Rabat

15 hours of travel over the course of two days brought me out of my mountain village to the seaside Capital of Morocco, Rabat. I came here as part of my duties to the "Volunteer Action Committee"(VAC), a position I was elected to at the end of my training in early May. VAC represents the volunteers of Morocco to Peace Corps Staff, and to other people as well, we are the liaisons, in a sense. Dragged me unceremoniously out of my site and into the big city was a two hour meeting; but it made the trip worthwhile.
The director of Peace Corps worldwide, Aaron Williams, was visiting Morocco for the first time in his career and certainly for the first time in his 8 months as director. He was appointed by President Obama late last year. We had the opportunity to meet with him and air our few concerns about Peace Corps in a casual setting (or as casual as it could be, in light of the company). Mr. Williams turned out to be pleasant and down to earth, very easy to talk to, and full of stories about his work in Aid organizations including his start as a PCV in the Dominican Republic.
After the meeting we sat down to a meal of Couscous and I had the opportunity to sit at the Director's table to hear more from him, about his plans for the future of Peace Corps. I stared in consternation at my spoon and realized that I couldn't use my hands to pull apart the meat and eat Berber-style. So, I attempted to look like I had some semblance of etiquette, most of which I have completely lost and forgotten over the course of the last two months. The spoon felt awkward in my right hand, but I couldn’t bring myself to switch over to my left simply because it had become habit to do everything with my right. The Couscous was good, different from what I had been served in my training village of Ait Gmat, or in my site in the mountains. The conversation was stimulating and we spoke of many interesting thing at the table, most of which I can’t post on the public domain as they are unrealized ideas and best kept under wraps.
~
That essentially sums up the meeting, but I ended up spending three days in Rabat getting a full medical evaluation (I have parasites; don’t get worried/excited/envious). I did not mind this extra time, as there was so much to see in the Capital. Plus there was also something to be said for the basic creature comforts I happily experienced on a daily basis. These included hot showers, western toilets, real pillows, and soft beds. The night after the meeting, several other volunteers and I took a Petit Taxi down the winding, narrow streets until we got to a nondescript white wall with a small plaque that read “the American Club”. We flashed our Passports at the security guard, who determined that we were not a threat, and entered through the gate.
It was like stepping into a backyard BBQ. There was a lush green lawn spreading from an outdoor bar and patio; the air smelled like burgers and fries, with a hint of beer, and the only language to be heard was English—American English. There were several families there, drinking and talking with friends while the kids ran around the lawn and the playground that sat in the corner. I sat at a table, slightly dazed, and enjoyed a dinner of a hamburger and chicken wings while in one hand I held a frosty Samuel Adams (Boston Lager). I nearly forgot I was in Morocco until the sunset “call to prayer” spilled in from one of the Mosques outside the walls. We spoke to some of the other Americans, all here for different reasons, but most living in country rather than visiting. A woman from another agency invited us to a beach bonfire, but the taxi ride was too long and we walked back to our hotel instead—in hindsight, I wish I had accepted the invitation.
I got up the next morning and ate breakfast at “Toast” a Café near the hotel. Here their signature breakfast dish is also called “Toast” but it was so much more than that. It was two slices of toast with a slice of cheese and sunnyside-up egg on top; it came with orange juice and coffee. As the typical Berber breakfast consists of bread, olive oil, and coffee, I was understandably excited. The food onslaught continued, reaching its peak with a Royale w/ Cheese from McDonalds: Rabat, an establishment that also offers a burger on Pita Bread called the “McArabia”. Add fries and a coke and it was certainly a meal that made me happy, if not actually a happy meal. I know, I am traitor to everything I believe in—I ate at McDonalds for the first time in many years. But man, that burger was good and somehow, sitting back in my site the Atlas and thinking about the parasites I was told I have (and am currently treating); the guilt is just not coming. Dinner that night was at the German Institute and involved a bruschetta salad, pizza, and some more cold beer. Not losing sleep over that either. Why am I elaborating on food? To stress just how amazing it was to me, and how mind-boggling things I took for granted back home are now that I am deprived of them on a regular basis. To list a few, in no particular order:
- Beef: it’s what’s for dinner, but not here, and I am sorry but mutton is not an adequate replacement.
- Hot water: this is obtainable only with a butane heater, some of which are deadly.
- Pillows: I have mentioned this before but I didn’t realize what a big part of my sleep depended on a nice soft pillow to rest my head on. Hard and often rough couch cushions simply don’t suffice.
- Bacon
- Decent Beer: growing up around some of the best beer in the world has left with the opinion that no beer is better than bad beer, but even bad beer would taste ok when it is cold and socially acceptable.
- Toilets: when you are exhausted and ravaged from Dysentery, you have no idea how nice it would be to have something to sit on so if you pass out… ok enough said.
- Raw vegetables: These aren’t entirely gone, but they are rare and occasionally dangerous.
- English: I just miss not having a headache every time I talk, this will go away and it gets easier every day, but I miss days that didn’t focus entirely on trying to get my point across.
- Real Cheese: I am sorry Morocco, but “Laughing Cow” is closer to “Cheese Whiz” than actual cheese. Why is the cow laughing? Because it’s not f**king cheese, that’s why!
Ok, that’s more than enough, I’ll write an entire entry on things I no longer take for granted later… Eventually. Incha allah.
~
Ok, maybe a little about the city itself; please forgive the “stream-of-consciousness” nature of this entry. It’s written, like most of my entries, in a short time span and is entirely unplanned. So back to Rabat... It is a beautiful city; most of the buildings are white and many of the streets are lined with palm trees whose trunks play host to twining English ivy. Fountains spray and pigeons take flight against the white sky; in many respects, Rabat feels like an average European city. That is, until I see the swirling Arabic script on the store fronts or have the call to prayer carried into my hotel room along with the honking of car horns, and the murmur of conversations on the street; all hard “q’s” and nasal vowels. Walking down the street, the illusion of European normalcy is further shattered by the abrupt appearance of a massive wall of beige stone with yawning archways leading to the medina, or old city.
Inside, merchants hawk everything from traditional Moroccan clothing to Barbie dolls. The streets are narrow and winding; laundry is strung above the crowd and colorful rugs hang from the windows and balconies of the homes of the people who still live in this place. At intersections where the crowds come together, traditionally dressed water-sellers stand shouting the name of a particular spring from which they get their water. The water is dispensed from a goatskin bag slung against their back into one of 3-4 golden cups that hang from a bandolier across their chest. They are dressed in red, green, and blue, with wide brimmed fringed hats.
Sometimes the street passes under a building or a shade covering. One street in particular comes to mind, thronged with people and wares hang or sit on every surface. Silver teapots on gleaming trays, carved wooden camels and intricately enameled furniture beckon from some stalls, while still others contain ornate jewelry and ceremonial daggers from the deserts of the south. Every once in awhile I pass a “spice stall” and look inside at the wizened patron sitting among the baskets piled high with spices of every kind and color, each spice forming a cone above its basket. The smells are intense in this place; from the spice stalls a strong and heady aroma floats on the still air, mingling with the smells of livestock and human sweat. Further on is a smell of cooked food and I purchase a sandwich of spiced ground beef (called Kefta) mixed with scramble egg and sprinkled with even more spices. They are cheap and wonderful; I slip into garden and eat mine underneath the towering palms. I talk to another volunteer who is with me, and listen to an ancient Arab man admiring my watch from a nearby bench (zwina l’magana, zwina l’magana).
The next day, I return to the medina alone and navigate the narrow streets from memory. I know that the medinas in the major cities are the most dangerous parts to be alone and ignorant but they’re not that bad if you keep your head. Rule number one is to watch your valuables; I carry a backpack in the cities, but it goes under one arm if I enter a medina, so I can keep an eye on it. Also, do not express interest in any wares, just admire in passing unless you want a long and frustrating exchange with a merchant; which I could tolerate if anyone here spoke Tamazight. Interestingly enough, a being white kid who, when confused, lapses into an obscure dialect of Berber, in a city that speaks predominately Arabic and French, earned me more brownie points than I expected it would. More often than not, merchants would pull out their rudimentary English simply because I was gutsy enough to try Tam on them. One merchant in particular told me to go get married in the Atlas and bring my new wife to his shop where I could buy her clothing at a discounted price…
On the other side of the medina, after making it through alive, is the sea. The last time I saw the Atlantic was in the rearview mirror as I left Cape Hatteras last fall and suddenly I am faced with the same body of water but on the opposite shore. I walk down the beach for a ways; the social mores of Islamic culture are scarcely discernible here as young men and young women walk this way and that in their bathing suits. It looks like any beach on the east coast except the people are thinner and darker. I see a lighthouse further on and go to it. There is a guard charging a 10DH entrance fee; he speaks English and we talk about lighthouses and I tell him about my lighthouse in North Carolina. After a few minutes of conversation and questions, the guard looks around him and, seeing no one, motions me inside. You do not have to pay, but be quick about it, okay? I walk across the battlements around the lighthouse stand next to a rusted cannon watching the sun glitter like diamonds on the rolling swells. I enjoy the smell of salt spray and listen to the crash of the waves on the sharp rocks below, thinking of other beaches and other times spent on the seashore.
Reluctantly, I walk back into the city and re-enter the medina in search of another sandwich. This sandwich I eat in the dappled sunlight of the Royal Arboretum, filled with tropical trees and plants including a row of box-cut Ficus that are the size of buses. I sit and people watch for awhile as the palms rustle overhead and birds sing. A Moroccan couple in western clothing watches their children run ahead of them, partially covered in Ice Cream, and following them is a woman in a full veil, with only her eyes visible to the rest of the world. Men with long beards walk with their hands clasped behind them, clad in the plain white Jelabas of the devout. Older men pass wearing business suits, the outfit made Moroccan by the addition of a red Fez.
Wandering around the city after the arboretum, I came upon a strange and wonderful thing: a Cathedral. I didn’t expect to find one, but here it was. It appeared to be a modern construction, but with proportions similar to the Cathedral at Canterbury, in England, or the National Cathedral in New York. The door was open and I slipped inside. It was dim, and the only light came from a large stained-glass window depicting the crucifixion of Christ. Here, in the middle of an Islamic Nation, I was faced with this literally shining representation of God made flesh; I looked for a long time, awestruck. Despite the look of suffering in His face, I felt like I was greeting an old friend who I had not seen for awhile, just then realizing how much He was missed.
The next morning, I left Rabat, to return to my site, where I am now. But I feel that that journey, crossing the country alone using every approved mode of public transport, deserves its own essay, which I will post shortly. Until then, as always, thank you for reading.

-Charlie

A Souq Day

5/28/2010

Souq Day in the village. Walking to my future apartment from my Host Family’s house, I dodge herds of sheep, leathery men in dark jelabas, all between massive brightly colored trucks loaded with vegetables and stock. Weighing of produce and arguments over tent placement erupt all around me, and I enjoy an unusual anonymity; for once everyone is too busy to stare at me. It is like being back in the city, everyone flowing around you, going about your business. Occasionally someone’s eyes focus on me, some recognize me and we exchange a brief greeting in Tamazight; mostly the men, although some women acknowledge my presence if out of view of their husbands. The women are clad in loose-fitting robes with a blanket-like cape covering their shoulders, the striping on the cape denoting the tribe. On their heads are purple scarves, broadly folded, and bound tightly with pink or white cloth in a uniquely Berber fashion. It looks difficult to tie and makes me once again grateful to be a male in Morocco; oh so many reasons.

The main street of the village is one long hill descending from the Gendarmarie (Police) and l’bosta (Post Office). It is lined with cafés and small stores and ends at a crossroads. My future apartment is just east of here, on the second floor of a brick building owned by my Host Family. It needs a very good cleaning and some basic decorating (make it a little piece of home), but otherwise it is ready to move into. Unfortunately I cannot move in yet; I am required by Peace Corps to stay with my Host Family for another month. That’s alright, they are wonderful people and very helpful when it comes to my language. But I am still ready to regain some semblance of independence and control; three months is long enough, and four is too long.

After a long and complicated trip to Errachidia (again) I sorted out my internet contract and now have a wireless modem installed in my apartment-to-be. So here I sit, catching up on peoples’ lives and reinitiating contact with the life I left behind. This lulls me into a sense of complacency and normalcy, immediately shattered when I walk outside and am once again confronted by the throng of people and livestock, the air full of strange sounds.

5/29/2010

Today is so clear that the edges of the mountains against the deep blue of the sky look as though they could cut glass. The only clouds are wispy mare’s tails; the air is still, the souq people have gone back to their villages and the locals are sleeping off their lunches and long morning of haggling. The storks on top of the mosque seem busy, feeding their young; not sure how many chicks there are. Sheep move lazily on the mountainsides, distracted and scattering as their guardians stop to make tea in gleaming silver pots that hang from their belts when not in use. High up on a mountain in recent weeks I discovered the shattered remains of a lone teacup in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere.

But then, that could define this place in general, especially now in the lull after lunch. I am back in my apartment-to-be, picking up where I left off. Looking about and seeing what needs to be done, what needs to be moved, cleaned, purchased, or fixed. There is much to do, but too much time to do it; granted this statement seems to sum up the entire Peace Corps experience. Although, I am sure after two years, I will find that my time here has been too short. But on this side of things, looking down the barrel of 706 remaining days, it seems that time in my greatest obstacle.

The truth of the matter is, that I love the Southwest, the Colorado Plateau, the Four Corners—All of the peaks and spires, domes of white, canyons of red, interspersed with the high, dark intrusions of volcanic laccoliths. The cascading song of a canyon wren on an otherwise silent evening or the sparks popping from a burning juniper limb as the Coyotes wail unseen on the distant mesa. I think that this is irreversibly a part of who I am as a human being; it is my desert, my mountains, my place in this world. It is not that I am homesick, or would even leave Morocco now if given the choice; it is simply that, as I have more time to think and to examine the life I left behind in the Southwest from this great distance. It becomes more and more clear what I want to do with my life and where I want to be. Already, Peace Corps is teaching me things about myself and making me quieter and more focused.

Why am I writing this to you, you may wonder? Why is this simply not another account of my doings in Morocco? Because I want to catalog some of my thoughts and decisions here in my village; share my frustrations and give you, the reader, a clearer picture of my experience here...

In closing I would like to share a couple of technical things the first is the fact that I was informed by one of you that some people are unable to leave comments due to technical problems on the site. I will try to amend that, but in the meantime, feel free to drop me an email: charlie@incitelearninginc.com . Also, I now have a flickr page, so go to www.flickr.com/charlieofmorocco if you want to have a look at some of the places mentioned here. Also feel free to send requests of things you would like to see or hear about!

Thanks for reading,

Charlie

The First Two Weeks

5/19/2010

I have been in my site for two weeks now and am beginning to settle in nicely. My service got off to an inauspicious start with a solid week of Dysentery (yes, like Oregon Trail) and went be with very little accomplished by yours truly. I stayed in bed, went to the bathroom every half-hour (which is not easy; squatting is difficult when you’re dehydrated), and watched TV on my computer. A course of hardcore antibiotics cleared me up and I am feeling great now, although I have no false hopes of staying this way for long. But hey, while I am well, I should write a blog entry! So, after my first wasted week of dysentery induced fog, here is a full report on week 2!

~

I started my week with two days of traveling to Errachidia for a two hour meeting with other volunteers concerning our evacuation plan (just in case…). Traveling involved a four and a half hour transit (Mercedes Van) ride from my site to my souq town and then a one hour taxi ride from there. I enjoyed seeing my friends again, especially two of my CBT mates (you know who you are!). We talked and had our meeting, and hung out in the Café Imichil, which has extensive shady gardens and serves chilled banana juice, which is as good as it sounds. I ate a wonderful sandwich from one of the vendors near the bus station; it was fresh bread (a round, cut in half like a pita) and stuffed with eggs, something like sausage, fried potatoes, and spices. This was made even more sublime by the fact that it was the first real food I had eaten after a week of malnourishment!

My friends and I stayed with another volunteer in a town south of Errachidia; located in the Sahara just north of Erg Chebbi. Our hostess was (is) an excellent cook and we enjoyed a dinner of made-from-scratch Buffalo Chicken Pizza! It was absolutely incredible and made better by the fact that the only hard cheese available in this part of Morocco is Edam, which is amazing anywhere.

The next morning, after an unsuccessful attempt to get my internet renewed (yes, I live in unimaginable hardship…) I was informed I needed a Cartes du Sejour which is a form of identification proving residence in Morocco. These are very difficult to get; more on that later. So, I shrugged off the general frustration of failure and went to breakfast at a high end “French” café and breakfasted with other volunteers from the region on runny (and delightful) eggs, pastries, and juice. Afterward, as I walked down the street toward the bus station I realized that this was the first time I had been completely alone and independent in a third-world city, and that I was actually comfortable with that. The throngs of people didn’t bother me and I enjoyed some urban anonymity for awhile (anonymity in my site is completely impossible; i.e. “fishbowl effect”). Then I saw a familiar face in a Café, it was a man from my village that now lives in my souq town. My predecessor introduced me to him days before and now here he was in Errachidia. I said hello (in Tamazight) and we had a short conversation before I continued on my way; two months and Morocco is already getting smaller.

I bought a bus ticket with no problems and rode the hour to my souq town. The bus was nearly empty, which was unusual, and I enjoyed having my window open with no locals around to protest the “bad luck and illness” brought in by the wind. After the bus ride (I will never get over that stretch of road, it’s breathtaking) I arrived just in time to reserve my spot on the last Transit of the day, which is something you have to do about an hour before departure. It’s an honor system, all you have to do is leave a belonging in the seat you wish to claim and nobody will move it until you get back. This can be a book or plastic bag and occasionally a vegetable of some kind. I went to get some yogurt (I am trying to do right by my antibiotic ravaged intestines) and returned just in time to grab my seat. I am glad I arrived early to claim a spot; at one point during the ride I counted 21 people inside the transit, with a few more on top. Needless to say, it was grinding up the hills and, in the Atlas, there are many of those to contend with.

I arrived back in my village and realized that, for the first time, I was alone in my site with the added benefit of being well. I went to my future apartment and sat for awhile, taking in the quiet, and then walked up the hill to my family’s house. I enjoyed dinner (mashed potatoes, Ait Hadiddou style) and after some conversation and some tea (which keeps getting better, the conversation, not the tea; that’s always good) I went to bed. I slept late because my shutters were closed and woke up refreshed. I had breakfast of coffee and bread and enjoyed conversing with my host mom. The rest of my day consisted of a trip to the post office and a trip to the Gendarmes where I learned what I needed to acquire my all important Cartes du Sejour. Otherwise I spent the afternoon napping and writing letters; I figure if I can just accomplish one or two things a day, at least at the beginning, I am doing well.

The next day, today, was great. I slept not quite so late this time and had breakfast like before. I took a shower after breakfast and spent the morning doing laundry, a chore which was supervised closely by my host mom. After hanging the clothes out to dry, I finished my lengthy letter to my best friend (in response to his equally lengthy work) and walked to the Post office to mail it. Before I left I found, quite unexpectedly, the missing document that was needed to apply for my Cartes du Sejour, a document that I was not supposed to have yet and that I thought I had to go back to Errachidia to obtain! I immediately went to the Gendarmes and after a long wait, one round of tea with the officers, and a few miscellaneous errands , I was all set.

After this, I walked down the street toward the center of town, greeting people in my broken Tamazight, until I spotted my host father in a Café on the side road. I sat down with him and one of his friends later joined us. We talked about Imilchil, about the weather, our work, basic guy stuff really. I left after having coffee and went back to the house for dinner.

Imichil is looking like it will be a great site and I am eager to settle in and find my place here!

Thanks again for reading,

Charlie

Swearing In

5/13/2010

This last week and a half has been a blur of training and testing, hellos and goodbyes. Training ended and service began, and that two year clock is ticking…

When I began this entry I was sitting in the Bab Sahara Hotel for what was likely the last time for the duration of my service, unless I am asked back to Ouarzazate for anything. Ouarzazate really has treated us (my stagemates and I) well and we have gotten to know it far more than I thought we could. It doesn’t seem strange or foreign anymore, and it’s only that I still can’t speak the language that reminds me that this is not actually my norm. But it was time to move on and that meant moving up to my site.

Getting my luggage consolidated was a bear, I have 2 big duffel bags and a suitcase and I had to get on the bus to Errachidia; then another bus from Errachidia to Rich and finally on the 4 hour transit ride to… my site. Oops, almost slipped there… Once I got to my site, I just needed to get my bags to my host family’s house and then, save moving into my house in July, I was done moving for 2 years solid; which will be longest I have ever stayed anywhere at one time since I moved out of my parent’s house in Colorado after college. In the past 3 years I have moved 6-7 times for my job and for Peace Corps. So, in some ways it is a comfort to know that I can go somewhere and not move for awhile.

As of now shoulders are still sore from carrying my things all over the country, but I am here and settled in with my host family. The very beauty of this place still makes my heart beat faster. But this entry is not meant describe my initial time in site; that entry is next. No this is about saying goodbye to a family and swearing in as a volunteer. Please allow me to backpedal…

~

My last week in training was somewhat slow, especially after the excitement of site visit, and the relief knowing what I was in for, brought to me. No, my CBT group and I worked our way through some final language lessons and took some final walks through the fields. The fields were in full flower and the wheat was waist high and hissed as the breeze rushed through it from the river. The roses reached above our heads and the almond branches drooped heavy with fruit. I realized that we really had been in our training site for a full season; that trees that had not even leafed out when we arrived here in March were now casting dark pools of shadow upon the path and that the flowering trees were now green and bearing fruit. The river was no longer fast and viscous with silt, but was then flowing cool and clear with no hint of its earlier turbulence.

I had a nice introduction to Moroccan humor from a stately Berber woman who, after I was able to adjust to her voice, told me that she liked my Moroccan name (Hassan) and that if I was to change it in anyway, even back in the states, she would then ritually slaughter me… She said this in a sweet, old lady kind of way, so I knew that I was in no danger of being killed in a ritual fashion. I replied in halting Tam that I would inform my parents back in the states that they couldn’t use my given name anymore. She laughed at this and general hilarity ensued.

The LPI, or Language Proficiency Interview, took place toward the end of the final week and consisted of speaking with one of the Moroccan Staff (not our LCF) for about 15 minutes on various topics. I scored “Intermediate Low” which was fine, and more than I was expecting. I will be interviewed again at the end of June when I go up to Azerou for technical training and debriefing from my initial experiences in site. After the LPI was over, it was just a matter of waiting for the training to end.

We went to Kelaat M’gouna to buy supplies for the party we were throwing for our host families and, after setting everything up and laying it out, our families arrived in varying degrees of lassitude. Soon the house was full of Moroccans and it was essentially a giant tea party. I gave a speech to my family in halting English (I think all of my language is halting nowadays) and my LCF translated for me. I presented them with the certificate of appreciation that Peace Corps had prepared for them and which we had had framed that morning. After my speech was finished, I heard a scraping noise and realized that my host father, who I did not think was going to attend due to difficulty of approaching the house in his wheelchair, had hauled himself up the stairs and into the tea-room. I was quite touched by this, as were most of my CBT mates, and my family and I settled down to listen to rest of the festivities. My host mother and host sister both gave speeches about how nice it was to have me as guest and how I was part of the family now. After a group photo, we all dispersed back to our respective homes for family time.

My host sister took us on our final walk where we got tea at two different houses and visited with her friends and family. The cook for our CBT accompanied us on our walk as well and I was glad she did. She has been a great friend to all of us and has spent more time with us as a group than anyone else in the village. She has been patient with our halting attempts at language and many times she and I laughed until we cried when I went to talk to her in the kitchen; granted, this was usually at my expense. After the walk, she cried and hugged us tightly (even the guys) and then ran off in the direction of her house. My final dinner was eaten late that night with my family and all of them promised to be up to see me off the next morning.

The final goodbye was oddly formal, but I sensed emotion just under the surface. This suspicion was confirmed when my host sister suddenly burst into tears and hugged me. I assured her that I would be back at least twice, once with my American family when they visit next year, and once in the fall for my host sister’s wedding. My host brother, and a couple of his friends that had stayed over the night before, helped me with my bags and walked me to the taxi which took us away to Ouarzazate.

After a week in Ouarzazate we attended the “Swearing In” ceremony which took place in the opulent Ouarzazate Palace of Congress, signaling the end of training and the true beginning of Peace Corps. Both the American Ambassador and the governor of Ouarzazate were in attendance and gave inspiring speeches to us new volunteers. We went to a reception afterward and ate French pastries and drank chilled banana juice. We mingled, shook hands and walked back the hotel in the hot sun.

~

I have been a Peace Corps Volunteer for just over a week now and am thoroughly enjoying my site, although I have been sick off and on. My village is beautiful and, on one of the days when I was feeling up to it, I climbed one of the mountains above the town to get my bearings. The mountain is a near vertical monocline that has eroded to the point that it is climbable. It was covered in fossils of shells and corals and it felt almost like I was beachcombing as I climbed. The mountain topped out at about 9300ft and the view was incredible in all directions. The hike is a vision of what I have to enjoy for the next two years in Morocco, and it was comforting to get out alone and do something familiar… or almost familiar. I packed many of the same things and used the same gear that I have hiked with for years. But this time there was no blue dog following close behind, no friends or family to go home to, no cold beverage waiting in the car; hell, there was not even a car waiting at the trailhead. None of familiar comforts of routine; a routine I hadn’t even known I had.

There were other reminders that I wasn’t home anymore, the presence of sheep on adjacent hillsides, the call to prayer echoing from the distant Mosque, far below in the village. No trees on the hillsides, only scrubby, cushiony plants that people gather to use as firestarter. The valleys are fields, wall to wall and the rivers are severely channelized—a consequence of 3000 years of agriculture. At one point as I climbed, I looked over to a nearby ridge and saw an Amazigh man, clad in a black Jelaba (full, hooded robe) and white headscarf, silhouetted against the sky and surrounded by his sheep. I am guessing I could have climbed this mountain anytime in the last three millennia and beheld the same scene.

From the summit of the mountain I could see many villages and many other mountains in all directions. I pulled out my GPS and marked a waypoint. Using the device I calculated the distance between my mountaintop and my family’s home in Colorado (also stored as a waypoint, marked with a shower icon): 5524 miles. Well it’s official, I am very far from home. But I love it here and will try to write and entry once a week from here on out, now that I am here for the long run.

Thanks for reading,

Charlie

My site in the Atlas...

It’s been awhile since my last blog entry so let me attempt to catch up. Since my last entry, I got over my bout with Zund Typhoid and have not been sick since (hamdullah!). I left my host family in Ait Gmat for my 10 day site visit, and they said that they would miss their American son. My host mother, Aicha, also informed me that I was to bring my mother to visit when my family comes to Morocco from the States; Aicha said that she and mom would be like sisters and that she wants to meet her give her lots of beautiful henna. Gotta follow up on that one.

After a morning of nailbiting in Ouarzazate, waiting for our site assignments, and were finally rewarded for our patience when the head of the Environment Sector, Mohssine, passed out a series of files with our names and the name of our site. Let me go ahead and say I am not allowed to release my specific site, due to safety reasons pertaining to being an American abroad; they do not want us easily located by anyone who cares to look. That said, I will describe my site, my accommodations, and the people I am to work with. If anyone wants my specific site location and my new mailing address (I can get packages now!!) I can email it to you if you email me at: charlie@incitelearninginc.com .

The Site

First off, I absolutely love my site. It is in the Er-rachidia Province and is a small, but clean, community in the High Atlas Mountains. It is located just within the boundaries of The Eastern High Atlas National Park, which is roughly 55000 hectares of beautiful vistas, incredible geology, and two of the largest natural lakes in Morocco: Lake Isli and Lake Tislit, the Groom and the Bride. All of the mountains have long been deforested and there is no trace of trees left other than the Apples and Poplars in the fields by the “river”. That said, the area has lost none of its beauty and is as austere and rugged as Big Bend National Park and the geology is stunning. Faults, folds, and unconformities abound along with the occasional dark swath of a volcanic dike. Tilted beds and monoclines are everywhere and there seems to be very little rhyme or reason to it all. It is a clear representation of North Africa as a “bumper”: whenever Africa has collided with anything (like Europe, or South America) another range of the Atlas has been formed. My site is said to be the coldest in Morocco and, two winters ago, it apparently got two meters of snow in one storm. Oh boy, sounds like home! Minus the heated house… There are miles of hiking and backpacking, and plenty for me to do in the Eastern High Atlas National Park. I have no worries about crippling boredom; even in winter I will occupied with trying to stay warm.

The People

My site is essentially the heart of Berber culture in Northern Africa. The people here, while accepting minor changes like running water, electricity, and the Arabs invading their culture a few centuries ago, have essentially remained unchanged for several millennia. The tribe I am living and working with, the Ait Hadidou, is one of the most studied and traditional of all Berber tribes. My site is also the location of what has been called the “Wedding Festival” and “Fiancé Fair”. This is a large gathering of Berbers from the surrounding countryside (or “Bled”) who congregate in my village to find a spouse and buy supplies for the upcoming winter. While this has become a heavily touristed event, it remains very traditional and consists of 4-5 days of dancing, singing, shopping, and people proposing to eachother. This, I am sure, will include plenty of proposals to me, the village’s most eligible (and only) American. I have already been proposed to once, at a wedding dance that I attended. Since I am writing about the people of Ait Hadidou, I suppose I should include an account of this event:

The Wedding Dance

I had only been in my site for a couple of days and my host mother (Rkia) instructed me to get ready to go out, although she didn’t say for what, or at least I didn’t understand right away. I threw on my Jelaba (a traditional robe that I am becoming more and more fond of…) and a hat and followed her through the darkening streets. She had my host sister in tow and my baby brother strapped to her back. While bundled up against the cold, her colorful headscarf was still very prominent as was the traditional blue tattoo that is visible on the chin of most traditional Berber women, especially those of the Ait Hadidou.

As we approached the town center, I began to hear a fast drumbeat. When I rounded the corner I saw a large circle of people in Jelabas and many women watching with the striped capes that indicate their tribes; thin black on white striping for Ait Yaza and thick stripes for Ait Brahim (the melding of these two tribes, according to the legend, created the Ait Hadidou). In the center of the circle where many women, dancers, dressed in fine silks and sparkling jewelry; their wrists and waists decorated with shining silver disks that rattled with their movements. Music was being played by three drummers, holding hand drums and alternating their rhythms, and one wind instrument that had an almost nasal quality like the flutes of snake charmers. The dancing was fast and frenzied and I was surprised to see that the dancers had their hair loose, often in a shimmering fall of black reaching past their waist. As the pace of the songs quicken one woman would step forward and whirl her head around and around, spinning the dark curtain of her hair in a wide circle.

Once between songs, the drummers looked in consternation at their drumhead, which had apparently loosened, and one of them left the ring of onlookers. He returned a short while later with a small, mossy shrub; which I had heard was collected as firestarter from the surrounding mountains. This theory was confirmed when the drummer pulled out a lighter and proceeded to light the bush on fire, placing it on the ground in the center of the circle. The flames leapt high, but the brush burned slowly, and the drummers held out their instruments to the flames, allowing the heat to tighten the drumheads. After this spectacle, the bush was stomped out in a spray of sparks and the dancing resumed as fast as before.

People pressed in from all sides and I was right in the divide between the men and women (the circle seemed half and half). Though I was traditionally dressed, my hair, eyes, and skin made me stick out like a sore thumb; despite this, I wasn’t the most out of place. That honor was taken by three French tourists on the fringes of the circle. People spoke to me in Tamazight and were thrilled when I answered back in the same tongue, I told many people that I was the new volunteer for the village and that I was learning Tamazight as fast as I could. A girl next to me shouted something at me in with a smile, asking me to dance, and then said something else in a more serious tone. I wasn’t sure what she was saying but it soon translated for me by Ali, a shopkeeper that I had befriended and who spoke a little English. “She is asking you if you would like to get married.” said Ali, with a small smile. I looked at the girl and smiled, saying in Tamazight that I was grateful, but that I wasn’t ready to get married yet. She understood and laughed, and we both turned and continued to watch the dance.

~

I have the feeling that my stay here will be fascinating and enlightening. I have already seen and experienced more new things in four short days than I thought possible; I am excited to live and work and learn.

The Host Family

I am excited about my host family; they are kind and welcoming and patient with my struggling language skills. My host father, Said, is the lead mountain guide for the region and knows the entire High Atlas like the back of his hand. He has hiked from his home in my village to most of the major gateway cities, including Fez, Marrakech, Kelaat Mgouna, Ouarzazate, and Khenifra. He has climbed Mt. Toubkal over 100 times. He wasn’t bragging, it’s just his life. He is well respected and well connected in the community so I hope he will be an asset to whatever project I take on in the next couple of years.

My host mother, Rkia, is the finest cook in the region—no joke. Every meal I have had in my village has been absolutely wonderful and the feces content seems nonexistent, which is exciting. Rkia was initially leery about having a male stay with her; all other PCVs in my village have been female in the past, a trend which I have broken. Rkia told the PCV I am replacing (who was/is wonderful and successful and whose shadow I fully expect to spend at least a year crawling out of…) that she didn’t want a boy to stay because “American boys just come and eat and then leave. Despite this, and also thanks to my predecessor’s encouragement, she seems to like me just fine and says she will teach me to cook (can’t wait).

I have 3 host brothers; Rachid (10), Mohamed (13), and Sufiyan (8 months). I also have a host sister, Fatima, who is 8. They seem like nice kids and, thanks to their father’s line of work, are used to being around the occasional foreigner. I look forward to my time with my host family and arrive in Imilchil again one week from today; this time to stay.

Cheers,

Charlie (Hassan)

Ouarzazate Province, Morocco

Zund Typhoid

4/11/2010

I think I will begin by posting a wise proverb that sums up my life right now:

“When different people behold a glass of water, the optimist says the glass is half-full; the pessimist says that the glass is half empty. However, the Peace Corps Volunteer says ‘Hey look! A bath!’”

Not quite sure where this quote came from or who to credit it to, it’s all over the other Peace Corps Blogs. I like it though. I was thinking about it this morning after I showered with a bucket of cold water, which is one step down from my usual “bucket and warm teapot” routine. It amazes me that things I would never dream of doing (let alone enjoying) back home I do almost every day here in Morocco. Hot showers and comfortable beds (or any beds) seem surreal even though it’s only been a month and a half since I left them all behind. I can’t remember what it’s like to be entirely clean, or healthy for that matter.

This last week has been hard, although I knew it would be stressful, since we are in the final countdown before our site assignments—in 4 days. It was supposed to be a week of hard language study before we were introduced to our final sites and host families; if all went according to plan. Ha. While I had a pretty upbeat Easter Sunday, the first one in my entire life when I was unable to attend a church service, and I felt good about my progress in language and life in general, it is the last day I can remember feeling healthy. My week started with a bad reaction to a beesting accompanied by intestinal distress of which I will spare you the details. The sting went away after 3 days of vigorous medicating my the Peace Corps Medical Officer but my gastric ills continued and were soon joined by a low fever and a mind-blowing headache which, after 48 hours, was finally cause enough for me to get picked up and taken back to Ouarzazate in the back of the Peace Corps landcruiser.

Riding through the city, feeling sick and looking out over the press of people, vehicles, and livestock, helped me realize just how far from home I really was. The doctor informed me, via translator, that I had a nasty intestinal infection “most like, and related to, Typhoid Fever”. I suddenly felt even farther from home, help, and all things friendly. Typhoid? I mean, I didn’t actually have Typhoid, but the name is legendary enough that it’s still scary to have one its relatives. Anyway, to make a long story short, I was put on another round of drugs, including a focused antibiotic, and am slowly recovering. All that’s left now is a barely discernible pain behind my eyes and a heavy, blanketing fatigue. Today, two years feels like an awfully long time. But I know it’s not and this kind of physical and emotional harrowing is what I signed up for. I also accept that I will likely go through far worse and far nastier before I service is up. But after you have been sick and exhausted for a full week, the voice of reason seems less, well… reasonable.

But hey, how about some good things about my week? Despite my illness, I only missed one day of class and I haven’t fallen nearly as far behind as I anticipated I would. While I was sick I finished two books. My host family has been wonderful although I bet they are convinced that Americans never eat after being around me. One night after being asked by my Language Teacher if they could fix me a small bowl of salted white rice for dinner that night, I realized to my dismay that they had prepared the same bland dish for the entire family and nothing else. I felt guilty and ill. Today is my off day and they let me sleep in for most of the morning without disturbing me. I am quite grateful to have them as my caretakers, but am carefully ignoring the fact that one they are also my personal “vectors” as well. If anyone remembers how Typhoid Fever and its relations are transmitted, you will understand what I mean by this. In other good news, my family’s cat had kittens and there are now two little furballs curled up in the storage room off the courtyard. They are adorable, their eyes aren’t even open yet.

So, this first low spot as been survived and will help me deal with the next one which I am sure will not be long in coming. Four more days and I find out my final site! I will post it when I find out.

Also important: I will be getting my new P.O. Box Next week. If you want to continue writing to me (or start!) then email my father for the new P.O. Box sometime before the end of May. They’ll be returning letters to sender from the Rabat address in June. Until I know more, I hope all is well in the states!

The First Month...

Much has happened since my last posting three weeks ago. I stayed in Ayt Gmat with my CBT group for roughly 12 days before returning to Ouarzazate for more shots (I can no longer get rabies!) and some overall group training. I then returned to Ayt Gmat for 6 days before coming back to Ouarzazate for the same reason as before. Another 12 day stint and I will return again, this time to learn the location of my final site (VERY important) and then spend the next week traveling to the site and staying there solo for a week to check things out; Peace Corps Morocco does not like surprises. After that, there is one more week of training and then a swearing in ceremony on May 3^rd, service begins on May 5^th. This is when my address will change!!

Thanks for all of the letters! They have been a joy to read and I have unfortunately been able to reply to only a few of them so far. Send me a letter whenever you think of it, I enjoy catching up on your lives back in the states. I have been learning as much language as I can hold, although Tamaziġt Berber is still extremely difficult. It’s coming right along though, and I am confident that I can achieve fluency in the first year of service. I have been sick; I knew it would happen and, now that it’s over, I am somewhat relieved that I am past that milestone. Sure it will happen again, but that first time of huddling ill and alone in the middle of the night in a bathroom with no toilet—that at least is over with. Unfortunately, it was on top of a chest cold that was fairly nasty as well. Welcome to Morocco, immune system!

I feel that I am learning much more about the culture of Morocco, piece by piece, one experience at a time, and there have been many experiences here’s an example:

A walk

My host sister Hayat, her best friend Hoodia, my little sister Nouhayla, and Anton a volunteer from a nearby village (who is learning Arabic instead of Tam) are accompanying me on a long walk through the fields to the Kasbah. All of the Peach and Plum trees are in full, fragrant bloom and the Almonds and Figs are just beginning to show small green fruits between their leaves. The air is full of farm smells and birdsong and the sun is bright overhead. The Kasbah looms ahead and I head down the path to pass under it and continue to the river, only to be stopped by my host sister who motions me to follow her through ancient wooden door, which is hidden in the shadows. I duck through the low portal and follow her into the first room where an iron pot is suspended inches above a cold hearth by a great chain, which is fastened securely to the vaulted ceiling. The room is dimly lit by a sunbeam that shafts in from a high window and by its rich golden light I can see over a hundred handprints lining the walls. My companions are quiet and lead me into the second room.

Here there are more shafts of light illuminating an earth and cement well in the center of the room a rope leads down into the depths and the pulley creaks as Hayat raises the dripping bucket and drinks deeply of the cool sweet water. Anton and I do not partake, we are still afraid of untreated water, regardless the source. The remaining water is poured out on the floor where it runs into a small drain that leads outside. Hayat returns the bucket to its place and leads me through a third door. This room is full of light; the ceiling is high and coated with cracked, white plaster. This white columns support the roof and are interconnected by graceful arches of stone. Dusty prayer rugs and reed mats lay strewn about, but the place is clean and kept up; it is obviously used. A quick little wave of foreboding rushes through my insides, as I realize that this is likely a holy place and that I, as a white, American Christian, am likely not welcome. At the same time the girls decide it is time to leave and we slip away unnoticed; my heart pounds but I am still excited about the gift I had been given and the piece of history I had been shown.

The girls continue to lead me toward the river. Dappled sunlight filters through the Date Palms and the fields grow closer together. The river comes into view, a muddy brown torrent of spring runoff from the Atlas high above. A rudimentary wooden footbridge leads across to another village of earthen houses clustered around the minaret of a central mosque. The women who are doing their laundry in a small waterfall at beside the bridge look up briefly as we pass and a couple wave, they are too far away to exchange a spoken greeting and it is questionable as to whether they would actually speak to me in any case. The gender divide is more apparent in some places than others.

Another Kasbah rises to our left, crowned with a gigantic Stork nest atop one of the ruined towers; we make our way over between massive Tamarisk trees and enter through a low door. While massive, almost six stories in places, this Kasbah is in worse shape than the last one and there are no subterranean rooms to explore here. It is also filled with trash of every kind, and I realize with regret that a site like this in the States or Europe would be a protected historic site, as opposed to a landfill.

Instead of walking back as I expect us too at this point, the girls keep walking through the woods until we abruptly enter another village. My bewilderment increases even more when I realize I, not only do not know where we are headed, but that I don’t even possess the linguistic prowess to ask where we are going. We stop next to a high concrete building and Hoodia pounds on the door. A woman pokes her head out of one of the windows on the upper floor and asks what we want and, upon seeing Hayat and Hoodia, rushes down the stairs to let us in. We enter and walk up the steps; I note that the building is unfurnished but filled with drying Alfalfa plants on every surface. We end up in a small upper room filled with Berber women sorting through wheat kernels with sieves. Hayat and Hoodia promptly join the women in their task, and Anton and I stand there confused about just about everything. Suddenly two rickety chairs are brought in and we sit to watch. I speak briefly with several of the women about their general well being and exchange the formal greeting. There is lots of hand shaking and stifled laughter at my ill-pronounced Tamaziġt greeting but I feel that I am understood by all. Tea is brought in and served with a mass of dried dates, likely grown within fifty miles of this spot, and we stay for a long while watching the wheat sorting, not daring to take part as a man doing women’s work in this culture invites shame.

This is just one of many cultural experiences that I am bombarded with on a constant basis and with even greater frequency as my language continues to improve. I have been on more walks since then, some longer, some shorter, most involving tea somewhere. Speaking of tea, it is amazing here; sweet mint tea seems to be the cure for any ill and is appropriate at any time of day. I have found the coffee to be less than adequate, as it is often weak and milky. Not a fan. But I brought a French Press with me so if can acquire my own coffee, I can prepare it well.

I have started running again and enjoy the constant panorama of rugged mountains that glow with an ethereal light in the early mornings; I couldn’t ask for a prettier country to serve in for Peace Corps. Well that’s about it for now. It’s my birthday today and I have received lots of comments and actual mail from a few of you guys, thanks for the good wishes! The other PCTs surprised me with a cake. So, like last year, I was given a mystery dessert by people I just met in a place utterly foreign to me. (Last year it was North Carolina).

I’ll post my final assignment as soon as I know more. All I have been told is that they are deciding between the Flyfishing mecca of Ifrane and the remote Eastern High-atlas near Errachidia. I was also told that I need to make sure I have all of my camping gear together because I will be spending the night out as I travel on foot between villages. Incredible, I have no idea what they actually want me to do! Exciting!

Until next time, write me some letters, and contact my Dad if you have any questions about my address: kolb@incitelearninginc.com .

Immersion

Ouarzazate, Morocco

I am back in Ouarzazate; it is evening. The sun is down and the call to prayer echoed from the Mosques all over the city with the appearance of the first star of the night. The Islamic faith seems to place a lot of significance on the sky as the Calendar is lunar and the religious time is based on the stars. This is further exhibited by the necklaces and trinkets sold in the Souk (market) that are reproductions of a device used by Sahara Nomads to navigate by the stars. The Sahara is compared to the ocean and the caravans to ships navigation is similar; both deal with an endless horizon.

I have spent the last four days living with a Tamazigt Berber host family in the tiny village of Ayt Ghamat, a few miles outside of El'Klaa M'gouna, the fabled "city of roses". My host family is wonderful and take good care of me. Their language, the Tamazigt dialect, is completely different than Arabic and is exceptionally strange to my tongue. All of the sounds are made in the back of the throat and the pace is fast... Yet I am learning quickly, I am beginning to understand my family and they me; even after only a few days, I am comfortable around them. I sleep in my on Salon (sitting room) which has been set aside for my use, amenities are few (no running water for instance) but I am so well cared for that it doesn't matter. It's the little things; tea served with bread and olive oil whenever I arrive home, or a tiny steaming teapot of water outside my room in the mornings to wash my face and hands (this morning I used it to shower over the drain in the bathroom). Beautiful tortoiseshell cats join us in the Salon at meal times as we sit on the carpeted floor around a low, round table; chairs are unnecessary.

Strangely I don't miss running water or constant internet, and nothing about this culture has shocked me, although it has shocked some of my fellows. There are a few things that gave me pause, the Turkish toilet for instance, or eating Cous-cous with my hands. The toilet is probably the most foreign aspect for now, mine is a cement hole with two foot platforms to squat on. You always have to use sandals in the bathroom; (trust me, you don't want to wear your chacos) mine are a pair a bartered for in the middle of the Souk, they have Che Guevara on them (I don't know why). Showering with a teapot is somewhat strange too, but refreshing too.

The community is wonderful, it sits up on a hill above the Dades River and is walled in by the High-Atlas on one side and the Jbel Souhara on the other. The lowlands are all fields of wheat shoots bounded by flowering Almond trees and shimmering Olive trees. Aspens too, or at least what I think are Aspens, I have no plant guide and it drives me nuts. These fields have been worked for 2000 years, and the paths have been trodden by countless feet. In the midst of the lowlands rises an ancient Kasbah, a earthen fortress/city. It is ruined now, but some walls still stand at heights of over 6 stories and some rooms are still used by the locals for prayer. A tunnel runs beneath the castle to a pool bounded by Date palms that sway with the breeze that sends almond flowers spinning into the water from a nearby grove. This is an Oasis, a last bastion of green life before the hot, dry Sahara. This country is wonderful and mysterious; I look forward to the next two years, which will be over soon enough.

-Charlie

The Plunge

Marrakech, Morocco

Written on 03/06/2010

The past few days have been a whirlwind of activity and travel. I left Philly on Tuesday night at 7:01 pm eastern time and arrived at 7:40 am Greenwich Mean time, the local time in Casablanca. Thanks to a boost from a sleeping pill, I experienced no jet lag (thanks for the travel advice Dad!). From Casablanca, I boarded a bus to Marrakech with my fellow volunteers and enjoyed a sleepy 3 hour ride across a green and fertile countryside speckled with sheep, patchworked with fields, and punctuated by the sparkling minarets of the village mosques. The fields faded into a line of foothills and behind them loomed the Atlas Mountains.

Even growing up in the San Juans and working in the Teton Range in Wyoming, I was taken aback; they were massive. They loom over Marrakech like a breaking wave, a titanic barrier of rock, ice, and snow. Marrakech itself was my first taste of a Morrocan city, albeit a heavily touristed one (yes, there was an ad for “Mc Arabia”); the city is lovely. Every building is a rust color known as “Marrakech hamraa” that comes from the iron sediments in the soils used in the stucco. Our hotel was a complex of small bungalows and villas as well as some primary buildings around a large, still pool.

The grounds were very lush with many palm trees and blooming hibiscus flowers. Between the simultaneously informative and overwhelming training classes, we relaxed and socialized together; some of my new friends and I played Frisbee on the football (soccer) field.

We left Marrakech early the following morning and drove into the High Atlas, up the Tizi-n-tichka pass, in our buses. The road was serpentine enough that a couple of people in our bus got car-sick; happily, I was not among them. The city gave way to steep valleys dotted with tiny Berber villages which were bordered by terraced fields. The Atlas are quite rugged and their sheer scale and depth was incredible, Colorado prepared me for it somewhat, but was still unexpected. We stopped at the top of the pass for a breather and then continued down increasingly more arid valleys to the city Ouarzazate.

I have been in Ouarzazate for the past few days and have learned much about Moroccan culture climate and language, as well as gaining some small understanding of what I may be doing for the next 2 years. The whirlwind of community based training begins soon, and I move in with my host family on Sunday.

Deep breath before the plunge...

Philadelphia, PA, USA

Well it finally happened, the looming departure deadline that I had been anticipating/dreading for months has finally arrived and I am sitting on a plane bound for the Peace Corps staging event in Philadelphia. Philadelphia is the deep breath before the plunge and, when the 24 hour staging whirlwind has dissipated, I depart for Morocco on the 2^nd.

First I will be boarding a bus to New York, where I will be flying out from JFK airport direct to Casablanca. No stopovers or changes in Europe at all, which is very nice and means my incredible amount of baggage has little chance of getting lost along the way. Once on the ground in Casablanca, I board a bus to the red city of Marrakech and stay the night with my fellow volunteers at a hotel. Marrakech has been called the “Gateway to Atlas” that 13,000+ ft mountain range that the ancient inhabitants of North Africa believed held up the heavens themselves. From there we take another, longer, bus ride across the Atlas to the city of Ouarzazate, which is located between the Atlas and the “Sahel” the fringe country of the Sahara. It is here that my group of volunteers will settle in for our three months or so of Pre-service Training (PST).

I am sure I over-packed, but I can’t narrow it down much more. Will I be in the Atlas Mountains with the cold winters? Or the Sahara with the warm... well, everything. Or maybe the Rif Mountains and the National Park located on the rugged Mediterranean coastline? I have no idea and won’t know anything until over a month into training. I have been told that the Peace Corps selects your site based on your background and aspirations statement, and that the interviews during PST are just a formality. My best guess is work in the Atlas, that’s where a majority of the Moroccan National Parks are located. Plus my background is geared toward work in the mountains, what with growing up in Colorado and working at Yellowstone and Grand Teton for a couple seasons. It is a toss-up though, and I won’t know anything for quite awhile. I will be living with a Moroccan host family for the duration of my training and then stay with a second host family for the first 2 months at post. They will serve (in an ideal scenario, horror stories do exist) as a sounding board for my fledging language skills, be a window into Moroccan culture and family life, and also keep an eye on me during this crucial “break-in period”.

I am optimistic overall, and look forward to seeing the Atlas and the Sahara, learning about an entirely foreign ecology and geography, and being able to use this knowledge to further global understanding of conservation. I look forward to slowing down, getting out of the constant connection of the American grid, and learning. I brought journals and notebooks, art supplies, and plenty of reading materials. Although the initial PST is fast-paced and days are full, the first few months at post are said to be quiet and pass very slowly. I hope to use this time efficiently and learn enough about my village that I can determine how best to be an effective volunteer. I also hope to write plenty of letters or, ideally, answer plenty of letters (hint hint!). If I failed to give you my address before I left, contact my Dad via email at kolb@incitelearninginc.com and he’ll give you my information. I would post it online, but that seems to be one of Peace Corps’ peeves.

The final goodbye to family and friends was difficult, but not nearly the tearful occasion that other PCVs had described to me. I think this was for a couple different reasons, first that I had been gone before with the National Park Service, and also that “long goodbye” phenomenon that I described in my previous entry. I feel that I left no loose ends and that I have no pressing obligations tying me to the states; I feel I can stay out for as many months, years, as see fit. I am 22 years old and single; I have plenty of time. Still, I know I will miss my family and friends, and my home in the American West; although I do feel blessed to have Morocco as my post, it is said to be stunning. To those of you reading this, enjoy your next two years and feel free to write me from time to time (or send me a book, but no packages before May 5^th, as per policy).

Well l made it to Philadelphia and I am posting from my hotel it is full of confused Peace Corps hopefuls like myself. So it begins… I will update when I can, thanks for reading!

-Charlie