…so I get to the train station with 15 minutes to spare (which was just amazingly coincidental, because I wasn’t able to check the schedule from Oualidia and so realized I had just ½ hour until departure when I got to Ryan’s house).  It’s the last train of the day so that worked out so fine.  I could have taken a bus or grand taxi, but the train is by far the most comfortable and cheapest (and drops me off in my little town, rather than Marrakech).

The train goes to Ben guerir (pretty much straight east for about 250K) and then I catch another train south to my site (the main Casablanca to Marrakech run).  The Ben guerir  run is simple because there are a couple of small stops along the way, but pretty much everyone gets off at Ben guerir to either go north to Casa or south to ‘Kech (the train terminates at Ben guerir and everyone has to get off).

Can’t fuck that up, right?   You just sit your ass on the train until it doesn’t go any further, get off, and then I had an hour before my next train, so piece of cake…

…so I kept having to ask myself 4 hours later why it was that I was hiking and hitchhiking down a dusty road in the middle of nowhere, 60K from Ben guerir, with a 60 pound backpack strapped to me?

Well… it goes like this.  I fell asleep on the train and I swear it was a conspiracy by all the Moroccan passengers, making fun of the American (okay; perhaps I’m a little insecure).  I got jostled a couple of times and woke up, to find everyone standing up and toting their luggage toward the doors.  Literally, 9 out of 10 people were up and moving so, groggily, I jumped up, grabbed my pack, and joined the line.

Never in a million years did it even cross my mind that this wasn’t the Ben guerir stop!  It’s the only stop of any consequence along the way, and everyone (or so it seemed to my dull mind) was moving off the train.  So I jump off the train, drop down onto another set of tracks, climb up the other side (crosswalks are few and far between) and saunter into the station to wait for my next train.

But I was at the Ben guerir train station on the way to Asfi/Safi three weeks before, and it had dozens of seats, a restaurant, etc., and this place only had 4 seats and no restaurant.  So I immediately recognized my mistake and made a run for the train, right?  Well… no…  I dully, stupidly said to myself that there must be a larger waiting area somewhere else, so shuffled off in the direction I had not yet shuffled, saw a bathroom and ducked in, and then walked the remaining 10 feet of the station, without seeing anything even resembling another waiting room.

So the train is still sitting there and all I have to do is realize my mistake, drop down and back up the other set of tracks, and climb aboard, a bit embarrassed but no worse for wear.  But, nooooo…  I’m baffled at this point but not to the point of admitting any sort of error.  It finally dawns on me that the outside possibility exists that this isn’t Ben guerir, so I look for confirmation by checking the signs (which of course are in Arabic script, which I can read, but takes me forever).

The train whistles its departure, and it is only then that that sickening feeling hits me that I might not be where I’m supposed to be.  The last thing I want to do is get on the train if I am in fact in the right place so I really start trying to read the signs in earnest, but if you’re Arabic-script-reading abilities aren’t great, and you insist on looking for a sign saying “Ben guerir” when you ain’t going to find one (what with this station not being Ben guerir), you are just wasting your time.

So my realization that I was in the wrong place exactly coincided with the movement of the train.  Dropping down onto the other set of tracks, I run along those tracks in the direction the train is moving, but the climb up the other side becomes higher and so by the time I scramble up, the train is moving pretty good.  And Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid notwithstanding, the prospect of a 53-year-old man with a 60 pound backpack leaping to catch a train moving at 10 miles an hour was ill-conceived at best, and so I watched the train depart without me.  The people on the train were nice enough to wave at me as they went by, however.

…back to the train station.  Now as you will recall, it was the last train of the day, and there actually was a train station attendant still behind the glass, and he was nice enough to yell at me and tell me what a fuckin’ idiot I was, when I asked him how I might get to Ben guerir (actually, I have no idea what he said to me, but the level and tone of his voice certainly suggested that he wasn’t commiserating with my predicament).  I asked about buses (“walu,” which means “none”), Grand taxis (“walu;” I mean, for crying out loud, my little town has Grand taxis for christ’s sake), or any other means of getting to Ben guerir (“walu”).

So that was that.  Wait til the next day for the train, or figure out something for myself.  I asked the attendant how far it was to Ben guerir and he said some number in French that I didn’t understand (everyone in Morocco assumes you are French if you are white, even if you speak to them in Darija and tell them you’re not French and don’t speak a word of French). In an exasperated tone, I tell him again I don’t speak French, and he bursts out with two of his 10 words of English, saying 16 Kilometers (actually, “kilometer” is the same in both languages, so perhaps he was only using one of his 10 words of English).

Okay… So I can walk along the route to Ben guerir, hitchhike, and either get a ride or just walk (16K is only 10 miles, after all).  So off I go. Its late-ish afternoon and it really is a very pleasant day/evening, and the prospect of walking is actually quite nice. In retrospect, I reminded myself of Clark Griswald in “Vacation,” ‘cause I head off with no water or anything else to drink or eat.

People are very nice in Morocco, as I’ve mentioned several times, and so I definitely figured, being a middle-aged, white person, I would have no trouble getting a ride.  Hmmmm…. The people were actually nice enough to throw up their hands in apologetic sympathy as they zipped by me (in fairness, the main road to Ben guerir was still a ways ahead, and many people were traveling locally). 

I figured that out, and thought I would concentrate on getting to the main highway (which makes “YZ” avenue in Schoolcraft look like the Autobahn).  So I hike about 5K, actually run across a tiny hanoot, and buy a 2 litre bottle of water and a one litre bottle of coke).  I’m thinking life is good, what with me being on the main road finally (my confidence was high that I was heading in the right direction because I could see a road sign for Ben guerir up ahead) and already having walked 1/3 of the way there.

As I got closer to the road sign however, my confidence was shaken ever so slightly.  As I have seen before, Arabic speakers with only a slight knowledge of English numbers, confuse their “teens” with their “tweens.”  The man at the train station told me “16K” but he meant “60K” (actually, maybe he meant what he said, and just said it to fuck with me; I’d like to think the better of him, however).

So now I’m 56K away from Ben guerir, very few people are on the road, and those few don’t seem the least bit interested in stopping to pick me up (I’m not really sure how to hitchhike for that matter; I think the “thumb-out” concept is American, but not necessarily universal).  Part of me wants to keep walking so I feel some small sense of accomplishment, but the other part says that I’m just getting farther and farther away from the one town between me and Ben guerir, and its now late evening, with only an hour of daylight left.

So I finally just stop along the side of the road, set my backpack down, and stick out my hand. Vehicles come by at the rate of about one every five minutes, and so I stand and sip my water and wait (it was actually quite pleasant, and I was in the best of spirits).  A sign on the other side of the street tells me (for the first time) that I got off the train in “Eassoufia” and that there is in fact a hotel in the town.  Good news as daylight is fading fast.

Now three kids from an outlying house get up their courage and come and hang out with me.  I try to minimize conversation because now it looks like four of us are trying to catch a ride, instead of just one, and the odds weren’t looking that good for just one.  I explain that to them, and they think the answer is to help me flag down vehicles heading in my direction.  The first two they successfully flag down are (1) a horse and cart carrying a full load of god-knows-what, and (2) a donkey and cart with 3 people on board, when there is really only room for one.

I kindly explain to the nice people that I’m really not too excited about cramming myself into a cart for the 56K journey to Ben guerir, when the carts are traveling just about exactly the same speed as my hiking speed.

So the sun is approaching the horizon, my “boys” are good intentioned but not helping a bit, and I make the decision to head back to the Eassoufia, stay in the hotel, and take the train the next day.  I’m in total “adventure” mode, have no where I have to be anytime soon, so I’m really enjoying all of this, believe it or not.

My biggest dilemma at this point is whether to cross the street and try to hitchhike back to Eassouria, or stay on the “Ben guerir” side and perhaps get lucky.  I cross to the other side because I figured if I got a ride back to Eassoufia, I can ask the driver where the hotel might be, and any information about other possible modes of transportation.  Not far, however, is the main highway to Asfi (which, ironically, is where I came from earlier that afternoon), so I need to slip over to the other side of the road in order to avoid the quasi-chaos of the highway intersection.

Once across, I see an 18 wheeler coming toward me so I say “what the heck” and stick out my hand. I see the driver raise his hands and shrug his shoulders as if to say (“where are you going”) and I yell “Ben guerir.”  I immediately hear the hiss of pneumatic brakes as the truck zips by and sure enough, it stops some way ahead.  I jog up and say “Ben guerir”? and they say, “climb aboard” (or something, anyway).

There are three people in the truck, and it’s the shit, brand new, with all electronic/digital instruments, etc.  And there is a very comfortable bench seat right behind the front seats, and the passenger helps me hoist my pack into the truck, boosts me up, and off we go.

Of course, they are the friendliest people ever!  It turns out that the alternate driver speaks very good English, lives in Ben guerir, and knows the Peace Corps Volunteer stationed there (Bryant Harris, who was the awesome PCV who met me in Marrakech and took me to meet my host family when I first came to my site 3 months ago).

So we bounce along, chatting about such things as politics (the Moroccan government are all crooks, which is why the road is so horribly pitted with potholes, I learned), religion (do I believe in God; why not; blah, blah, blah), religious music/Koran reading (of course I love that music, I said; oh, I hate it, he said), and other interesting topics.  It was an incredibly long 56K however because the road really was a piece of crap, but we eventually reach Ben guerir.

I tried to give the driver a bit of money but he adamantly refused (even refused when I tried to offer them the remainder of my water).  They went out of their way to drop me off right at the Grand taxi stand, said their good-byes, and went on their way.

And that, as they say, is that.  I jumped in the first Grand taxi heading to Marrakech, asked the driver to drop me off at my little town, grabbed an awesome skewer of chicken, tomato, and onion (tucked into a hollowed out piece of bread) when I got to my site (5D, or about 60 cents), hiked the 100 yards to my house, and was home by 10:00pm.

…and if I got to do it all over again, deciding whether I wanted to take the train straight to Ben guerir or the crazy diversion I ended up taking, I would choose the diversion every time!

Asfi Summer Camp; 2012-  Asfi is a beautiful city on the Ocean (population, over 400,000, believe it or not).  Ryan is located there and he and Mallory (another close friend we've hung out with since we "staged" in Philly) organized a Summer Camp at a Dar Chabab there.  Lee and I came in from our sites to work as counselors at the Camp.  It went from August 20-30, and we all (sometimes as many as 9) stayed with Ryan and his two roommates at his apartment.

Needless to say, it was crazy, exciting, and incredibly fun!!!  We had about 35 campers, aged 13-24 (most between the ages of 16-21) who attended the camp to give them something to do and/or learn a little English.  All of them left with a fantastic time under their belts.

The camp was wonderfully organized by Ryan and Mallory and included warm-ups in the morning to get them fired up (ridiculously loud chants, dances, songs, etc.,), workshops (arts, alternative sports, song/dance/, etc.), activities (soccer, volleyball, “fill-the-cup-with-a-bottle cap” race, etc.), events (to an MMA gym, beautiful tennis club, the beach, trash pick-up, poetry-in-the-park, etc ), English instruction, and a wonderful, catered lunch every day.

The group was divided into four teams, that came up with a make-believe country, flag, chant, etc., and the groups competed for points, with a “winner” at the end.  Moroccans are the most competitive people in the world, and so points were eagerly sought-after even if they were earned for cleaning up the kitchen, guessing the names of the 50 states, using the word-of-the-day in a sentence, etc.

The kids (we call them “kids” even though many of them were close to the same age as the counselors) were so excited about every facet of the camp.  Some even cried when it was over, and we were not going to see them any more.  One camper invited all of us over to her parents house for couscous, and it was delicious!

I’ve posted some pictures, but hopefully I will post a few more from other people’s cameras (that might have me in them :).

Anyway, the Mudira of the Dar Chabab as well as her boss were so impressed!  We each received a decorated plate/bowl (a picture of which I posted yesterday).

Then it was off to Oulidia, an awesome beach resort town/village which is pretty much beyond description.  Because there were 6 of us (at that time) and surfboards, we rented a “Honda” (which was actually a little Suzuki truck with a covered bed, but called a “Honda” by Moroccans), loaded our stuff and rode in the back, resting against our backpacks as we bumped along the back roads on a 1-2 hour trip from Asfi to Oulidia.

Gorgeous beaches, good surf, seafood stalls lined up along the quay, fisherman fishing off cliff faces and small Moroccan fishing vessels float in the ocean and rest along the shore line.  Of course, I have no pictures, because I pretty much wore a t-shirt, swimsuit, and sandals the whole time I was there.

To give you an idea, as we near the beach, there are dozens of little stalls where the fisherman are hawking the day’s catch.  Its not inexpensive by Moroccan standards, but it is so fresh and tasty that its easy to rationalize paying 75 cents for an oyster (something we did with somewhat reckless abandon), $10 per kilo for lobster, and maybe $2 per kilo for sardines, and other fish that I didn’t even know the name of. 

…so we pick out our desired seafood, and then saunter up to one of the many tiny grills lining the beach (basically, coals in a little tray, being constantly fanned with cardboard by the 12 year old son of the “owner”).  Those people have it down to a science, because they will run up and secure your seafood purchase, set up umbrellas in the sand, make you a Moroccan salad (of tomato, onion, oil, spices, etc.), run up to the hanoot and buy cold cokes for you, lay everything down on a mat, cook up your seafood, and bring it all to you as you lounge under the umbrellas.

The whole thing might cost you $7 a piece (which is pretty pricy for Moroccan standards) but we would go crazy, with lobster, crab, shrimp, fish, etc., and as much as you could possibly eat.

Then it’s a game of smashball or surfing, lying in the sun, or walking along the beach.  As you might be able to see from the first Ouladia picture, the beach wraps around to become a thin spit of a peninsula, with the ocean on the exterior and a lagoon on the interior.  Both are breathtaking (with large rock outcroppings in the ocean to add beauty and huge whitewater, crashing waves to the view).  As you walk from the beach toward the lagoon, the peninsula gets thinner and thinner and it also climbs upward and upward, so the view of the ocean on the left and the lagoon and the town to the right is simply spectacular. 

You feel as though you can walk this spit all the way around where it looks to connect with the mainland away to the right, but all of a sudden, you come to a precipice where there is a gap of 100 yards before the peninsula continues on its way, and the drop off is 50 feet or more, with sheer cliffs on both sides.  The thought of jumping off the cliff enters our mind, but there is nothing but sheer rock faces in all directions, and no way to climb back up once you’re in the water.

Its impossible to put into words, but believe me; spectacular!

We stayed in a beautiful house a block from the beach! There were 8 of us, but plenty of room for all.  The way it works is that pretty much every house in the town is potentially available for rent and you just have to talk to people on the street, explain what you’re looking for (proximity to the beach, size, quality, etc.), and they will direct you to either the owner or a “broker” who will get you set up.  We went the high quality route just because we wanted to and with so many of us, the expense wasn’t to crazy. 

The weekend we were there was the last summer weekend, and so most everything was already rented and what was left was very expensive, so we paid a little over $100 a day for the house, but it worked out to less than $40 per person total, because 3 additional volunteers joined our group.  Actually, they were volunteers from Cape Verde and Niger who, coincidentally, recently ended their PC service and chanced to hook up with us as they were vacationing through Morocco on their way back to the States (wonderful people, a cute gal Lee fell in love with and a married couple who met and married while in-site in Niger.]  [Sorry; major run-on sentence.]

Incredible meals were prepared when we weren’t eating on the beach.  …and we knew there were no alcohol outlets in Ouladia, so we went crazy on the way there, and stopped at the Marjane and bought a ridiculous amount of hard alcohol (unheard-of brands of Vodka, Gin, Whisky, and two bottles of Jose Cuervo (lets be real; you can’t do shots of cheap tiquila!).

 We then mixed pretty much everything with grapefruit juice, pina coloda juice, orange juice, lemonade, coke, tonic water, and pretty much anything else we could get our hands on (hey; we’re volunteers for crying out loud).

Then it was drinking games, cards, and other craziness until all hours of the night!  We had so much fun, we extended our stay an extra day.  …and at least a couple of the restaurants sold cold beer (which didn’t make sense to bring because it is difficult to carry and almost impossible to keep cold), so we hung out on the patio and drank cold beer and played cards a couple of times, as well.

After four days of this (not to mention over two weeks in Asfi, living with Ryan, et al), I was actually feeling like perhaps I should head back to my site (what with my European trip looming), so we all headed back to Asfi, I gathered up my other belongings from Ryan’s house, said my tearful good-byes to old and new friends alike, and jetted for the train station, where the last train to my site was leaving in ½ hour.

 My backpack was loaded to the brim and weighed a ton, but no big deal, because the train takes me all the way into my site, right?  … or so it is supposed to.  [Next blog:  The Journey Home When You’re an Idiot.]

Ryan, Xmsa, and some of the campers on the first day

We took the campers to Omar's boxing gym (Omar is a friend of ours who lived in the States for 15 years and did MMA for a living)

Crazy campers at the beach

Campers kayaking in the beautiful Asfi beach

Group shot at the Tennis facility

Ryan, Mallory, and Lee planning for the next day's camp

Xmsa and me hangin' at camp

Lee brushing up on his states before quizzing the kids

Ping pong, pool, and general hangin' at the camp 

A warm-up called "Cabeza" (head, shoulders, knees, and toes in Spanish) where Mallory goes freakazoid, and the campers absolutely love it (even though they of course don't speak a word of Spanish)

Campers in halloween costumes for a contest

Fill-the-cup-with-the-cap game

Fill that cup!

Results of trash pick-up activity

My future ex-wife and me :)

She's 18, I swear

Talent show

More talent show

Couscous at my future ex-wife's parents' house (Dad wasn't home, thank goodness!)  Okay... not a great shot of Mallory, but a good shot of the couscous.

Ouladia!  Treating ourselves to a beach vacation after camp

The gang at Ouladia beach

Lee getting ready to surf

Commemorative plate given to me by the Dar Chabab

…only in Morocco. I thought watching a guy cement my host brother’s floor was worthy of a separate blog, and here I sit in my house at 11:30 at night, watching three worker’s just getting started (we’re talking, just taking stuff out of the boxes) installing my new air conditioner (yes, yes… I spend a month’s "wages" on a wall-mounted air conditioner when the temperature never got below 107 degrees for 7 days running) J 

The guy I bought it from delivered it at 11:00pm from a neighboring city, and the installers showed up a ½ hour later to start putting it in.  Because its still 100 degrees, I’m happy as shit (sitting here with "the boys") just staying up and watching the entertainment, because I’m really looking forward to that sucker cooling things down (even if it’s 3 in the morning).  …actually, 3:00 in the morning is no big deal around these parts.  No one goes to bed before then anyway.  At least I sure as hell hope not, because I see they’re bringing in some pretty heavy-duty power tools to attack my wall!

We look for entertainment where we can find it in Sidi Bou Othmane!!!  I may charge my neighbors a slight fee for watching.

I’ll call this one “Summer time in Morocco.”

One constant throughout my blogs is the absence of doing any meaningful work (you may not have even noticed that, of all the things I talk about, doing Peace Corps “Youth Development” work isn’t one of them.

That is because Morocco generally and my site (Sidi Bou Othmane) in particular pretty much shuts down during the summer months.  Even more so than the citizenry of Europe, people travel during the summer in Morocco.  And of course the tourist sites of Morocco don’t shut down (Marrakech, Agadir, etc.), but Sidi Bou Othmane is not one of those sites J 

So, in terms of working with youth, there is a dearth of opportunities.  The few “youts” that are around have no interest in doing anything but sit around (much like I do) and be couch potatoes.

Now perhaps a more motivated PCV could find more to do and fewer excuses, but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.  I’m supposed to be “integrating into my community” during the first few months, and if you don’t count the fact that I sit on my couch every day that I ‘m not traveling to other cities, that’s just what I’m doing. J

Which brings me to the amazing point of this blog.  I would need to pull out a calendar to calculate it exactly, but as near as I can tell, I have spent (and will spend)almost twice as much time out of my site (in various forms of having fun) than I’ve spent in it, over my first four months, and we’re not even allowed vacation time during our first three months!

A brief look at my schedule includes trips to Rabat (coastal city, 18, days total), Casablanca (coastal city, 3 days), El Jdida (coastal city, 5 days), Asfi (coastal city, 14 days), Essaouira (coastal city, 9 days), Agadir (coastal city, 4 days), Marrakech (awesome city, pbly. 20+ days), and Prague, the Czech Republic (speaks for itself, 5 days). 

Now the Asfi trip is actually a Summer Kids’ Camp where I will work (camp is from August 20-30).  But, Ryan, Lee, Tiara, and Mallory will all be there, so it will also be a great time with great friends, I have no doubt.

Prague is so I can see my good, good friends, Maria and Don, who will be there during that time.

Rabat was both Peace Corps swearing in and two weeks of “medical” which means the Peace Corps paid my way to be there so that the PC doctors could evaluate a pain I had in my leg.  They never figured out what the pain was, but I got to spend two weeks in “heaven” with cool sites, cool temperatures, and lots of pampering (which wasn’t on the PC’s nickel, but I’m okay with that).  Also, probably 20 PCV's passed through Rabat during that time for one reason or another and so I got to hang out with a bunch of friends during that time.

Agadir was a PC regional meeting, but the meeting part of the day lasted only about 6 hours, and the rest of the time was spent with Ryan, Lee, and other good friends hanging out at the beach (water temp, 82 degrees) and doing a little partying.

Two weeks of the Marrakech time is also PC meetings, but will bring together for the first time ALL of the PCV’s from all over Morocco, so we will definitely have a good time!!!  The rest of my "Marrakech time" was spent with family and friends without even a pretense of working :)

El Jdida is a PC regional “Youth and Sport” meeting which, near as I can tell, is nothing more than having a little extra money in the budget that has to be spent before fiscal year, and so we get to go hang out at the ocean again (and again, with Ryan and Lee, because we’re all in the same region).

Essaouira has been my “home away from home” as its on the coast, averages probably 70 degrees, is beautiful, and is only 4 hours by bus away (which may seem like a long trip, but when you live in the absolute middle of nowhere, traveling 4 hours to get to the coast is like a bee-bop).

So its “give, give, give” joining the Peace Corps.  Its not for everyone.  I mean, you have to rush home, do your laundry, and head right back out again!

Theoretically, I will be actually working in-site beginning in October, and then its going to be “fingers-to-the-bone”!  The PC expects at least 15 hours a week out of me which, given my schedule, is going to be hard to satisfy J Truly, I am both anxious and excited to get going on some fun things in my site, and will be (hopefully), keeping busy.

There went the “call to prayer” signifying that I can break my fast, so I have no f***ing idea why I’m even finishing this last sentence rather than throwing some cold water down my throat before I go over to Tariq’s for breakfast!

I’ll call this blog: “Ramadan In The Hottest Part of the Summer.”

Ramadan for those who don’t know is an Islamic holiday lasting 30 days, where all people of the Muslim faith must abstain from food, drink, cigarettes, (and even sex) from daybreak to sunset.  This year, it is from July 21^st to August 20^th (or something like that; I’m not sure if even the practicing Muslims know for sure).

I say “this year” because Ramadan is based upon a lunar calendar and so changes by several days each year (vis a vis our “solar” calendar).  Of course, this means that in any 100 years-or-so period, it will only be during the very hottest part of the summer for perhaps five years.  It also means that, because the days are “longest” during this time of year (meaning daybreak to sunset lasts what seems to be about 23 ½ hours per day, but is actually about 15 hours), the period of fasting is also the longest it will ever be. Of course, this is the time I chose to be here!

And lest you think that this is simply knowledge being imparted without any special significance to me, think again!  Because I too am trying to follow the custom and cultural norm of Morocco, and fast with my brethren!  Actually, my goal is to adhere to the principles of Ramadan while at my site, but not necessarily be as strict when I’m out of site.  I’m actually being pretty good (which means I would be an absolutely horrible Muslim, because I haven’t been perfect) most of the time.  Today, for example, is 120 degrees, and I’ve gone 17 hours without a drop to drink.  

How is that possible, you ask?  It is because I conserve 99.9999% of my energy by doing absolutely nothing all day long!!!  I have even waited til 6:00 pm to type this blog, because believe it or not, just typing can cause me to break out in a sweat.  I try not to even shift my position on the couch during the hottest part of the day :)   Its awesome redefining the phrase “couch potato.” 

The idea behind Ramadan is that making this sacrifice brings people closer to Allah and allows them to better appreciate what Allah provides.  The most wonderful thing about Ramadan is “breakfast.”  Of course, we think of breakfast as our morning coffee and muffin, but the “breaking of the fast” in Islam occurs at sundown, and is something to behold.  It is a celebration of accomplishing your daily objective, and is relished with a vengeance. 

There is actually a very set meal that is laid out in very house and restaurant in Morocco for ftur (“breakfast” in Darija).  You start by saying “bismillah” (the traditional acknowledgement before each meal) and then eat a date (the sweet, eating kind).  Then there is harrara (Moroccan soup, which is delicious), some sort of juice, coffee, tea, misimin (traditional thin bread), more dates, and then sometimes another dish or two that varies from household to household.

 Notice that “water” isn’t even on the list because it seems to be an afterthought here!  Unlike what you might think, people aren’t racing to quench their thirst the moment they are permitted. Instead, they tend to sip a little water at the end of breakfast just to rinse their palate.  In fact, it would be very bad form to drink water before finishing ftur!

Also note that of all the things mentioned on the list, pretty much all of them with the exception of the harrara are sweet.  The coffee and tea are laced with as much sugar as will dissolve in water, and goes very well with the dates, juice, sweet bread, etc.  I swear the evolution of the Moroccan body is amazing!  Starve and thirst (can I use that word in this context) yourself for 15 hours, then eat a whole bunch of sweets but no water.  Maybe you’re starting to see why I’m only “pretty good” at fasting.

And to make it that much crazier (for me, at least) is the crazy eating schedule that is necessitated by the hour of breakfast.  Because we eat breakfast at 8:00pm and one must begin fasting at 4:30 in the morning, you might think that people are only getting one meal per day.  Not so!  After breakfast, everyone goes to the Mosque, and then prepares for supper!  Now if you’re like me, you’re still full and not the least bit interested in eating at 11:00 or midnight, but that is when the big dog is fed! 

Okay… so Muslims survive on two meals a day during Ramadan, you say.  Wrong again!  Most people stay awake through the wee hours, and have a big… well, I don’t know exactly what you call the morning meal, because it sure isn’t breakfast when you just ate four hours ago.  …but anyway, they have another meal just before the sun comes up.  Then, if you’re in the minority of people that are employed, you then head off to work.  For most however, its bedtime, often sleeping into the afternoon.

For those that work, there is some solace because the workday is significantly shortened (with most people finishing work by 3:00pm).  It actually isn’t a short work day however, because the normal work hours in Morocco allow for a 2-3 hour break in the afternoon (followed by a return to work until late evening or early nighttime).  They simply forego the afternoon break, and so have an opportunity to sleep for a few hours before breakfast.

Crazy, eh?

Because I truly try to adhere to the customs, I do indeed do my best to fast during the day and eat the traditional breakfast at sundown.  Of course, I go to my host family’s every day for breakfast, because they love me and I love them, but it makes sneaking a t-bone at sunset nigh impossible.  And because my body cannot handle eating two meals back-to-back, I end up eating one date and about 4 bowls of Tariq’s mom’s harrara (the absolute best harrara in the world).  Then I’m “one-and-done.”  I beg off on the supper, and try to get some sleep (which has yet to occur until after midnight).

Then, every morning at 3:00am Otman (another good friend) calls me (he is still up) and wakes me so that I can get something to eat before the sun comes up.  Then its right back to bed til 9:00.  I have to get up at 9:00 so I can get in a comfortable sitting position where I will spend the remainder of the day :)

Pretty enviable lifestyle, you’re thinking, right?  The good news is that it is over half over (hopefully), and I spent almost two weeks in Rabat during Ramadan, where I wasn’t perhaps all that dedicated to the Ramadan dictates (and Rabat averaged 75 degrees).

Well; enough for now.  One hour til breakfast.  Otman and Tariq are sitting on the other two couches/ponjs, playing games on my/Tariq’s Kindle Fires.  They spend every day here (its actually the coolest home around, due to how the sun passes over). Otman, Tariq, and other brother Aniss (who works in Marrakech but comes home every afternoon) will then come over after prayer and spend some time before they head off to supper (so far continually failing to convince me to join them).

My host family home (which is actually very nice on the inside)

The fortress at Essaouira

Lee and Tricia at the "party riad" in Essaouira during Ganoa

Some of the dogs (Taira on the left)

Lee's site just east of Essaouira

Ryan and I cooling it at a 5 star hotel in Essaouira

Berber fighters (re-enacted)

Rabat was tough living

Hey... I was recuperating from a leg ailment, already...

Molly, Tariq, Tariq's wife, Tariq's sister, and me riding around Marrakech in a horse and buggy

Tariq, Samia (sister, on left) and Rosa (wife)

Beautiful garden in 'kech

One bad-ass dude!  ...ok, it wore off two weeks later.

To be a cat in Essaouira is like being a dog at the Becker households

Henna is the coolest, as Mole will attest

Hash is huge in Morocco

Drinking coffee and looking out at the Jamma Lfina in Marrakech

From our hotel room window in Essaouira (both Molly and  I and Dad and I stayed in this room during their visit.

Well… It’s been a while since my last blog and I can’t completely blame it on being busy (although there has been a lot going on).  In the early days of training, blogging was super important to me to be able to pour out all the craziness and newness of Morocco, its people, and my experiences with them.

Now, I feel pretty much a part of Morocco and things don’t seem quite as new and crazy as they used to.  So the burning need to express what’s going on seems to be behind me, and now I need to find motivation elsewhere.  Keeping friends and loved ones quasi-up-to-date on my happenings is reason enough, certainly, but its only now that I’ve realized that I should be blogging for people other than myself J  I also use the blog as a pseudo-journal to memorialize my experiences, and so there is another very good reason to keep it going.

I have tons of pictures that I’ll post to give you an impression of some of the things I’ve been doing over the last several weeks, but here are some highlights:

First, I have moved into my own place, which is starting to look a little like a home, now that I’ve got some furniture and other stuff.  It’s a very nice apartment,  and what it lacks in creature comforts, it makes up for with my big blue bucket.  I don’t have a bathroom sink, so I use the blue bucket to wash my hands.  I just have a hole in the floor as my toilet, so I  use the blue bucket as m flusher.  I don’t have a shower so I use my blue bucket to pour water over the top of me.  I don’t have machine so I use my blue bucket to wash my clothes.  Of course, I also use it to clean the house and I was even using it (tipped over) as a chair, til I got some plastic chairs.  How many people get that kind of mileage out of a big blue bucket?

I’ve pretty much tricked out the place (I’ll post “before-and-after” pics of the salon), and so its not exactly the mud hut I envisioned when I joined the Peace Corps.  On the other hand, I do shower with a bucket, do laundry by hand with a bucket, crap in a hole in the floor, etc., so its not exactly the Ritz either.

Both my little sis and my pop came to visit in the last three weeks.  They, unfortunately, missed each other by minutes (Molly leaving as my Dad arrived), but I enjoyed 17 straight days of family bliss.  They both immensely enjoyed my host family and friends, and visa versa.  My sister got to see Tariq’s wedding ceremony, which was an awesome spectacle.  How many of us can say they ate dinner at 4:00am (sober) with plenty of festivities still to follow.  Tariq asked that I not post pictures of the event, so I leave it to your imagination.  Two “Barnam & Bailey” size tents, perhaps 250 people, traditional garb, dancing, food, and merriment.  Simply unbelievable.

Nasty rumors about the heat during African summers sure hasn’t disappointed!  We pushed through the “50 degree” threshold (I’ll let you look up the Fahrenheit equivalent) and have been riding that for a while.  It wouldn’t be so be so bad (actually, it isn’t really that bad), but there is no air conditioned car, mall, office building or home to run in an out of, so its just heat, 24/7.  I guess its “the good kind of heat” in that its not humid, but 125 degrees with humidity and we would all just be a bunch of  well-preserved corpses lying around the village J

Life, on balance, is pretty awesome!  I so enjoy the people and the way of life!  Marrakech is just a ½ hour away, and Essouiara is a three hour bus ride, if I need a coastal break where temperatures never exceed 75 degrees.

I haven’t really started doing anything meaningful as far as “Peace Corps projects and activities” go, mostly because the country pretty much shuts down in the summer, and my town totally shuts down!  After Ramadan (which started yesterday, and will be the subject of my next blog), things will start to happen (toward the end of August/beginning of September), but for now, its “chillin’” and enjoyin’.

"before" pic of my salon

...and the "after"

Til next time, Inshallah. 

Another window into small town, Moroccan Life

Since my last blog, I have moved from my host family house and into my own, made a solo venture into Marrakech for the first time, and have started teaching English at the Dar Chabab, but I just walked in the door at 11:30 at night, and couldn’t wait to blog about the experience I just had. 

Earlier today, Tariq showed me a room of his house I had never seen before.  It actually has its own door to the outside (as well as a 5 foot tall door to the inside).  Tariq proudly told me that this was going to be his and his wife’s “home” once they are married.  Its about 10’ by 15’, has no windows, and both doors are solid metal,  but Tariq is so excited about having a small place to call his own.

Then, a couple of hours ago, he, Otman, and another friend came over to my new house and of course custom required that I serve them something.  Needless to say, I have no food or furniture (actually, I bought a plastic table and four chairs on the way to my house, so we at least had somewhere to sit). I bought some cherries (awesome , delicious cherries) in ‘Kech on my earlier trip so I threw them in a pot (I don’t have any bowls), and we sat around on our plastic chairs and drank coke and ate cherries (we killed a kilo in short order, ‘cause you can’t find cherries in Sidi Bouthman, so it was actually a treat).

…anyway, to make a long story longer, along comes “Xamis” (which means “Thursday” in Darija, which seems a little random, but whatever) and yells outside the window and Tariq asks if we can invite him in, so of course, we do, and he has some cherries and coke (Xamis got the overturned bucket, ‘cause that had to substitute for the 5^th seat).  Then everyone gets up to leave and I wasn’t sure whether something specific was going on or if everyone was going their separate ways, but I should have known better, because it was only 9:30 or 10:00. 

We all headed over to Tariq’s house and he opened up his “new” room and Xamis changed into some overalls and pulled out a trowel.  It turned out, it was a late-night “cement-the-floor-of-the-new-room” party (who knew).  Out came more plastic chairs and the four of us sat at one end of the little room and watched Xamis start cementing the floor (it was cemented before, but lots of pock marks and very uneven).

I thought that was the funniest thing and said to myself that I would have to blog about the craziness of what “a night on the town” means in Morocco, sitting around and watching someone cement the floor of a room.  But then it got immeasurably better because Tariq’s dad and brother came in toting more plastic chairs and now there were six of us watching.  Then Tariq goes out and comes back with a table and a teapot full of water, and we all proceed (including Xamis) to wash our hands under the teapot and then sit around the table.

Well, out comes a huge platter of couscous and we all commence to eating couscous in the corner of the little room that Xamis hasn’t yet cemented (at 11:00 at night, no less).  …and I don’t think that was considered the least bit unusual.  After our meal, we had to move the table and chairs so that Xamis could finish cementing the floor, and so that ended the entertainment for the night, so then we all went home.

Maybe you had to be there, but it was soooo random as to be bordering on the absurd, and yet perhaps provides another glimpse of the differences between the two cultures.