First Day Off

Sunday when we awoke the electricity was off. Mashi mushkil (no problem—a useful phrase) the lights are rarely on anyway and we were going early to the Sunday souk. We stuffed six people plus the driver into a taxi and headed to the souk on the edge of town. What an amazing sight! The souk is spread out over several acres and has everything you can think of for sale. Great crowds of sellers and buyers milled about, goats bleated, donkeys brayed, chickens squawked, aromas of mint and cilantro and other not so pleasant scents filled the air. Melons, peppers, carrots, bananas, all kinds of fruits and vegetables were piled high, popcorn popped, goat meat sizzled, and ears of corn roasted over open grills. We filled a huge bag with enough vegetables to feed seven people for a week for a cost of about $20.

That same afternoon, five of us trainees, our culture and language facilitator (CLF), two teenage boys, the director of a medical association, and a hired driver all piled into a five seat van to take an excursion into the mountains to see the spring that is the source of the water for our city. We took along a cooking pot, a butane portable stove, a large platter, chicken and vegetables for a picnic, and an African drum. Our driver had his own tea set and a quilted padded dashboard edged with braided drapery trim and dangling crystals—very classy. Off we went over a rutted rocky road for about 8 kilometers until we came to a river. I thought we would stop there but instead, we drove right into the river where of course we got stuck. “So we are fixed” said the CFL cheerfully and started playing his drum. The men got out to push, and finally, we made it to the other side and continued on to the spring. It was a beautiful and interesting spot, but it was very hard to imagine that this small spring could serve a city of about 40,000.
After cleaning the chicken and vegetables in the spring, we turned back, roared through the river without mishap, and stopped by an apple orchard. I’m not sure who owned it but mashi mushkil we picked a bunch of apples and went on down the road. Another stop yielded fresh bread from a farm house. Finally we arrived at a picnic spot and the cooking began. Even though we didn’t eat lunch until 4pm, it was well worth the wait. The chicken and vegetables were dished out into a big serving dish and we all ate the Moroccan way using our hands and pieces of bread for utensils.
We traveled home with the music of Morocco playing at full volume accompanied by Jamel on his drum. It was the best day so far.

A Few Pictures

These are pictures of lunch at the community based training center (always a decicious meal), a view from the rooftop of the center, and a street scene from the beach town where we stayed on arrival.

First Week of CBT

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

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

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

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

Philadelphia to New York to Casablanca to Rabat and Beyond

We arrived in North Africa after an arduous journey by plane and bus and plane and another bus. For the last few miles we had a police escort which was a little alarming, but Peace Corps is serious about security. When we go for a walk or a swim or out for a Coke, the police are following. I feel like a rock star.

We are in a lovely seaside town where we are studying language and cultural training. Our trainee group of volunteers is a wonderfully diverse group of young and old (I am not the oldest!), every skin and hair color, body type and nose size, Caucasian, Asian, African, East Indian, Polish, and Lebanese Americans. I think we represent the US very well.

We are learning Moroccan Arabic as well as bureacratese as the PC has a acronym for everything from PST to COS. Our language learning is going well. I have learned to count to ten and say some pleasantries as well as the important words for “I’m full” to avoid having your plate heaped time and again. I even made a successful transaction at the hanut today where I bought a candy bar. I didn’t need a candy bar, but it was in the glass case within pointing distance while the soap I did need was on a high shelf. A hanut is the Moroccan version of a 7-11 in a tiny space with a counter in front and a great variety of goods stacked to the roof. You tell the shopkeeper what you want and he gets it for you which may involve scurrying up and down a ladder several times. It’s straightforward unless you don’t know the word for what you want or what it should cost.
Our schedule is very busy with language and culture learning with a break for lunch where we are served big platters of delicious food. ( I have more pictures of food than anything else). We even had a visit from the US ambassador to Morocco which was admittedly exciting. Soon we will leave for our community based service training sites (CBT) where we will be broken into small groups and start our homestays. Having lived independently for decades, I’m not really looking forward to this part but understand the concept. I’ll be posting some pictures when I have time to load them which could take hours with the on-and-off Internet currently available. Such is life here so far.

We're Off

I once thought I would lead an exciting life as a foreign correspondent, traveling the world and reporting back to an important newspaper.  Instead I became an accountant.  Now, many years later, after having gone the traditional route of marriage, family and career, my husband and I have joined the Peace Corps, and I will be blogging about our experience.  It's hardly the same, but we ARE going to the land of Casablanca, Marrakesh, and Tangier.  We have our tickets and will soon embark on this challenging adventure.  I only hope that my volunteer service will in some way benefit the artisans of Morocco in our assigned community.

We're now visiting our daughter in California before heading off to Philadelphia for staging.  Our last act upon leaving our home of 36 years was to pitch the vacuum cleaner into the trash.  It seemed symbolic somehow. 

Karen