIcecdaY0SVprbcAl_qrD0vphnbwobhooHfDGf-f5_3JECfJTXheaAHx5yGDU4utzI3a0yLjIA/s320/Fatima+at+her+loom.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635660751347465170" /></a><br />July was an eventful month. The President of Co-operative Adwal, my counterpart, traveled to the US to take part in the Smithsonian Folklife Festival and 50th Anniversary celebration of Peace Corps in Washington DC. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxU9EyjmzQZjubW-Hv09cfIfjVJ14meGuSBD0oSgTWqkhllgkyPnCUgX7y1v23bEvCYzO8zP08XQHc4SF4JX2B4KpBhRXmxMWYYMAOy4uh711e071qinohCD6o5AS1ZBExJdz4cqLoGa8/s1600/102.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxU9EyjmzQZjubW-Hv09cfIfjVJ14meGuSBD0oSgTWqkhllgkyPnCUgX7y1v23bEvCYzO8zP08XQHc4SF4JX2B4KpBhRXmxMWYYMAOy4uh711e071qinohCD6o5AS1ZBExJdz4cqLoGa8/s320/102.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635660988465961730" /></a> Fatima was one of two weavers chosen from Morocco to take part in the traditional craft demonstrations. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWeZOh_KIuloA8KBpur6VW9oV55IqY1mxJZBJbpIc-Y68k7EpKkRYUpYIrhz2oWEFTKBWW3mBfijdhj9B6Pt8VG6OQCqZQoGh28PADpoojZNLO27X1WNb8z9VYHvjuOAJ0UK-KwFyjR5U/s1600/107.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWeZOh_KIuloA8KBpur6VW9oV55IqY1mxJZBJbpIc-Y68k7EpKkRYUpYIrhz2oWEFTKBWW3mBfijdhj9B6Pt8VG6OQCqZQoGh28PADpoojZNLO27X1WNb8z9VYHvjuOAJ0UK-KwFyjR5U/s320/107.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635661333456787042" /></a> It was a huge honor for her and the co-op and also the first time she had traveled out of the country. Fatima also put on a cooking demonstration of a traditional dish and was amazed at the number of people in the audience. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP03-hl9OtDIq6DYA9hk6wVlMuFTts8Z9ZqmRmu5lwngvd6Ojq8txUuT2mZx4l2Y-SS73mZIww6V3bdNA21wzf3za3GEFs4M6TxZaPOya-okwfNjqDx9pw5UYYbpWbGMt1YhelbyUP66U/s1600/112.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 171px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP03-hl9OtDIq6DYA9hk6wVlMuFTts8Z9ZqmRmu5lwngvd6Ojq8txUuT2mZx4l2Y-SS73mZIww6V3bdNA21wzf3za3GEFs4M6TxZaPOya-okwfNjqDx9pw5UYYbpWbGMt1YhelbyUP66U/s200/112.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635661576760675250" /></a> She returned with many great pictures of herself in front of various monuments and the White House, and also some of herself on an escalator and going through a revolving door--both new experiences. We’re hoping that the fair exposure to so many tourists will motivate some to check out Moroccan carpets online, specifically those of Adwal.<br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrOaYGWw1zd93zdHwnP04RN7V56jLgVvpyG9xK97DxQ0adVAWtWUt59HQsfnPoOj15Z1RJjgfraG-ayqmoopVMgDN5RDuH0u-_pknnwOu9UhfatSivd-ta5MoruIexp7rXHFsPAGKgjaw/s1600/125.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrOaYGWw1zd93zdHwnP04RN7V56jLgVvpyG9xK97DxQ0adVAWtWUt59HQsfnPoOj15Z1RJjgfraG-ayqmoopVMgDN5RDuH0u-_pknnwOu9UhfatSivd-ta5MoruIexp7rXHFsPAGKgjaw/s200/125.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635661855515645874" /></a><br />During the same time, another Marche Maroc Peace Corps sponsored craft fair was held in the beach city of Essaouira. Adwal attended but I didn’t get the chance since we were meeting our daughter and son-in-law in Tangier coming over on the ferry from Spain. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMzvfR2OF8p5UzFUV6JuZs29tn_-2jA_vOWiHsQTQpGNaxUduwm_0DzcbIrlbdXY9bgsLtHUpw2_t9Mxrth6XAmv2Hh3n6uNtE_lh5DRkuiMlUszrbsuxSTqC7NAoC2duDxy0PckiWjxM/s1600/113.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMzvfR2OF8p5UzFUV6JuZs29tn_-2jA_vOWiHsQTQpGNaxUduwm_0DzcbIrlbdXY9bgsLtHUpw2_t9Mxrth6XAmv2Hh3n6uNtE_lh5DRkuiMlUszrbsuxSTqC7NAoC2duDxy0PckiWjxM/s320/113.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635664092385175666" /></a> I enjoyed Tangier very much with its delicious fresh fish, cool sea breezes and faded haunts of the beat generation. It’s not nearly as seedy as the guidebooks would have you believe, and the view from the Kasbah over the Atlantic and the Strait of Gibraltar toward Spain was spectacular.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8hPhXfDQZD4HcRocsq2mqrWHRLeVJ-r88ZS3LwQeZntSs4Zb0XVKa5U_FTxDXbHWt5wxCA8dJZYqCI00rqi2KEs6xmzxboEsxMFkN4yIR3BhVKWzLGPCLys-6O791-yU0JIxJPw3yCV4/s1600/114.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8hPhXfDQZD4HcRocsq2mqrWHRLeVJ-r88ZS3LwQeZntSs4Zb0XVKa5U_FTxDXbHWt5wxCA8dJZYqCI00rqi2KEs6xmzxboEsxMFkN4yIR3BhVKWzLGPCLys-6O791-yU0JIxJPw3yCV4/s200/114.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635664864627956386" /></a><br />Back in REK, our family got a little taste of our life here. They visited the weaving and couscous co-ops we work with, where they got a wonderfully warm welcome. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW37IgfYlNNI30YJVyjnRdMB_YZHyh0U4DpGystuQ25saBEFE8fAVzuwVeifUQbW4_mqcOHy6WyuGGf6GpxTOqd4khg6r7rLGiMSSF74pQQHEdQveYboYW3hKSw-3XkLJrfLiLuWfwNp0/s1600/106.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW37IgfYlNNI30YJVyjnRdMB_YZHyh0U4DpGystuQ25saBEFE8fAVzuwVeifUQbW4_mqcOHy6WyuGGf6GpxTOqd4khg6r7rLGiMSSF74pQQHEdQveYboYW3hKSw-3XkLJrfLiLuWfwNp0/s200/106.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635665356196572306" /></a> They were also able to experience a traditional three course, three hour lunch at the home of Fatima and her sister, and witness all the activities of a wedding ceremony that was held on a neighboring rooftop, complete with music until 5 am. <br /> <br />We also were then fortunate to spend a mini-vacation in Madrid and Cuenca, Spain with our daughter whose excellent Spanish paved the way for a relaxing time. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnmFlkHhq2zbN_s_j0Pk2y_2wWwv6kO73UVny3oloCO_XdwLC98K-hH2mHinPeCpaWMGICKuhhyphenhyphen51wRdPIXRhAzepST2_gd_MDcU7rlvR23T2iFhjsUeuzjuULyunu-h_9_cZqTmagonA/s1600/105.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnmFlkHhq2zbN_s_j0Pk2y_2wWwv6kO73UVny3oloCO_XdwLC98K-hH2mHinPeCpaWMGICKuhhyphenhyphen51wRdPIXRhAzepST2_gd_MDcU7rlvR23T2iFhjsUeuzjuULyunu-h_9_cZqTmagonA/s320/105.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635665707300833586" /></a> In Madrid we enjoyed spectacular architecture, world famous museums, great beer, wine, ham, music, couples sitting together at sidewalk cafes, church bells, sidewalks, and the new Harry Potter movie in English.<br /> <br />In Cuenca, reached by a quick ride on a new bullet train, we marveled at the old city built on karst, a 12th century cathedral, picturesque squares with fountains, scenic countryside, and a free classical concert in a pedestrian square with amazing acoustics. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQR4UcuIfJI6p5bslGvKyYanqiI07juIZpMp5wf9MBWgk1W5d3FbuuY75HQZI2MlmvrZQgB5F-tSO_h3Skm9kHh4j54tIqcEtX0GJQT_aEDeJYB5Ial9qOyjTkzRoov4IEB73Bgn5NHy4/s1600/120.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQR4UcuIfJI6p5bslGvKyYanqiI07juIZpMp5wf9MBWgk1W5d3FbuuY75HQZI2MlmvrZQgB5F-tSO_h3Skm9kHh4j54tIqcEtX0GJQT_aEDeJYB5Ial9qOyjTkzRoov4IEB73Bgn5NHy4/s200/120.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635666634990713122" /></a><br />We are now in REK as they prepare for Ramadan which begins in August. The patisseries in Fes are literally piled high with date and honey treats that are eaten to break fast in the evenings. Businesses are preparing to shut down, and our neighbors killed a sheep on their rooftop. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFYEFA52O5Jg9qJdFGWOJOnuBVu9N4SNnmw9xP5PaED-ySHbeSkROorFl7EoeyvUB8BQz04BC3rHmmrYPoeqRXa5amsGrl2XdvpzUPRSTMBThuGSihmKwtlbq7Ohw5L7F-tfvphHZP6-k/s1600/124.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 126px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFYEFA52O5Jg9qJdFGWOJOnuBVu9N4SNnmw9xP5PaED-ySHbeSkROorFl7EoeyvUB8BQz04BC3rHmmrYPoeqRXa5amsGrl2XdvpzUPRSTMBThuGSihmKwtlbq7Ohw5L7F-tfvphHZP6-k/s200/124.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635669925743234322" /></a>Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1560254310536519595.post-74587982238538541092011-07-04T13:24:00.000-07:002011-07-04T13:43:53.143-07:00Happy 4th of July!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7gpUsfs724rllFJ5Xbd4IQZEsqqNZ9G39sLAe8TI7my3w6XWkWFGX5qfhL0nI-m7uI0eVhtG7fE0cpHlC0b9SDkdP3LAQG0lEAevA90vXYBkusczcZX2gzf0K3OtLWzY39NIb7vtXc3E/s1600/Regional+meeting%252C+4th+of+July+070.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7gpUsfs724rllFJ5Xbd4IQZEsqqNZ9G39sLAe8TI7my3w6XWkWFGX5qfhL0nI-m7uI0eVhtG7fE0cpHlC0b9SDkdP3LAQG0lEAevA90vXYBkusczcZX2gzf0K3OtLWzY39NIb7vtXc3E/s320/Regional+meeting%252C+4th+of+July+070.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625596196587765442" /></a><br />American holidays seem to come and go with little notice from us, but we found ourselves in Rabat this weekend at a 4th of July party that was being held for the American community. There were hamburgers, hotdogs, chips and ice cream, swimming, soccer and basketball. Even the Ambassador and his wife and the American icon, Ronald McDonald, made an appearance.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJt3rUTDAKvpn-LCb7b07Ght40PdTAGbBNZBrrFDmSoXpP73WSh-zrGA2HeIb7tqeWdq4I6SFCUY8eIGqCe96MhSCFY45Eo8LzEPRun05sX17Z5TNG5NBvDmw-ed5m4tB7CteAICwXlYA/s1600/Regional+meeting%252C+4th+of+July+073.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJt3rUTDAKvpn-LCb7b07Ght40PdTAGbBNZBrrFDmSoXpP73WSh-zrGA2HeIb7tqeWdq4I6SFCUY8eIGqCe96MhSCFY45Eo8LzEPRun05sX17Z5TNG5NBvDmw-ed5m4tB7CteAICwXlYA/s200/Regional+meeting%252C+4th+of+July+073.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625596665863184482" /></a> There was no beer or fireworks though, which set it apart from the Butte celebrations of the past few years where there were plenty of both, but it was a fun time. We met a lovely Moroccan family whose sons go to the University of Minnesota. They invited us to stay in their home and offered to take us to the beach and cook fish for us. We were again reminded of the incredible generosity of the Moroccan people.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmRy2R5xNKddrawz_-h_2sZ7LLziYMD0IisIAH4iR1O466cVX_LixD65jafYNfUrprAxAwJl7VRc9nTXdga1QWP5f35VcQun-nGmga6kQHqLoy8ojHqAo27z24dTdKfbaxhvps6RzP9r0/s1600/Regional+meeting%252C+4th+of+July+075.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 194px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmRy2R5xNKddrawz_-h_2sZ7LLziYMD0IisIAH4iR1O466cVX_LixD65jafYNfUrprAxAwJl7VRc9nTXdga1QWP5f35VcQun-nGmga6kQHqLoy8ojHqAo27z24dTdKfbaxhvps6RzP9r0/s200/Regional+meeting%252C+4th+of+July+075.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625596892776991634" /></a><br /><br />The week before, we were in Fez attending the first regional meeting since the PC reorganization. We met the health and environment volunteers who are also being phased out. The regional concept makes a lot of sense and we were interested to hear the ideas and activities of other sectors and to discuss how our projects can all hopefully fit into youth development in the future. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jQmVI4G04yngFB6W1ScbiOtO5WRks8gNmVS2P98aonlBwDalVPMxTR8KGcayMYCpITsdVX0llK6uGenmNVCbGCMMsO0GOFK8y5RBUz9B0mwZk0FR3O8eFxAg8adK_g5kgHDg3JFCNo4/s1600/Regional+meeting%252C+4th+of+July+063.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 140px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jQmVI4G04yngFB6W1ScbiOtO5WRks8gNmVS2P98aonlBwDalVPMxTR8KGcayMYCpITsdVX0llK6uGenmNVCbGCMMsO0GOFK8y5RBUz9B0mwZk0FR3O8eFxAg8adK_g5kgHDg3JFCNo4/s200/Regional+meeting%252C+4th+of+July+063.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625597515249553458" /></a> Unfortunately it was boiling hot in Fez—well over 100—and our rooms in the cheap hotel affordable by PC were stifling. We were more than happy to move on to Rabat where the ocean breeze makes it at least ten degrees cooler. Summer is indeed upon us. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7CeqvCyk-h6aGbNVULZDFaqNMQk1hg678-MOb4aX9JZxc69fP8L-lJgdjGH_ZzepI17qNi4WUUcri-gU8OFJ2va80Bzk4s-IXmCqlIixA9zIegUPkcxb8xslYcrvC7e-gfbbXmJ3L54A/s1600/Regional+meeting%252C+4th+of+July+066.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7CeqvCyk-h6aGbNVULZDFaqNMQk1hg678-MOb4aX9JZxc69fP8L-lJgdjGH_ZzepI17qNi4WUUcri-gU8OFJ2va80Bzk4s-IXmCqlIixA9zIegUPkcxb8xslYcrvC7e-gfbbXmJ3L54A/s320/Regional+meeting%252C+4th+of+July+066.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625598208128148578" /></a>Karen Bookerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13085042732898456956noreply@blogger.com0